“I should be ashamed of this. I’m not, because I am tasting grapes. This smile, don’t look. It’s my bait, my words the hook.”-The Audition

It’s taken me 31 years to figure out that there are two types of people in your life: balloons and anchors.

Balloons lift you up, encourage you, and support you. They inspire you to do better; be better. They are the positivity and light in your life.

Anchors do the opposite. They constantly drag you down. These people put you in shitty situations that challenge your morals, ethics, and integrity. They do not have their shit together in any positive capacity whatsoever. They’re the people constantly asking for money, the people always wanting “favors”. An anchor is that friend that is crawling his way through life, and feels that since he isn’t making it, neither should you.

A sad truth is that it’s so much easier to be an anchor than a balloon. Being able to maintain a positive attitude and supporting others takes massive, daily, effort. Our culture isn’t one to embrace effort these days…

Another fact about human beings is you can not bring someone to your level if you’re at a higher tier in life. You can encourage someone and support someone, but if they choose not to swim, they end up at the bottom of the pool. It’s impossible to keep someone else afloat. You can let someone move in with you until they get on their feet, but you can’t give them your house, job, and happiness.

However, it’s super easy and common to sink to the bottom with someone else. Every flop house is full of people that drag others down with them. Misery loves company and all it takes is that one moment of weakness or doubt and the next thing you know, you’re at the bottom of a bottle with the asshole that lives in your garage.

With that being said, there is a paradigm that is being experienced and just recently began to be positively identified. HNIC posted a status highlighting this issue on Facebook. The response was astounding. We talked to each other about it, and realized that it’s a common occurrence with veterans in their inter-personal relationships. It’s a culture of anchoring those with to their PTSD. It’s called “Gas-lighting”. Gas-lighting is a form of psychological abuse whereby the guilty party convinces a person to doubt their own mental health. The person being gas-lighted is being bullied to challenge their own sanity.

Let me start out by saying that I’m never one to jump on the “abuse” bandwagon. Victims get abused and how many of us want to be know as a victim? I’ve seen grown-ass women say their husbands are being abusive by not wanting them to go out and bang other men. It’s a term that gets thrown around way too much and has become a buzzword for people that want to get attention.

However, the fact that it IS abuse doesn’t automatically make it intentional.

There’s a stigma attached to veterans already. We’ve covered this ad nauseum. But, I’ve recently started thinking about my own experiences being gas-lighted and it looks something like this:

You come home and get ready to hang out with your girlfriend. She springs on you that she’d made plans with her girlfriends for the night. You had been looking forward to some quality time all week and she pulls this. It understandably makes you frustrated at the least. Each of us are different in our expression of frustration and anger, but regardless of our chosen method of expression, it gets chalked up by your girlfriend as “PTSD.” You’re angry “all the time”. You “always” have a problem. You’re “never” happy. You ruin “everything”. Absolutes are key words used to drive the false narrative. Sometimes words like “psycho” and "crazy" get thrown around too. This completely invalidates any emotion you have. Your concern or anger isn’t real to someone else because you’re “damaged” and “need therapy.”

This drives you deeper and deeper into whatever hole you may or may not have been in to begin with. It’s an unfair and manipulative practice among the straights. I just saw it in my own life and I know the other boys here in the OAF team room have as well. MOST of the time it’s been our girlfriends or wives. MOST of the time, you’re mad or upset at the exact same thing a sock-hat-wearing, beard-stroking, hipster would get mad about. They’re only bringing up PTSD as a crutch to lean on in any subsequent arguments. It's all they know from the media and their associations with veterans and PTSD. Gas-lighting is used in order to get the pressure of personal accountability off of the person using it. It negates any and all emotional reactions that don’t fit that person’s schedule at that particular time. It’s a shitty way of doing business…

This is the part where Grifter brings it around: If you are being gas-lighted, if every emotion you have is impugned by someone as PTSD or your "issues, you have got to distance yourself from it. Surround yourself with balloons, Monicas. Find that person that lets you be you. Find that person that isn’t trying to diagnose or fix you. Find that person that makes it ok for you to be mad, sad, or happy and doesn’t automatically attach it to some affliction you may or may not have. Never allow someone else to make you doubt yourself and your mental state. Cut those gas-lighters out, you’ll be happier for it in the long run.

-Grifter

“This city is haunted by ghosts from broken homes.“

-Alexisonfire

Well, it’s a new year. Welcome to 2015. This is the year we were supposed to have flying cars and hover boards. Color me disappointed.

However, what 2015 HAS given us is a voice. I say this because I just saw American Sniper yesterday. I’m not going to get into Chris Kyle as a man. I never had the privilege of knowing him. I have a few friends that operated with him, and had nothing but great things to say about him. I’m not going to sit and bitch about any Hollywood inconstancies that arise when flash and pomp take precedence over authenticity.

I am, however, going to talk about the precedence this film set for veterans and the direction I’m hoping the population of this country will take.

American Sniper, though being marketed as a hero movie, goes far beyond that. It isn’t an action movie. Yes, there IS action in the film; but it’s not the sole focus. I can see a lot of people leaving the movie disappointed because there wasn’t as much running and gunning as in say, Act of Valor or Lone Survivor.

What the movie accomplishes, for me and for US, is that it finally depicts WHY coming home is the hardest part for most of us. So many movies in Hollywood either touch briefly on the subject, or completely miss the mark. The Hurt Locker, love it or hate it, has a very poignant scene in the grocery store where Renner’s character has returned from a tour in Iraq and life seems mundane and boring compared to the excitement and rush of defusing bombs. The premise is botched in that, most veteran’s aren’t missing the experience because they’re bored and need an adrenaline rush; they miss their brothers and that bond that frankly WILL NEVER be experienced here at home. THAT is the drug for which most of us are fiending.

The flipside is the movie Brothers. The movie portrays Tobey Maguire’s character, a TBI inflicted Iraq war veteran, as a time bomb full of rage and insecurities. He lashes our violently against his brother, who didn’t serve and his wife who developed feelings for his brother. The movie rubbed me the wrong way in that, yeah the guy got pissed, but not all of us pull a gun out and start getting all stupid with it. The end of the movie was very condescending, I felt. It said to me, “be careful around these crazy dudes, they’ll lose their minds over perception.” All it did was reaffirm the stigma that we as a community are trying to distance ourselves from.

American Sniper portrayed Chris Kyle as a guy trying to do the best he could in shitty situations. Doing what he had to in order to protect American lives. It highlighted perfectly that coming home is almost impossible. There’s always an urge to go back and keep working. Not for fortune or glory, but for each other. The way I always thought was, “if I don’t go, who will?” I couldn’t bear the thought of some 18-19 year old kid taking my perceived place in the long line of casualties. American Sniper showed the anguish at the bureaucracy of the Iraq war and the tough decisions that had to be made and later scrutinized by someone at home on the couch. He even said, “we’re at war, and I’m going to the mall.” It accurately shows the disillusionment of returning to a country that isn’t engaged in any capacity with what’s going on with their troops. It captures the essence of what it’s like to come home and try to assimilate into a society that is oblivious.

It’s most powerful statement was that it clearly shows the absolutely bitter loneliness a vet can experience coming home. I don’t mean loneliness as is synonymous with solitude. Kyle was surrounded by family and loved ones. He had reasons to celebrate his life, his wife, and his babies. Yet, he still felt a void. He had the support structure of a family that needed him, yet he couldn’t relish in the love they gave. He could not sit back and enjoy being home, due to the longing for his brothers and a crippling grief for the men he could not keep from harm. These feelings, as I type them, could seem so trivial to a civilian reading this. “Guilt” and “loneliness” are emotions people go thru daily, yet no one is making a movie about them. That is the separation in our generation, even our emotions, though labeled the same, are so very different from the average straight. I’m sure there are Doctors that grieve over losing a patient, however, that patient probably wasn’t their best friend. I’m sure people experience loneliness because they’re by themselves a lot, but true loneliness comes from being surrounded by your loved ones and still feeling alone. This is the strength of the movie and what lends itself to us as veterans and our struggle to find our place in the world. This resonates with us, and hopefully opens the eyes of the general public as to what we feel every day.

That’s the first direction I’m hoping the country will go. It’s sad that I live in a country where the only way to truly reach the members of society isn’t through literature or research, but with pop culture. But, them’s the breaks. The optimist in me says that people will have at the very least, a better insight into WHY we feel the way we do. It’s not always nightmares and outrage, sometimes, most of the time, it’s a silent suffering. It doesn’t stem from a need for adrenaline, or bloodlust. It stems from a desire for a purpose that is bigger than ourselves; Our yearning to be around people we would literally die for, no questions asked; and a regretful grief for living when others whom we deem more worthy, died. We analyze and dissect every decision and action we made, wondering if we could have made a difference. Not a difference in foreign policy or winning a war single-handedly, but the difference between you coming home to an empty barracks room or your buddy coming home to his wife and kids.

The pessimist in me is starting to notice the seeds of a trend being sown. It’s that bashing our military, or at the very least, being anti-military, is going to become “cool” again. I’m not going to comment on Rogen or Moore’s idiotic comments about American Sniper. I was once a Rogen fan and always thought he was more discerning than most in Hollywood, and Moore is irrelevant now, both as a film maker and a human being. Bush isn’t in office, therefore he lacks a villain at which to point fat, sausage-esque finger. The reviews are all over the place and a striking majority are calling the film pro-war and anti-Muslim…

However, I read a piece by Amanda Taub (just google it if you care to) in which she bashes the film and accuses it of “rewriting American history.” Her point of contention was that the film was too black and white for her tastes. She calls the war in Iraq a grey area, which I agree. I also agree with her disdain at the treatment of the conventional troops in the film as cannon fodder or inferior to the SEALS in importance. However, she smashes on Eastwood’s flick by calling into question the lack of mention of G.W. Bush, WMD, or Saddam Hussein. She accuses the movie of inventing fictional characters for Kyle to fight. I’m taking this as she is mad the movie didn’t take a political stance or mention any of the media hype, hot buttons, or buzzwords normally associated with the war in Iraq.

My answer to that: Yeah, no shit.

The film wasn’t about any of that because for US, the war wasn’t about any of that. Do you think any of us gave a fuck about Saddam Hussein, WMD, Bush, Cheney, or any of that shit that was being ejaculated by the news? The film wasn’t about grey areas, because to us it didn’t matter. All that mattered to us was the guy to our left, and the guy to our right…and especially the guy that still had a can of Skoal. It wasn’t that we were willfully ignorant of the issues surrounding the Iraq, or that we were in denial, but when your finger is on a trigger, when you’re face is covered in your friends’ brain matter, you aren’t thinking about “good and evil” or “grey areas.” That is the entire point this human rights attorney misses, the film was about a man on the ground and the struggle to come home with a head full of grief and regret, not the Iraq war itself.

The movie didn’t really take a political stance at all. Yes, it mentioned 9/11, but it didn’t tie it to Iraq. It tied it to Kyle the way it was tied to all of us. 9/11 signaled to a generation that we are not safe, that there ARE people out there that want to kill us, on our own soil. Yet, here is the left, all up in arms about a movie about one man’s struggle in a war. They create paper tigers to go after in order to blackball these movies into oblivion. They refuse to see the good in this film as it pertains to veterans, because they don’t care about veterans.

I fear the plaid shirt, hash-tagging, trust-fund protestors are going to start coming out of the woodwork. The people who have kept their mouths shut because the war was still ongoing, are going to come forward and start openly bashing on us. The war is “officially” over and as a country, we are no longer engaged in combating terrorism with any sort of genuine commitment. That allows the dissenters to come out of their holes now that it’s less likely someone is going to say “dude, my brother/husband/dad is over there right now.” Because, at the end of the day, they still don’t want to offend the “victims” of veteran’s decisions, only the vets themselves.

To the people that saw the movie for what it was, it was a glimpse into our world. It offered up our collective hearts to you in a manner a typical, movie-going civilian would understand. That is powerful, and hopefully opens a broader dialogue about our struggle to really come home. This is what we’re thinking and why we’re still fighting. As far as our silent war goes, this movie got it right.

To those that saw it as more “pro Bush/Iraq/Right Wing/anti-Muslim” political statement and wants to bash it and our military, I say this:

The movie wasn’t for you. It was for the guy with mud on his boots and a hole in his heart, and for the families that are left to pick up the pieces. Go back to your latte.

-Grifter

Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared, slightly altered, in a 2 Part series in Havok Journal under the title "Warfighter Intentions, the Munchhausen Trilemma & More". This article is posted with permission of the original author.

There is a guy now known to many as The Reaper. I admire him greatly; not only has he single-skindedly blocked Salon from using their incessant “white privilege” moniker when referring to anything involving guns or the United States, but Army Ranger/Sniper Nick Irving also killed dozens of men while carrying out combat operations overseas. In an interview with a FOX News blonde, Irving was loosely questioned about his mindset and motivation. Irving replied with the following, “You do it for your brothers, that’s the reason why I did it… I just wanted to be there for the 75th Ranger Regiment.”

And he probably did do it for his brothers; there is no reason to doubt him. But his response got me thinking, what of these said brothers; what were their intentions? Could they all have had the same as Nick? Is that even logically possible?

It is here I get to punch in some technical philosophy for my trigger-pulling family. Note that in philosophy one of the greatest tools is the ‘thought-experiment’; where you merely plug in working conditions and see where it takes you. To wit:

Epistemology is the realm of study that focuses on knowledge, its acquisition, and especially its limits. Housed within Epistemology is the Munchhausen Trilemma. (Stay with me, grind through the next few lines, it will bear fruit, I promise)

The trilemma is ever-present in daily life, or at least it can be utilized. When providing proofs for any theory, and condition, and proclamation- the trilemma provides only three options to explain a purported truth.

Option #1 – The circular argument (proofs support the other. A allows B, B allows C, yet C allows A…)

Option #2 – The regressive argument (each proof requires another proof. A allows B, B -> ad infinitum)

Option #3 – The axiomatic argument (the proof is an acceptance of a brute fact. A just is)

Pose the question “could all warfighters be fighting for the man next to them?” as the statement “all warfighters fight for the man next to them”. Applying the trilemma quickly rules out the first two options, and subsequently answers the original question with a resounding “NO.”

In a war it is certainly normal for all combatants, say a platoon-sized group, all fighting to preserve the lives of the individual members. However, this does not answer why they are there. Twenty soldiers all standing in a circle pointing to the man to his left and saying “I’m doing this for you” explains little as to why they stormed the berm, kicked in the door, or came to the combat zone at all. In an incumbent role, perhaps being sieged by an invading force, a uniform need to preserve friendly life is a viable answer. However, as an occupation force, as a warfighting entity that flies across an ocean and patrols farms, towns, valleys and mountains—an explanation must be provided as to why they were conducting such operations to begin with.

Option #2 doesn’t provide us with much help either. Imagine a column of soldiers, aligned to the right, beginning with a single man. The man is asked the question “why are you fighting?”, and his response is “for the man next to me”. The questioner goes to the man next to him, asking this second man the same question, and he gets the same answer as before. Same with the third man, and same with the forth, and so on. If this was the case than presumably this column would go on forever.

Eventually someone has to be in the fight for a different reason. Even if we take this thought-experiment of Option #2 to its extreme, there would eventually have to be one man that went to war for a reason other than “the man next to him”, thus validating this magnificent chain of support. Just one man saying “for the GI Bill” allows, via the rules of logic, for a thousand to answer similar to how Nick Irving did; one joining after the other, to protect the man that joined right before him.

Option #3 is where the answer resides. For the GI Bill, to defend the Constitution, to get out of Wyoming… These axiomatic motivations, or brute motivations if you will, give explanation for all the “for the guy next to me” ones. These axiomatic motivations have been addressed not only by Hollywood but by the GWOT-generation writers, voices, and social media aficionados. So what have they had to say?

-Here is where the philosophy ends and the socio-literary commentary begins-

With very few exceptions, explanations are overtly patriotic, steadfast and dutiful. We went to kill jihadists to prevent a mainland invasion, overthrow terrorism-centric regimes, capture WMDs, provide support for stabilization efforts in the Middle East, and even…..liberate the Iraqi people (?).

And are these accurate? Does the list portray a general sentiment? Absolutely it does. The problem is these are rosy, geo-political savvy dimensions of a multi-dimensional object. A few particular dimensions are, in the opinion of this writer, woefully neglected.

Of course there is the noise from the predictable corners, pointing out with rabid hindsight the lack of WMDs; and usually capping it off with something about oil and the Illuminati. However, as an aggregate the war fighters who deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan seem to consistently provide an explanation to the general public, as canned as a lukewarm “thank you for your service” that we occasionally receive back from them.

I think of the energy that occupied the rifle ranges, shoot houses, turrets—the place in space and time right before the flash bang detonated.

------ There is an elephant in the room, one worth talking about.

*****

A friend of mine shot an Iraqi man three times in the head. This Iraqi had been connecting a cell phone to wiring protruding from an IED--- one that, to his misfortune, my friend’s team had been watching. My friend made sure he was dead. My friend made sure to tell me about it.

What I took away from the conversation was my friend’s undeniable excitement. Not because he had simply shot and killed another human being: that was not the case and he possessed a moral fiber that was unimpeachable. Rather he was thrilled to have done his job, to have prevented coalition forces from being killed and/or maimed, and to have done the solitary act that is at the epicenter of the Marine Corps existence.
I also took something else away; my frothing rage. It should have been me, my team, watching that IED! My friend was lucky, and I was envious.

*****

This month Obama signed the Clay Hunt Suicide Prevention for American Veterans Act. As this goes into effect it is imperative to remember the positive aspects behind it. If, after all, most citizens find being yelled at for a few weeks, then maybe getting shot at a few times, a terrible fate… then a few citizens decide to actually go through these experiences to the benefit of their nation, then their nation should provide the necessary steps to welcome them back to the society they preserved. Additionally, the statistics do not lie, and an unfortunate number of veterans are killing themselves. However, there is something embedded in the presuppositions that give the act its impetus. It is becoming more and more politically correct, and (therefore) socially expected, for veterans to be damaged, weak beings. People whose humanitarian ideals and patriotic duties were somehow crushed and now left to wallow in despair.

I for one didn’t risk everything, brace against environmental extremes, and fight both tooth and nail to emerge into a presumed modern warrior class, all to be patronized as a broken vessel of botched foreign policy.

Are we?

Anyone who has ever eavesdropped on a huddled group of drinking veterans knows this is simply not the case. Tales of righteous headshots, MK-19 thuds, and flying down some winding hardball with the rest of a lively platoon burst from smiling faces. Bearded, tattooed men with hoodies adorned in rifles and skulls hug and back-slap the other, as if retelling that home team interception in last night’s game. Nowhere is there quivering lips and lamentations of current instability in the region, nor is there some moral pondering of past actions. The alleged broken are often quite whole, the alleged reluctant warriors are far from reluctant.

But where is this voice outside the bar and barbeque? What reasons ultimately make these attitudes a clandestine celebration?

The warm, general audience explanations have been essentially mined out. Tired faces pandering to soccer moms and ghost writers have expelled the reservoir of socially acceptable rationale.

The axiomatic, brute, motivations are there; stitched behind a generation of mouths. This perceived stitching is arguably the most troublesome feature of the whole ugly muzzle.

“I wanted to fuck shit up! I wanted to go to war! I wanted to fight! I wanted to be tested in combat! I didn’t really care about Iraq! I didn’t really care about Afghanistan! I was young, adventurous and daring; I saw a calling—and I answered it!”

These proclamations sync poorly with the current mood: veterans merely being nationalists whose love for democracy, Judeo-Christian God, and fellow American lead them to physical and mental ruin… now deserving pity and a free meal. They sync poorly with those that carelessly toss about the word “Hero” and terms like “Our best and our brightest”, and of course those who feel the primary mission of the U.S. Military is to facilitate role models for kids.

However, it is a reality; a silenced, uncomfortable reality. And I truly believe if more combat veterans expressed this reality, after the dust cloud of limp-wristed outcry settled, it would do more for the aggregate mental health of the GWOT Veteran than any medicine or transitional program that is around today.

Don’t be ashamed of your reasons for fighting. Political sentiment shifts; but recalling the videos circulating in 2005, those boyish faces atop armor and weaponry, tongues out and wide-eyed; in the background the carnage you left in your wake… you were harder than any socio-political back lash. You still are.

- Mr. Blonde

Before kicking off, for clarity purposes, the term “paradigm” in this article is used with the definition provided by Thomas Kuhn:

“…the entire constellation of beliefs, values, techniques, and so on shared by the members of a given community.”

                                                                       *****
What does it mean to be a silent professional? Does it mean moving in to do a hard-hit without uttering a word? Does it mean not blowing OPSEC on your precious twitter account? Does it mean not bragging about aspects of the job that would make others uncomfortable? Or does it mean just shutting your suck long enough for the first sergeant to give yet another sexual harassment brief?

What it means is subject to interpretation, no doubt, but what isn’t — the demand of being one that is placed on service members, particularly ones who are in combat occupations.

Before getting our dick-skinners in the meat and potatoes of the issue, let us explore the obvious. The term “professional” simply means you’re getting paid to do a job. The term “silence” implies not speaking. Put it together, as it stands, makes for an interesting conclusion: Don’t talk about your job.

So you aren’t supposed to talk about your occupation; the thing you‘re presumably passionate about, and go through great lengths to be good at?

Is that actually the case? And if so, why!?

The immediate reflex: to think of acts that expose vital information that dampers mission success, operator safety, and so forth (e.g. #AboutToGoKillBinLaden, some grunt making YouTube videos about sensitive unit locations, or CAG posting selfies somewhere off the grid). But past these, (things that rarely if ever happen, mind you) chastisement for not being silent professionals is still a common theme. But what is it the service members are actually doing that receives this reaction?

The best way to address the issue is to start by looking at what behavior receives the most criticism. It seems there are two distinct categories, one while in uniform, one once out of it: (1) making money from wartime-related images, deeds, or skills in the free market, and (2) being vocal of one’s job-efficiency while in military service. I will respond to both in turn.

(1) Defend the free market, but don’t play in it?

Consider this: Many who join the military do so for their country, pretty straight-forward. Granted this is a spectrum, and the degree of such widely varies; from almost non-existent to draped in the flag. Whatever the degree—the country still benefits from their service.

But a country isn’t just a population and the land it occupies, it is also a framework and ideas. It isn’t just Mom and the home town that gets defended; it’s also the cultural identities and way-of-life that ultimately makes a country what it is. With specific regards to the USA, one such feature is Free Enterprise. So strong in fact, the USA‘s capitalist ideation is embedded into our very notion of personal freedoms.

Then why the hell not market ones talent, experience, and story to the consumer? Despite the inevitable controversies surrounding American Sniper, the sheer financial success of the book and movie undeniably asserts there is a market.

It seems this discontent comes primarily from within the communities themselves. Akin to punk rock, the moment money is being made the person has unequivocally “sold out”. A job well done should be good enough, it’s violating some code of silence, and even it’s an exploitation of sorts; all have been lobbed. But circumstances have finally beckoned the most simplest of questions, “why is that?”

It is rather intuitive, the difference in someone violating common sense OPSEC and someone merely telling it the way it is: I can do this, and really well. Beyond the obvious violations of safety, and civil concerns of libel and slander, taking issue with the defenders of America participating in a cherished American ideal is absurd.

Moving on-

(2) Bow to the gunslinger, bitches

The military; this thing with mysterious inner workings —-well social media blew the lid off, for better or worse. Fat asses ready to burst out of their camouflage uniform, rampant stolen valor, you name it; all on the computer screen, with clever hashtags and occasionally the subsequent law suit. For so long these less-than-stellar realities had been concealed, but not anymore. So if that’s the case, why not expose the good as well —the righteous: bearded, trigger-pulling, mortar tube filling, machine gun spraying, danger-close fire mission calling, door-kicking, dick-dragging, rifle-toting light in the otherwise substandard, scared of the grenade range, fat-body darkness? And what better way than through specific units, specific stories and specific individuals?

Some may retort this corrodes the notion of unity, putting a dangerous injection of individuality back into the fighting man; something the entry-level training ferociously aims to beat out. But to those sensible critics, one must only look to the reward system already in place: medals, ribbons, citations, and the like. Despite the machismo that may rally against such a notion (and Holy Chesty Puller there is), people psychologically operate on a system of behavioral recognition. Reward for behavior is a universal human condition. Denying it can, and is, ultimately counter-productive. If you disagree, ask yourself “why are awards instituted to begin with?” That is not to say someone saves a comrades life for a medal, but the medal later recognizes the individual for his actions; thus establishing a precedent…and securing him many drinks at the bar later.

The notion that showcasing ability equates to unprofessional is foundationless, made all the clearer when simply asking “why?” Ideally one’s warfighting ability is proven on the battlefield, and sometimes it is. However for many of the military’s hard-hitters, the homogenous, clean-image over efficient-performance, results ultimately in a culture of not silent professionals —- but silenced professionals.

- Mr. Blonde

The people who build nations sure have come in different shades.  While some have been warm-hearted diplomats—others have been far less socially acceptable.  In times of war, nations have granted certain powers to breeds of its own citizenry.  An empowering that would never be allowed under peaceful circumstances. Russia, in WWII, for example, emptied their prisons to beef up a frontline against zee Germans.  Going further back, several hundred years ago, swarming bands of rugged thieves were sanctioned to seek out, plunder and/or destroy the ships and cities of other countries.

Has the Red, White & Blue ever practiced similar policies?  Well, with consideration to these modern times, anyone who recruited from 2002 to 2006 will attest—many a ruffian swung down from a mast and landed in a military uniform.

The concept is simple: at crucial moments, waive certain men due to the need for man-power.  From this idea; DUIs, smoking weed, shop-lifting, and occasionally even more exotic activities such as a genuine GTA, are all forgiven—as long as they can fall in line, shoot decent, and follow the MRE trash on entry-level land navigation courses.  It serves a purpose, no doubt.  But this has only fleshed out the cannon fodder that inevitably comes whenever a drum is beat. Militaries are full of them, as are cemeteries and VA waiting rooms.  Who are far more interesting rather, is another group who join; more pirate-like, if viewed from the appropriate angle.

There are those who gleefully capitalize on their nation being at war.  Make no mistake about it.  But exactly who they are may surprise some, and how they capitalize would likely stun Middle America.

War profiteering is almost always attributed to secretive huddles of old white men.  One owns a company that has a contract with DOD, one is a politician, etc., etc., But a group rarely mentioned is the actual men—boots on the ground—profiting from the call-to-arms.

Military, yeah you make a little money in a combat zone; contractor—you definitely make more, but finding someone who joined an actual warfighting unit for the paycheck would be a lesson in futility.  Money is, arguably, never the primary incentive in which the opportunistic warfighter hopes to flourish, and anyone who has been one, is one, or even moved into contracting, is usually inclined to agree—one flourishes from the experiences themselves.

*****

It’s no secret that the hyper-moralists who have their death-grip on the American steering-wheel look down upon, and occasionally fear, the acts that require all the waivers.  What is rather fascinating though, is this other category, these war-profiteers—the same men the upstanding, ethical citizens pack the mini-van to take the family to unknowingly see naive caricatures of them on the silver screen, or buy their plump children video games loosely named after these men’s units and occupations—possess characteristics and intentions so brazen, so politically incorrect, and borderline sociopathic that if the flag-waving, taxpayers genuinely fully grasped it, they would slam shut their front door, frantically hurdle the coffee table (and the eight year old playing Call of Duty), and ensure that the back door was secure as well.

What was the difference between the Pirate and the Privateer? The sanctioning from a government, that’s about it really.  In another time, Privateers sailed off to seize the ships of other nations.  The home government got its cut, and the competing country was impeded in its advancement.  In short, privateers, pirates, whatever—helped build their parent nation.

The GWOT profiteer wanted, and wants, to do certain things, and to live a certain way. This includes, but is not limited to; see the world, forge the body into iron, and shoot a mofo in the face—a pirate’s life, and said life was conveniently facilitated by the needs of their country.  Savage symbiosis at its grandest.

But this article is not out to strip the hot-blooded men of the GWOT (or any generation) of their virtue, in fact—quite the opposite.

                                                                                    *****

Modern society has insulated its denizens in stability and security.  There is not a need that hasn’t been met, and at the very minimum—addressed. In comparison to the third world countries, developing countries, and so forth—we have got it damn easy.  Children with smart phones, your lap top with retinal recognition, the colonic center down the road, just in case wiping just doesn’t do it for you anymore—all as frequent and accessible as a Starbucks gift card.  But, for some, there is something that can be smothering about all of this.  One must stay in that job to afford that car, to get to work, to afford that mortgage, of that home, to later sit inside it, and accept your path has been thoroughly laid out before you.  One must not deviate—one must play by the rules.  For if not, the cushy tranquility of these social norms will quickly and coldly cast you down into the bilge of utter disenfranchisement.

It is safe to stay within the lateral limits of social norms.  It is dangerous to operate outside of them.

The decision to circumvent social norms as a means to sate desires came with a very heavy price. To forego many of society’s comfort is to also give up much of society’s protection.  There were no IEDs waiting at the office job, and no incoming RPGs in the cookie-cutter suburbs.  It is a thing that many simply can’t wrap their head around; the predictable comfort was more a threat to us, in some subtle way, unseen and unfelt by those content with the 9 to 5. How many others deep down wanted to do those things; ride on the wind like wolves, become brothers with a few other like-minded rogues, create bonds that are unbreakable, even in death?  What stopped these clandestine admirers was, arguably, the thought of the repercussions: Maimed by a shape charge, your comrade’s head being emptied in front of you by a 7.62, coming home labeled a war-monger, misguided, or just being a traumatized invalid.

Stepping outside of the status quo, at the expense of many compassions, comes a few particular virtues, courage namely—and likely at the pirate’s helm.

—Mr.Blonde

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a Ride!”

So, here we all are.  It’s 2015 and the war’s are over, for the most part.  For the last decade or so, we have been completely consumed with fighting America’s battles.  We, the warrior class, have become accustom to the constant deployments.  It was almost a comforting feeling.  You knew what your future held.  Work up, deployment, leave, work up, deployment, leave, etc.  Repeat the cycle until you’re out or you’re dead.  Either way, you knew what the fuck was up.  But now, things are different.  There are no more deployments.  IF you decide to stay in, you’re fighting the good fight trying to get yourself or your boys to schools or good training.  The same schools that just a few years ago, you couldn’t get guys to sign up for.  Remember that?!?! When the OpTempo was so high that guys were turning down schools because of the need to have some time to relax?   Man, were those the days.  Now, there has been a total paradigm shift.  The budget has tightened and old daddy war-bucks’ coffers are now empty.  But what brought us all to this point?  How did we go from fun loving kids to a group of grown men who thrive on the brotherhood of war and the adrenaline of combat?

We aren’t the first men to walk this path.  This is the path of the warrior.  It has been traveled countless times by those members of our class, the warrior class, who came before us.  It began for us when we were kids.  None of us were born with the ability to put on kit and a ruck, grab a blaster, and get to work.  Through our experiences and interests at kids, we began to recognize that we were attracted to this culture.  This culture that can only be described as one of violence.  When we were kids, we watched characters like Sgt. John Stryker in the prolific Sands of Iwo Jima, read comics about Captain America, and begged our parents for the newest G.I. Joe.  Something about these things, perhaps the romantic portrayal of combat or maybe seeing these prolific characters in service to their brothers and this country intrigued us.  We didn’t know why or even that it was happening.  There was just something in us that was drawn that direction.

    Then, as we got older, we become a bit more aware that we were headed in a certain direction.  It wasn’t completely clear, but we start thinking about what we are going to do with our lives. There was also the realization that some of us were ok with violence, maybe even pretty damn good at it.  It’s tough to find a pipe hitter out there that didn’t play some kind of contact sport, martial art, or just grew up as a scrapper.  It’s almost an unspoken understanding that in this line of work, you have a propensity for violence.  So what do we do?  Go to college?  Learn a trade?  Deliver pizza at home and smoke weed while living in mom and dad’s basement? No, not likely.   We knew there was a war going on somewhere.  We knew that we needed to be part of it.  We made that commitment to enlist or take a commission (if you were afraid of doing actual work).  The trigger was pulled (pun intended) and you signed your name on the dotted line.  The feelings of fear, excitement, anxiety, mystery, adventure, and satisfaction all hit at the same time.  

    Then began the formal assimilation into the warrior culture and the warrior’s path began to show itself clearly.  Through training and psychological conditioning, we joined a small group of people who exists for one purpose, to go to combat.  The lessons we are taught are simple ones.  For thousands of years, the fundamentals of a combat mindset have been the same.  Kill the enemy and to look out for your brothers.  Do everything in training as though you were going to combat tomorrow.  Eat, sleep, live, and breathe warfare.  Do these things, and maybe, JUST MAYBE, you’ll be fortunate enough to be one of the few glorious warriors to be chosen to make the ultimate sacrifice.  The Valkyrie will swoop down and take you to Valhalla where you dine in The Great Hall with the great warriors of history.  This is what the warrior class has been taught since the beginning of time.  The only way to die well is to die gloriously in combat.  I mean hell, the GREAT ACHILLES unequivocally knew that he would choose glory in death over a long life.  The allure of combat is irresistible.  Combat where young warriors train to go and dream to experience.

    Combat is, to all of us, the crux of the warrior’s path.  It is what a warrior has worked his entire life in preparation for.  Every man has questions about himself that can only be answered in combat.  That is what sets you and me apart from every human on the planet that has not experienced what we have.  We were fortunate to find, what we all believed, to be our purpose in life.  That which men spend their entire lives seeking, the meaning of life.  We found it at 18 or 19 years old, and it was AWESOME.  We knew our purpose on this earth and we could do it over, and over, and over again with no end in sight.  Yea, we enjoyed our breaks every few months, but then we knew it would be “once more into the breach”.  

These experiences are what makes a combat veteran special and causes that deep, burning anger when you see a stolen valor turd or hear some douche tell a bull shit story about his “combat experience”.  The thrill of the fight and the constant flow of adrenaline feed us.  They change our baseline to super human levels.  The need to maintain this feeling is insatiable.  Once you get a taste, you can’t live without it…right?  Well, at some time the deployments stop; you can’t be “in the fight” anymore.   It’s like being a professional football player that gets to play in the Super Bowl every time you step on the field.  Then, it’s over.  No more.  The whole purpose of our existence is taken from us.  At first, we are ok with it.  No more being gone.  Time to rest and be a normal dude. Good, right?  Maybe.    This is where we, as veterans, start to run into serious issues.  Anger, loneliness, depression, fear, despair, loathing, and a multitude of other feelings seem to surround us in nearly everything we do.  Relationships end, because the people we love don’t understand why we want to go back.  They can’t fathom why we would rather be shooting shitheads in the face and not going grocery shopping or listening to stories about how work was or what’s on TV.

  Many guys feel that they have reached the end of their path after combat.  Life begins to feel like a prison and we are all just doing time.  A friend once told me that he sees it like this.  “America birthed a bunch of War Babies, and now they want to abort them.”  We are consumed with the feeling that since we have spent so many years in the preparation for battle, without it life has no purpose.  American society is tired of war, and with it the warrior.  They have no purpose. Their LIVES have no purpose.  We feel like the clear path we were walking came to a sudden end and with that, so must their lives.   During our time in the warrior culture, we have been told that we were supposed to die on the battlefield.  The warrior culture only talks about that end.  There is no real dialogue about what a warrior class is supposed to do when the last bomb has been dropped, the last round fired, the last battle fought.  What is the next step?  What now?  Where do we go, as a community, from here?  

That, we will reflect on next time.  Until then, stay safe, stay alive, and prepare for the next fight…whatever that may be.  Don’t quit.  

Never above you, never below you, ALWAYS beside you!

-86

     Since late March of this year, conspiracy theorists have put Bigfoot on the back burner and have put the multi-state, US military training exercise in their shaky cross hairs. With intellectual powerhouses, such as Chuck Norris and Alex Jones, whipping one mythical horse after the next, public reactions have been loud. Enough, in fact, to warrant statements from the two most powerful entities in America, the Pentagon and. . .Walmart. While the size and duration of the nation’s soon-to-be largest at-home training evolution admittedly does deserve some attention, it doesn’t exactly require a number of reactions which have been nothing short of case studies in leadership pandering to the idiocy of their constituency. There is no example that shines brighter (and more comical) than Texas governor Greg Abbott, who interestingly enough, aims to dispatch US military to babysit US military. Abbott will have the Texas National Guard*** be his sensory organs.  Abbott states, “During the training operation, it is important that Texans know their safety, constitutional rights, private property rights and civil liberties will not be infringed.” There are so many things funny about this idea, for instance, if you want to go down the infinite rabbit-hole of conspiracy . . . what stops the TNG from being “in on it?” Also amusing, is the thought of Guard units overseeing various SOF units with some undefined form of spectator-authority, “Have those DEVGRU guys go report to that Home Depot regional manager. . . Oh, I mean full-bird Colonel—this weekend.”

     And then we have the ultimate Texas Ranger himself, Chuck Norris, who in his official statement said, “Concerned Texans and Americans are in no way calling into question our brave and courageous men and women in uniform. They are merely following orders.”

     Um, yes you are Chuck—who else do you think will ultimately do the work of the shadowy, rights-raping, federal government if not the very people Governor Abbott wants to have under constant supervision? If one wants to believe in most conspiracy theories, the whole shah-bang can easily dull critical faculties. Yet, if we give it some energy and think about it, Col. James Braddock’s proposition is bizarre. Surely we can’t imagine one fearing a military presence . . . yet somehow not fearful of the people who actually make the military present. If we stop and boil down the issue, it is illogical to fear a government and not fear the entities that execute government directive. In short, a government with no enforcement has no legs, so, by necessity, you have to be questioning the “brave and courageous men and women in uniform.” And to question them, which is totally permissible and not offensive in itself whatsoever, is to arrive at two horns of a dilemma. Due to the question asked in this case, a US military that would disarm its population is consciously in agreement with disarming their dad, neighbor, and former high school teacher, or—the military is the cliché automatons, blindly doing biding while humming the Star-Spangled Banner, post-lobotomy.  Neither is very attractive, or true. Do I really have to be the one to bash a martial arts icon, and college humor deity, and say fuck Chuck Norris? I really don’t want to be that guy.

     In the spirit of saving the best for last, we arrive at Alex Jones. Far less concerned in insulating his ideas with canned patriotic slogans about the military the way Chuck Norris did, we behold the following quote in reference to the true meaning behind Jade Helm 15, “. . . They [American government] are going to stage attacks, say the American people are doing it and they’re going to try and roll the military out, just like New Orleans. They are preparing for this.” All of this, of course, is an elaborate and decades-spanning plot of various co-conspirators to disarm the American people.

     To those who are uninitiated in the fallacies of most conspiracy theory arguments, let me shed some light on the wiggle-room these sensationalists provide for themselves. Here is the formula:

1.      Make a bold claim.

2.      Site a select group of general facts, speculation and general observations to bolster the claim.

3.      Aggressively disseminate to the target audience.

4.      When the actions of the claim do not occur, evolve the conspiracy. Plausible example: saying the action didn’t occur due to ample dissemination of information (you prevented it! You’re a hero—but watch out, the fights not over… tune in next week and keep your eye on our DVD coming out this fall).

     This is classic, pied-piper galvanizing that taps into some fundamental pockets of the human psyche; excitement, cohesion, sense of accomplishment, and the undeniable propensity to gravitate towards highly salient, lurid social activity (in this case, Yellow Journalism. A brief definition is here  . If you want a more comprehensive background on the origin of the term Yellow Journalism, sometimes referred to as Yellow Press, it can be found here .

     Let’s take a brief tour into the anatomy of a conspiracy theory. The impenetrable shield of a conspiracy theory (as well as its Achilles heel when it comes to any validity in the standard rules of evidence) is that the theory is unfalsifiable. But a theory being unfalsifiable is a vice, not a virtue. Immunity to falsifiability is the distinguishing feature of a pseudo-science. An example, the Adlerian inferiority/superiority complex: if Grunt A pushes Grunt B into a fighting hole, it was because Grunt A suffers from a superiority complex, inflicting his exhibitions of power on others—OR (perfectly equal in explanatory power)—Grunt A is suffering from an inferiority complex, and something about Grunt B made him feel so low that he had to push Grunt B face-first into the grenade sump to achieve a perception of power-equilibrium. Do you see how the explanations evolve to fit all circumstances? The invulnerable, ever-shifting nature of unfalsifiable claims is what separates tweaked-out Alex Jones types from those that calculate a lunar landing.

     Perhaps an example more in the vein of government conspiracies is in order—the claim is made that the military will interfere with the voting process. Soon the subsequent claim is made that 200 Marines were witnessed staging near some political assembly. It causes such a ruckus on the news that the Marines provide official documentation establishing it was only 10, and it was for a recruiting drive from a local office, unrelated to the assembly. The conspiracy theory then evolves to include the claim that the USMC and the United States government have conspired to alter the records, and the other 190 Marines have been erased off of the official documents and the recruiting office is cooperating with the façade.

     Sound familiar?

     Nothing wrong with vigilance, nor a preparation-mindset, but conspiracy theories are not rational skepticism. In summary, for those that needed this dose, take off your tinfoil hat. When Jade Helm 15 comes and goes and no Chinese, American, or UN troops have seized your kids’ BB gun. . . we hope you remember OAF told you so.  

—Mr.Blonde               11100110001001 End of NSA transmission.

*** Author's Note: Okay, its been 24 hours, and everything from "blind liberal" to "brain-washed military service member" has impacted in the AO. Speckled in the salvo, has also been numerous announcements from our astute viewers, stating a needed correction. There is a factual error in this article; it is not the Texas National Guard, it is the Texas State Guard.  Yes, they're not an entity that can be federalized - No, it does not undermine a larger point of this article; that conspiracy theories don't abide by the rules of evidence. Past this blunder, we hope you find the more technical criticism worth your time, and know that this was just typed while in the front leaning rest.  -Mr. Blonde

This is the hardest truth in training. There are so many shooters with a self perception that is far different from reality. Sometimes when I hear someone telling everyone about how high-speed they are I think of that scene from A Christmas Story. You know, the one where Ralphy is day dreaming about chopping down Black Bart and his gang with his trusty Red Ryder BB Gun as they come over the backyard fence. Everything goes perfectly for Ralphy. All his shots hit their mark and Ralphy saves the day. Unfortunately in the real world bad guys like to shoot back and don’t like to stand there waiting to get shot. You don’t know how a gunfight is going to play out or how many rounds it’s going to take to stop an aggressor. So stop that shit because you just sound stupid.

Careless weapons handling is the first sign that someone is inexperienced or does not take things seriously. Yes the gun is a tool we use to accomplish a mission but it has to be handled with the seriousness that it was designed for, plain and simple. The way you pick up a gun is the first thing your teammates or an instructor will notice and judge your professionalism with a gun. We had a guy come in country that his fellow students tried to peer out of a training course because of his unsafe and careless gun handling. He was pushed through anyway. Once in country his team came out for training and I was told to keep an eye on the guy. Well, about 20 minutes into the first drill he had a negligent discharge into the ground about 5 feet in front of him. Chicken or Beef for that dude. Don’t think that just because you managed to slip through a 7 week training course that people in country won’t notice you’re an inexperienced ass hat. Don’t be a hazard to yourself or those around you. Be honest with yourself.

This becomes evident on the range, because why? The bullet doesn’t lie. It goes where your sights were when the shot broke. Time and time again I have seen shooters miss what they are aiming at and then look at the gun. Sorry bud but it’s not the gun’s fault. More often than not it is the more experienced shooters, or those who think they are experienced, that become dumbfounded when they are not getting the accurate hits they want. I start to see the confusion as they stare at the target. Why is this happening to me? Somebody must have fucked with my shit. Did I put too much or too little finger on the trigger? STOP! Now is when you have to take a deep breath and realize that you are sucking, hard. Reset yourself, slow your mind down and apply the fundamentals. Stop letting the over inflated perception of your gunfighter self get in the way of moving forward.

Time after time I see shooters experience a double feed with their M4 and completely lock up because they have not mastered the simple process of clearing one. Instead of coming out to the range and practicing things that you are good at and give you a warm and fuzzy when you’re done, work on skills that you have not mastered yet. Have you mastered your trigger yet? Can you put 3 rounds in a 1” circle from 3 yards consistently? Can you accurately put rounds on your target from 3-25 yards? Do you freeze up when your gun runs dry and have to think about reloading it? These are questions you need to ask yourself before moving on to more advanced skills. There are 5 levels of competence.

1. Unconscious Incompetence- You don’t know that you suck.

2. Conscious Incompetence- You are starting to realize that you don’t know everything and you suck.

3. Conscious Competence- You are starting to advance with your skills and gaining confidence. Now this is where some start to get an inflated image of themselves, stop progressing and fall back to #1. Stay grounded and continue to work towards mastery.

4. Unconscious Competence- You have attained mastery of skills and can perform them without thought. Much like breathing. This is where we should all strive to be.

5. Intentionally Incompetent- You know that you suck and don’t care. You endanger your teammates and all others around you with your carelessness. As long as you look the part you can fake it. Everyone knows this guy and he can be spotted pretty quickly. Stay the fuck away from this guy.

As professionals we have to be honest with ourselves about our abilities, level of training and mastery of the fundamentals because our lives and the lives of those around us depend on it. You will not rise to the occasion. The old adage that you will fall back on your training is a half truth. In reality it is that you will fall back on the last level of training which you have mastered. Prepare for it accordingly.

-Rudolfo Lespari

"The devil is a lie." -Rick Ross

Last week, I witnessed our veteran community come together in a rarely precedented show of cohesion and support. Veterans from all across the country, from all eras, bonded and combined their strength in order to combat a grave insult to our legacy.

A shirt…

Yeah, the veteran community came together via social media in protest of a shirt. 

The shirt depicted a silhouette of basketball players erecting a street hoop in the fashion of the flag raising on Iwo Jima. Veterans came out in droves to scream and cry at what they deemed a slight against them by the shirt’s manufacturer. Sensitivity glared like an exposed nerve as vets slammed the image, saying it was disrespectful and it somehow made light of the sacrifice of those killed on Iwo Jima.  

The shirt was eventually pulled from production and a public apology letter was issued. Cheers of victory filled the interwebs from Twitter to Instagram. Social media rang with “Yut! Yut!”, “Semper Fi,” and “we did it brothers, strength in numbers!” 

I give a slow clap to our community for their efforts. Congrats. You got a shirt pulled from production from a company that supports veterans in some of the most tangible ways possible. Way to fucking go. 22 guys kill themselves every day, the VA is STILL riddled with corruption and negligence, society and the administration is starting the process of turning their backs on us, and a SHIRT is what you banded together for. I hope you’re beyond proud of yourselves. I GUARANTEE the Iwo Jima survivors have better things to do than worry about a shirt. They’re busy basking in their victory and trying to find ways to haul around those mondo balls.

This brought to light a much wider issue. HNIC and I discussed this and agreed that it’s something that needs to be addressed. It’s what has been dubbed “Veteran Outrage Syndrome”, and it effects our community just as much as PTSD and TBI. It’s something that is serving to further alienate our community from society. It is the belief that being a veteran somehow entitles you to the right to offend everyone else but it’s a grievous sin for someone to offend you. It is the implication that being a veteran of the U.S. military makes you superior in your sensibilities. No one can speak out against you and your opinions because, “Godammit, I’m a veteran!” Any opposing voice is met with accusations questioning everything from your citizenship to your service experience in an attempt to circumvent any logic in the viewpoint that has transcended their baseline dichotomy.

We all know these vets...
"I love to get upset about things I have no control over!!!  Fuck yeah!! Then I'm gonna subject everyone in my newsfeed to my obtuse, ignorant, and blind anger!!! Fuck yeah!!! I'm angry every damn day online!!! MURICA!!! You KNOW that means I'm a bad ass!!! And if you don't like it that just means you're a PUSSY!!!! And if you don't agree with me FUCK YOU!!!" #FromGunfightsToInternetFights

With the advent of social media, veterans have began to slowly assimilate into a kind of “hive mind” mentality. It makes complete sense considering the thing that ties us together is our experiences within an institution that IS a hive mind. It’s what most know and remain comfortable in the continuation of the practice. This mentality has managed to stifle free speech and critical thinking in place of blind anger towards…well…just about anything. That’s rather sheep-like behavior coming from a bunch of dudes calling themselves “sheepdogs.”

News feeds are bombarded almost daily with disgruntled veterans cursing their brains out at images of people stomping on the flag, or a screenshot of some misguided idiot voicing their off-color opinion of our armed forces. Some share these images, while other, more vitriolic rhetoric calls for the offender’s heads on a pike. The OAF Facebook inbox and wall are constantly messaged with more of the same with people saying “make them famous” or "blow this motherfucker up." My answer to that is usually: why? So we can perpetuate their momentum? Think about it: 12 years ago if someone burned a flag, it MIGHT have made a 10 second blurb on the local news. Now, with social media what it is, those ridiculous displays of free speech are shared and shared and shared until they become “viral”, which ironically is EXACTLY what these protestors want. But, I digress.

I find it coincidental that the same people that publicly vent their anger against flag-stomping and someone saying “fuck the military” are also the same people daring the U.S. government to come take their guns. They stand tall, wearing an over-produced t-shirt proclaiming that they’re “defending the Constitution” and that their oath of enlistment has “no expiration date.” These barrel-chested, freedom fighters post statuses bashing gays and transexuals in the military, women in the infantry, make fun of people getting hurt, and point out incessantly that America is getting “too sensitive” and “politically correct.” However, a shirt comes out and they raise their collective knife hands. They bash everyone and everything non-veteran in their path and throw their military service in peoples faces as if it's a Royal Flush in the card game of life. Yet when something to their distaste comes around, they are the most vocal in their offense. It’s funny to think that they want to defend the rights the Constitution affords, unless it offends them, then they make it a viral campaign. However, the guy that posts about the VA or suicide gets little to no attention because it isn’t enraging enough, nor does it adequately validate ones status as a veteran.

All this type of hypocritical outrage does is make us look like idiots, further segregating us from the society we bash, the soft society we claim “doesn’t understand us.” Banding together is awesome, but I think instead of giving in to VOS and hopping on the hate bandwagon, we need to step back and really pick our battles. The sooner we realize that we’re not the only ones entitled to free speech, that being a veteran garners respect, not superiority, and that there are more important things going on, the more we’ll see visible change. We can change the way veterans as a whole are perceived and portrayed. We can enact change in the care we are given. We can change the landscape of society thru the veteran community itself. Or, we can keep embarrassing ourselves and prevent shirts from being made. 

-Grifter

"Wherever you are at, whether in civilian clothes or in uniform, we work together, we never let each other down."

 —Master Sergeant Raul (Roy) Perez Benavidez, CMH recipient and bona fide neck snapper

     Throughout the years, I have noticed the stunning number of veterans who fall somewhere between confused and oblivious when it comes to utilizing VA services. Reasons abound; "it’s too time consuming," "I don’t really need it," or "I just don’t want it." Fair enough. But time and time again I hear from friends how they want to get more involved with VA services, but don’t know where (or how) to begin. Sure there is a lot of generic literature out there, pamphlets and stickers, but that doesn’t seem to punch through the bureaucracy enough. In truth, most veteran’s first step toward the VA is soon followed by a step heading back to their car. The system is clogged, riddled with delays, lingering wait-times and even the occasional malignant, anti-veteran employee. In light of these facts, I wanted to present this article as a resource. This not an opinion-piece howling on about VA ineptness, poor treatment of veterans, or what have you. For that just go on damn near any blog or news source. This article is a free step-by-step guide to assist with one of the more common resources; disability compensation. *Please understand that this in no way encompasses the totality of compensation-related information. This addresses the main body. If you do not find a direct answer in here, please continue to seek the appropriate answers from additional sources. 

Malingerer Disclaimer: disability compensation is an entitlement. However, not in the pejorative sense that the word “entitlement” often gets portrayed during hot-button political debates. You actually ARE entitled to compensation for injuries while in the military, legally, whether you ethically align or oppose. Before you ever swore in at MEPS, before you ever held strong that you never smoked pot during “the moment of truth,” policies existed that basically say. . . if you get banged up while in military service. . . you will be compensated. However, like any entitlement program, there will be those who fraudulently capitalize off it. The VA knows it, policy-makers and economists know it, and combat veterans damn sure know it. Will the following advice be used by malingering pussies? Maybe. But hopefully so to by veterans who legitimately rate compensation that they’re not currently receiving—if that is the case; then well worth it.

*****

STEP 1

     Mental preparation. There are some things to understand about navigating the waters of the VA. Appointments. . . GO TO THE SCHEDULED APPOINTMENTS, especially if the appointments are for Compensation and Pension exams (usually indicated by “CNP” typed next to the confirmation letters sent in the mail). Sounds obvious, right? It is, yet quite regularly a buddy of mine will tell me, “Uh yeah, that audiology exam, yeah I didn’t go. . . I had shit to do.” That low-priority way of thinking will only result in you just wasting whatever dismal amount of energy you actually did put into the process. And that brings me to this; planning. Plan to dedicate a half-day per VA visit. If the appointment is before noon, then your morning is dedicated to the appointment, if it is afternoon… same applies for your day until early evening. The inconvenient appointment times, coupled with the very real issue of waiting for long periods at the VA, seem to be the two-punch combo that has turned a lot of my veteran friends away from services that they rate, and frankly—could use. Somewhat jokingly, I relate taking on the VA to a grueling MOS school. It requires the combination of patience, proactivity, and dealing with the immediate task in front of you while maintaining focus on the end-state. In short, you’re saying to the government you deserve some of its money—it’s not going to be made convenient for you. Accept it. Move forward.

STEP 2

     Obtain a copy of your service and medical records. If you are still in, and anticipating a near-future EAS, it is crucial you get these copied. If you are out and do not have them there are several ways to obtain them, easiest is likely via this link here . Even if you are not utilizing the VA, these records are just good to have.  

STEP 3

     How to file a claim. There are two ways, online and postal. Online, set up your account here  . Once your account is set up you can go through a comprehensive list of disabilities the VA recognizes and file for the ones that are appropriate for you. Note that the online process has the ability to scan and upload supporting documents (i.e. letter from a doctor, or a sheet out of your military medical records). There is also now the “fully developed claim” option. I will be honest, I have never used it—so I am not going to risk any misguidance, maybe in the comment thread someone can shed some needed light.

     If you opt for snail mail, google “VA Form 21-526”. Print it, fill it out, and mail it to your regional office. Regional offices are here  .The site takes a bit of navigation, but you will be able to find the regional office for your area. Send a copy of your DD214 and copies of all relevant service and medical records related to the issues you are claiming (e.g. if you are claiming an ankle issue, copy the page(s) in your medical record that state the training incident, IED blast, etc., highlight the relevant portions). This is best done if you mail all this in as a single packet.

STEP 4

     Statement in support of claim. Did you know that you can provide testimonies from others? You can. This, of course, is not as pertinent for a claim regarding something like the loss of a limb. However, if you have something like back or knee issues, important details such as level of pain, missing work days, and negative effects on daily life are considered by the VA when the Caesarian thumbs-up or thumbs-down is given on your rating. Google “va form 21-4138” and a printable pdf file is available. Simply have your; wife, mom, terrified neighbor, former platoon mate, and/or priest write their testimony about your issues. Mail to your regional office (this can be sent in the same packet as in Step 3).

 *****

     That’s the steps. Afterward just be diligent with appointments. They will (eventually) mail you letters containing your appointment times, a tiny description of what they are for, and the location you need to go to. JUST F'N GO.

     Now, I would like to address a few important areas of the disability compensation arena. Include these in the step-by-step process as you see fit.

PTSD

     What talk about VA disability would be complete without it, right? Let’s just air out the dirty laundry now, a lot of combat vets are suspect of some PTSD cases they've seen, and who they originated from. It’s a popular topic in the inner circles of the veteran community, and it’s understandable. However, sorry to disappoint, that aspect of the discussion isn’t my focus. The following are some technical details regarding the nature of a PTSD claim.

     There are three elements that must be met for a successful PTSD claim; (1) in-service incident (a firefight, for example), (2) a current diagnosis (a doctor must agree that you have PTSD), and (3) a nexus. This nexus is what links the current diagnosis to the in-service incident. Those of you who have what are called “conceded stressors” should have no problem. Conceded stressors are verifiable things such as a Purple Heart, Combat Infantry Badge, or Combat Action Ribbon. Those of you who do not have any conceded stressors in your records must explain how your military service directly relates to your current PTSD issues. In short, it has to be due to the RPG that whizzed by you, not the car accident you were in once back in the civilian world.

     To get an idea of how the VA assigns PTSD ratings, check out the following link here . You need to understand something—it took me several years to realize this, but something that sabotages a proper PTSD rating is the inability to let go of the same psychological frame work that allows one to perform efficiently in the uniform. For me, and for the other special operations types, this seems to be especially true—nothing hurts, no tears, no pain, jump out of a plane with a sandbag in the ruck to later fight behind, err yut kill. It has its place in the battle space, but has no place when you are trying to adequately convey the totality of PTSD symptoms. In short, tell the truth; and I recommend scanning through the aforementioned link and jotting down what symptoms apply to you.

Independent Medical Examiners (IME)

     IME means you seek medical care for service-connected claims from establishments outside the VA (family doctor, for example). It’s a great way to build your case, if you insist on physically avoiding VA clinics. . . at least for a while. Using IMEs is one of the most common tactics employed by the droves of law firms that have popped up like mushrooms in recent years, offering legal assistance with “Veterans Affairs claims”. Well, fuck the man— I am here to tell you they do little more than ensure themselves to the usual 20% of your back pay. If you want to use IMEs, remember this—awesome way to pad your case, but—and I can’t emphasize this enough—all the beneficial diagnoses in the world from IMEs are utterly worthless without a VA diagnosis. Look at anything IME-related as merely support, because it is.

*****

     Alright, that’s it. Once a service-connected disability is established all related medicine, therapy and various forms of assistance (glasses, insoles, etc.) are either totally free or damn near it. For those of you struggling financially and having to strictly adhere to a budget. . . you know these little numbers can add up.

     I can’t help but end this on a nostalgic note: you fuckers are the 1% that allow the USA to retain its status as, what some have referred to as, a quasi-imperialistic super power. All the cute, sheltered comfort and exuberant standards of living that we all can’t help but scoff at from time to time—in some twisted, heroic way. . . it’s because you defended it. If you are owed compensation for it, get it.

—Mr. Blonde

“There is no question; a part of me will forever be up on that mountain, dead.... as my brothers died. But there’s a part of me that lived, because of my brothers, because of them I am still alive.  And I can never forget, no matter how much it hurts, how dark it gets, or how far you fall....

YOU ARE NEVER OUT OF THE FIGHT." –Marcus Luttrell

We come from many different places. Different parents, families, experiences, branches of service, MOS, etc., but we share a strong bond. This understanding can be appreciated in different ways.  A KIA memorial bracelet, the quiet solemn expression at a sporting even when the National Anthem plays, or at the bar when you see a lone beer and a shot on a napkin with a name and date written on it; a drink for a fallen warrior now in Valhalla, honored at home.  

It’s true that part of us dies with every brother we lose.  Every deployment that comes and goes costs us a little part of our bodies and souls.  This is the burden we willingly and gladly bear, and we should do so with a joyful heart.  We shoulder this burden for our friends, our family, our fellow warriors both those still with us and those gone from this life, and ourselves. In Part I, we reflected on the path we have traveled.  It is my sincere hope that it showed you that you are not alone on this journey.  We are all constantly struggling with a plethora of feelings and emotions now that the wars are over.  Hopefully, it helped you become a bit more self-aware, for self-awareness is key to a happy and fulfilling life.  

A major step toward self-awareness for a warrior is introspective thought.  The paradox of combat comes during times of introspection, when we begin to identify that while we miss the dead and we wish we were dead with them, we must honor them now.  Yes, it is difficult to struggle with the feeling of uselessness.  It is especially difficult when your life’s work could easily be the theme of the a Peter Berg movie, or the opening scene to the next Call of Duty.  The feeling of uselessness leads to despair, and unfortunately self-destructive behavior.  We destroy our bodies, our finances, our relationships, and our minds.  We feel as though we are unworthy to be here, still living.  However, while dealing with these things, we also must reflect on our journey to this point and remember why we are alive.  Why we were chosen to live?  Yes, you were CHOSEN! Who better to live on to tell the story of your brothers than you?  We all readily agree that we would die for our teammates. Why do we now struggle with being able to live for them?

We all believed we had found our purpose; doing war shit with our war friends.  Well, now that singular purpose has come and gone.  It’s a difficult period along the warrior’s path, the accepting of it being over.  We might struggle and fall.  We might hit the lowest point and lose control; drink to the point of blacking out and do things so far out of character it’s unbelievable.  Maybe we go internal and isolate ourselves from anyone and everyone, allowing ourselves to slip into that dark place where a gun in your mouth doesn’t seem like a big deal.  These are all things that many of us have done.  Maybe you’re doing one or more of them right now. It is normal.  The thing that people outside of our circle don’t understand about us is what normal means. A brother of mine once said, “Some of the things we say and do may shock the average man, but we are not average men”. This altered sense of normal can sometimes cause friction in the life of a warrior. 

To me, going to the range and doing a workout while shooting is normal.  When I’ve had a bad day, a 5K in full kit with plates is normal.  Do I expect the majority of people in my life now to understand that? No, of course not.  We sometimes use this conflict as an excuse to withdraw ourselves from interacting with people.  We say, “no one understands me, fuck them.”  I’m just as guilty of this as anyone.  Grifter wrote about this in his article about Veteran Outrage Syndrome.  We set society up for failure, and in turn are outraged when they fail to meet our expectations.  We, as a community, need to stop doing this.  We build around us a house of cards that is doomed fall.  When it falls, we scream and shout that people suck, they don’t have any respect, etcetera.  Things like this happen because we continue to allow it to happen.  Many members of the warrior class think that it’s okay to behave as though we are far superior to everyone else.  Different, yes. Better, not necessarily.  We isolate ourselves and our warrior culture from others as though it is something that we cannot and should not share.  In fact, the opposite is true.  We have the obligation to share our culture with those around us.  This accomplishes two things.  One, it fosters a better relationship and understanding between the veteran community and the rest of society.  Two, it keeps us from becoming mentally and emotionally isolated which leads us down a dark and dangerous path of self-destruction.

Recon Marines of 1st Force Reconnaissance Company execute an 8 mile ruck run with 50 lb packs photo by Joshua Murray 

The challenge for us now is to give people in our lives a chance.  It’s totally unfair to hold them to the same standard we hold ourselves or our teammates.  Face it guys, not everyone is like us.  We have to accept that the world we now live in will never be the world we are used to or expect that it should be.  What we CAN do is effect change in our everyday lives; small changes that are within our reach.  If your community isn’t what you think it should be, DO SOMETHING.  Don’t just retreat into your house to drink or feel sorry for yourself.  Be a force for positive change.

The effecting of change in our world is a new purpose in and of itself.  We have the opportunity to bring all of the things that made us who we were on the battlefield to the people we interact with on a daily basis.  It is our responsibly to bring the warrior mindset and ethics to the rest of America.  I know, I just said we can’t hold people to our standards.  This is where some personal and professional maturity comes in.  We have to carefully choose where we want to focus our efforts.  It can be on a large scale, like starting or working with a non-profit like Elder Heart, Silent Warrior Scholarship Fund, The Raider Project, or dozens more.  Maybe start your own company and help employ other veterans.  Or it could be as small as helping someone you encounter in everyday life that is in need.  The bottom line is, be a positive influence in your world, not a negative one.  

How fortunate are we, those who share the bond of the warrior spirit, to be able to have the opportunity for another purpose, another meaning of life?  We were given this gift, this responsibility, for a reason.  The reason is that we are worthy of it.  We must live a good life to honor the sacrifices of the fallen and to preserve the way of life they died for.  Allow them to speak through you in your everyday life.  Tell the stories of how they lived.  What kind of person were they to you?  How did your fallen brother help shape you into the person who you are today?  Respect their sacrifice by being kind, patient, respectful, loving, compassionate, and helpful when you can.  By no means should you completely change who you are.  Hold yourself and the people in your life to a standard of living your brothers would be proud of.  And don’t forget, you’re ability to execute extreme violence on those that require it should never be compromised.  The key now is balance.  Balance creates the full spectrum warrior; a self-aware member of the warrior class that can both love deeply and kill quickly, either task executed with unbridled passion and brilliant expertise.  I would submit to you that an appreciation for one will deepen your respect and understanding for the other.

Our mission in life now is just simplified.  Love a woman, raise a family, be a good friend and American, a positive influence in your community, live every day for our fallen, and continue to prepare for the next battle.  This is the purpose in life for today’s warrior class.  This is how we must live.  

So live your lives, brothers. Live it well.  

Never above you, never below you, Always beside you!!!

-86 

“One love, one house” -Slaves

22 Veterans of the armed forces of the United States kill themselves every day. Every day. This isn’t open to interpretation. This doesn’t have a left/right wing spin to it. There’s no hidden agenda or some kind of wacky conspiracy attached to it. This isn’t my opinion. This isn’t Mr. Blonde’s assessment. This isn’t one of HNIC’s ideas to bring on more readers or get more exposure. 22 veterans kill themselves every day and that is a stone-cold fact. 

I think we, as veterans, are getting so caught up in what is going to offend us this week that we really don’t pay attention to it. It’s not front and center of our focus as a community, it seems. I can’t say WHY it’s not on more veteran newsfeeds, I just know that there’s more about what pisses us off and this evidently isn’t it. 

We here at OAF Nation have been trying to wrap our heads around this staggering statistic. We’ve been working to ascertain what it is that’s causing it. I personally believe it stems from 4 major factors:

• PTSD and TBI
• A feeling of isolation brought on by a marginalization from mainstream society
• A perceived lack of meaningful purpose in the world or boredom in their lives
• Neglicence, Corruption, and Abuse within the VA behavioral health system

Right now, I’m going to focus on the first two issues as I feel they are the most pressing.

Photo by: Phil Diab

PTSD is something that has been written about extensively over the course of the longest war in U.S. history. It becomes the central focus of media attention (left AND right wing) whenever some veteran hauls off and does something erratic, such as shoot up a public place or beat someone senseless. However, an unpopular notion within the veteran community is that PTSD is over-diagnosed. An atrocious amount of veterans seem to be receiving disability benefits in relation to service-connected PTSD. (Secret: It really doesn’t take much to walk into your VA, have your spouse testify as to your erratic behavior, and start receiving a check.) It’s sickening and sad, but it’s the truth. PTSD has become almost romanticized in a way. It’s become this conversation piece that adds credibility and validity to a veteran’s service. It’s become a sign to stick in your yard on the 4th of July. It’s become an excuse for just about everything these days and that means the impact of PTSD is being watered down. It’s the age old “Boy Who Cried Wolf” adage. So many veterans are coming back and pulling their “PTSD” cards that not only are other veterans starting to notice, but society at large is starting to catch on, and it’s starting to be taken less seriously than it should. To bring this to light isn’t “PTSD shaming”, a term I saw thrown about in the wake of the “fireworks sign” issue. My argument is how can you shame someone with a condition they’re blatantly faking? How do we know they’re faking? Because as anyone who’s SEEN real PTSD, who’s experienced REAL PTSD will tell you, the last thing you want is to be singled out. As I say, PTSD isn’t a conversation piece, it actually tries to kill you every day. Sure, there are those with PTSD that are more open with it , usually following extended treatment, and I absolutely commend them and their ability to confront their affliction. But, most of those suffering from PTSD aren’t able to leave their houses most days, don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to mention it. They don’t spend their days at the gun range and can’t even look at their shadow boxes because it brings about so many awful memories. PTSD is crippling in most cases. Those with it that aren’t being treated properly thru counseling and medication (be it pharmaceutical or self administration of cannibis) are barely able to function day to day, they’re not looking to “inspire dialogue” with their neighbors. 

We also don’t corner the market in PTSD. I have a very close friend, whom I hold in high esteem, who is a never-deployed member of the National Guard. She struggled with PTSD for a very long time. I’m sure you’re all out there shaking their heads assuming she’s faking it. But, she was raped during a stateside field op when she first joined and left for dead in the woods, being discovered when her unit conducted a search. This type of trauma causes PTSD, as do a myriad of other events in one’s life. However, we don’t see people wearing shirts saying “Car accident victim, please be courteous while operating motor vehicles.” They don’t act like assholes and pop off only to fall back on their “I have PTSD” excuse. 

PTSD has become a catch all for any type of issue a veteran may have. Veterans with generalized anxiety or depression don’t seem to be diagnosed as much as PTSD and I’m willing to bet the paycheck isn’t as substantial either.

This falls into factor number two: the isolation of being marginalized by society. 

All too often I hear veterans saying “this society these days, they don’t get us” or “no one understands me.” It’s hard to go from a close knit group with a common goal, common problems, and shared hardships, to a mundane life amongst a population where people think of themselves as individuals and conduct themselves as such. Upon discharge, you’re usually across the country from people that genuinely KNOW who you are.

The world shrinks for you. You have a hard time relating your experiences to your families and coworkers and would just rather not be around them. You internalize. Trust me, I've dealt with it a lot over the years and I get it. 

But there is also an external component to this equation.  Until recently I blamed society for the disconnect. I would rant and rave angrily about how America’s attention is drawn more by celebrity and professional athletes than those they send off to die for them. Society views veterans with a cautious pity (not everyone, mind you). Like I said in “Long Division”there’s a huge chasm between the veteran subculture and the society in which we reside. However, looking more closely at the matter, talking with our community, LISTENING to hundreds of fellow veterans, I’ve drawn an even more unpopular conclusion, and one that I’m sure will get me labeled “liberal”, “anti-veteran”, or any other buzzword they’ve copped from the media.

Photo by: Phil Diab 

We do it to ourselves.     #InB4GrifterHate

Look at your social media platform. We all have “that guy” on our feed. You know exactly who I’m talking about. He may have been in your unit, or may be an acquaintance. But, he is constantly posting angry ass shit. (I think we can all agree that we’ve all done that a time or two) He’s always beating his chest and talking about what a badass he is. Now, you know full well he was the police sergeant for your company. You know full well he was a sick-call ranger. You have it on good authority that he deployed to KAF in 2013 and due to a broken toe, spent most of his time at the boardwalk eating ice cream and having patches made. 

However, in the interest of “professional courtesy”, you don’t say shit. You roll your eyes, grit your teeth, and shake your head at this guys’ rants about American society. You watch him tell off anyone with an opinion that differs from his, usually beginning his retorts with "as a COMBAT veteran..." His “veteran outrage syndrome” is off the charts. You see him in “ISIS Hunter” t-shirts and jeans with his Bushmaster. But, it’s all good, right?

Now, I have no problem with POG’s, or even Fobbits for that matter. Great many POG’s have gotten me out of shitty situations with everything from lost equipment to paperwork. I’ve been cool with them and gotten to turn in weapons early, or gotten “the good radio” because of it. I’ve worked with many a professional POG that performed their job better and with more pride than a lot of hitters I worked with. And, I know that many fobbits and POGS have been blown to pieces for their country. So the POG v. Grunt/03/SOF/11b is getting to be pretty played out in this day and age. Chips on shoulders and dick-measuring is what it amounts to these days.

However, it’s when a veteran, regardless of experience, job title, billet, or MOS paints THE VETERAN COMMUNITY in a bad light that I begin to have a problem. I addressed this in “This Isn't A Circus, Don't Be A Clown".  When a veteran further perpetuates the stigma of “dysfunctional veteran” that is when we should take issue. If a guy comes back from deployment and wants to embellish and lie to his family, who cares?  If he wants to put 50 “Iraq Veteran” stickers on his Honda Civic, it’s ok. If a dude has pride in his service, that’s encouraged. However, it’s when that veteran starts faking an affliction in order to add credibility to his bullshit, that’s when we see a black eye on our community.

We had a thread over Freedom Weekend where a mother went high and right about our post regarding the fireworks signs. She stated that her son had PTSD and runs out of the house with a gun in hand when he hears fireworks. She went on to validate this behavior saying that he was a mortarman, watched his best friend commit suicide, was involved in a humvee accident, and had to kill a man while looking into his eyes. 

Now, I feel for this kid about his buddy and wrecking a humvee. That is shitty. But I’ll go ahead and call bullshit on that last bit. Even if it were true, why would you tell your mother this? That kinda shit is for you and your counselor, your buddies and that’s it. It’s not for a mother’s ears. I’m sure she’s already heartbroken enough that her son had to even deploy, leave it at that and save the stories for someone else. 

However, this brought to light an even more disturbing issue.  A lot of guys are returning with made up, fantastical stories told to wow their friends and families. Now, in order to add value to his tales, he has to act crazy because that’s what veterans in the movies do when they’ve been knee deep in the shit. I think this kind of behavior is more damaging to us than the clown shoe that has never served a day in his life and puts on a uniform to get a free meal at Applebee’s.

Too many veterans are taking their cues from Hollywood. Movies typecast veterans as ticking time bombs, crazed, damaged, and broken people who are ready to explode in a violent rage at the slightest provocation. No one ever makes a movie about the veteran entrepreneur helping other vets. No one ever talks about the innovations and assets veterans have provided to society. All anyone seems to be able to focus on is the “movie version” of veterans. 

So, in essence, veterans are treated as they’re portrayed in the movies because that’s how a lot of them think they need to act. As Mr. Blonde says, “it’s a self fulfilling prophecy”. However, it’s causing more damage to us as a whole than we seem to acknowledge. 

For example, an acquaintance of mine used to work HR at a national department store chain. She and I got into a discussion a few years ago about veterans issues. She brought up the point that she was being pressured by higher to put the resumes of veterans at the bottom of the pile or toss them completely. When I asked why, she told me how there’d been several instances of veterans going apeshit on customers and managers, even assaulting them in one case. She said corporate saw veterans as a potential liability to customer service. At the time, I blew up on her and vowed to single handedly bring down this national store.

Now, I kinda see their point. After hearing about veterans like “momma’s boy” above, can you blame them? If this guy can’t hear thunder or fireworks without running from his house ready to blast Terry, what makes anyone think he can handle a job at a department store? If a guy is wearing a shirt warning others of his “combat veteran” status and that he’s prone to outbursts and can’t have people stand behind him less than one arm’s distance, why would any savvy business owner want him interacting with the cusomter?

Bringing it all around, we have a huge suicide crisis that we are failing to adequately engage. This crisis is caused by factors that at some point we CAN get a handle on. Are we going to cure PTSD? No. Are we going to assimilate into society as a whole? Probably not. BUT, we CAN start policing our own and stop the stigma of damage that’s tied around the neck our community. We can certainly be the “second greatest” generation if we started carrying ourselves as such instead of acting like a parody of a “‘Nam vet” thats been so popular over the last several decades.

We can do better. We are capable of so much more. But there is a minority within our ranks spoiling the opportunity for the betterment of our community and ultimately we are responsible too. If wanting veterans to be seen as assets, not liabilities: if wanting those with real PTSD to get the help they need, if wanting to find our place in the world, is anti-veteran. I guess you can consider us anti-veteran…as fuck.

-Grifter

All In

By: Jimmy Stare 

 

“I was thinking about joining the community, you got any advice?”

I’ve been asked this question many times by young men who are looking for something more. This is just my opinion based on 14 years as an operator and six years as a pogue reporter.
 

Forget all pre-conceived notions of what to expect based on the “real” corps. The Suck has no idea what the community is about and it never will. The Suck believes that it is a special force already and there are many people in leadership positions who feel that the community is no longer needed. Those same people have been saying that stupid shit for half a century.
 

I do not care what you have been through before; you will be pushed past all breaking points you have ever experienced in your young life. Try to imagine what goes through the mind of a mouse right before a wide-eyed cat grabs it in its jaws and you can begin to imagine what is waiting for you.
 

Eventually, you will be brought to a moment in time where you will have to make a decision. Maybe it will be in freezing water, as you get pounded by six foot breakers and you don’t know how you are going to make it for three more hours or even three more minutes. Maybe it will be in a sweltering jungle, covered in tics and beyond exhaustion, as you try to re-adjust the hundred pound ruck on your back and wonder how you are going to make it four more clicks.
 

Possibly, the moment will come when your team is in a 360 during selection. You have been awake for days; you are starving and covered in poison oak. You don’t even know when it happened, but you fell asleep and you wake up to a CS grenade going off in your lap. As you choke awake in anger and terror, maybe then you will face that magic moment when you must decide if you are all in or not. Because the men you would like to walk amongst will not accept you unless you commit completely and they can always tell if you are not ready.  

You can quit if it is not for you, and you probably should, but I can guarantee you that you will regret it for the rest of your life. The reason is simple; there’s nothing like the brotherhood of true warriors. Going all in means no turning back to what you were before. It is the only way to make it through.

If you do make it through all the physical and mental anguish that awaits you, you will be shocked to discover that the real work is just beginning. The men who are waiting for you to arrive do not fit into normal society anymore and after a while you will not either. But, you are probably already fractured in some way. The community draws a special kind of distant, slightly off person into its ranks. To even consider joining, is to admit your own fascination with agony.

One day, if you stick around and you are not hated or ostracized by your peers for being a lifer, a motard or worse, you will learn what it means to speak without saying a word and achieve what others may only imagine. You will also discover what it feels like to walk around with the eye candy on your chest; what it feels like to walk into some poguey office and sense the way the energy in the room shifts into quiet deferment. You might even get to experience a few hot groupies.

You will create unbreakable bonds with men that will last your entire life. The kind of men who will drop whatever they are doing if you ask for help. They will give you their last dollar or the shirt off their back. You will learn what a brother really is and you will be blessed because of it. Most people in this world are lucky if they even have one true friend; you will know and trust more than a few.

You will come to understand what it means to serve something greater than yourself and what it means to be a warrior. You will learn how to do what needs to be done. But, you will not do it for the price of oil or the latest political rhetoric. You will not do it for mom, dad or Suzy’s pink panties. You will not even do what needs to be done for your country. You will do what needs to be done for the men to your left and right. You will even do it for the men you hate and I can assure you that you will discover a level of hatred in your soul that you did not realize existed before. But, all that wisdom will come with a steep price.
 

Whoever or whatever you love the most will be taken away from you the second you go all in, because there is always another job to do. There is always another patrol, another mission, another training scenario or another something that just has to be done right now and you and your brothers will do it because there are never enough bodies. Family, old friends and loved ones will all fade away. You will not want it that way, but that is how it will be. If you have kids, they will grow up in pictures in your wallet or on your phone.

Then, before you know it, years will have flown by and you will not be the same person anymore. Whoever you loved or cared for will still be the same, but you will not be able to talk to them. You probably will not be able to sleep either. You will also have a hyper-awareness and a keen mind that seems to spot everything all at once. That works great for the job, but it really screws up a trip to the mall. More than a few “normal” people will either be frightened, repulsed or fascinated by you.  

You will acquire a whole host of new addictions. If you already have some, those will be amplified. If you currently have some kind of girlfriend, wife, fiancé, etc., that you think you love, just get rid of her now. It is easier to do it early than to come home to an empty house years from now. Or, you come home from the last mission to discover what it means to be an Eskimo brother. For you, the kinds of women who are waiting for you after you go all in are strippers, sluts and whores. They are good in bed and fun to play with, but if you are foolish enough to fall for any of them, then you deserve everything you get. They are simply living fuck dolls; just a better version of masturbation. You do not get to love anything else but the community. Those nasty addictions and bad life choices will catch up to you quicker than you know.

The organization you are interested in also eats its young and crucifies its old. If you stick around long enough, you will eventually become the villain. If you can’t hang in body, mind and soul, you will get tossed aside. There is always another person just below you who is willing to step up and shove you out of the way. And, there will always be somebody with a little more rank or power than you, who just took over and they will be happy to tell you to lead, follow or get the fuck out of the way. That is the thing nobody tells you about working with real Alphas; they do not give a shit what you did; only what you are doing right now. You are only as good as your last mission.

No one will tell you, when you join, that your brothers will move on in one way or another as you continue to carry the weight. Some of them will drop their rucks and fade away one by one. Some of them will die. There doesn’t have to be a war on either; there’s always some festering wound of a place waiting for us to suffer in.  Brothers died doing the job long before 911.

When they die, some go willingly and some are almost surprised. Some cling to this Earth with every dying breath. No one knows how they will take it when their time comes; some of the biggest, baddest motherfuckers on this planet cry for their mothers and claw at the ground. And, some dudes, who barely weigh a buck fifty soaking wet, go down swinging like heavyweight champs. Nothing you have experienced before can prepare you for the darkness that will strangle you the day you lose one of your brothers. And you will never get used to hearing about another death.

All of them become framed pictures on a wall somewhere; men who will never again get to kiss their children goodnight or share good times with friends and loved ones. No one will tell you that those dead brothers can haunt you.

In time, if you stay, you will be surrounded by a sea of fresh faces and yet feel completely alone. They will be different men, but you will be reminded of long lost brothers you used to know. They will be young men who have some of the same mannerisms and quirks that your long lost brothers used to have. Some will even look just like old friends, and it will stop you in your tracks at times. The young guys will think you are some kind of creeper by the way you will be staring at them.

No one will tell you that you will watch new faces make the same old mistakes over and over. And, you will see how most of the ones in charge also make the same stupid mistakes that have been made many times before. You will discover that the men who carry the weight can only see what is in front of them and because of that, they know exactly what it takes to ruck up, but they can't see the big picture. And, the ones who can see the bigger picture are constantly dealing with endless stupidity from higher and because of that, they have forgotten what it takes to carry the weight.

You will know many men with huge “love me” walls and puffed out chests. They will tell grand stories and it will all sound so fucking awesome. But, no one will tell you the real heroes are broken old men with premature gray hair and shaking hands who stare through glazed eyes at crumpled pictures from an old cigar box. No one will tell you that if you stick around long enough, you won’t even recognize the very community you joined. If you ever find yourself in that situation, you need to remember it is a by-product of going all in. It is then that you will realize how much you love the community.
 

It's such a big kick in the balls to comprehend that you have to commit completely to the community to be accepted and once you are accepted, you can never leave. You are forever a part of it whether you like it or not. The problem is everybody has to leave eventually. Some leave like rock stars, some sneak out the back door and some go in disgrace.
 

I saw two types of men in the community. Those who came in right out of boot camp and those who came from some other unit, after doing a few years in The Suck. Each type of man lasted about 10 to 13 solid years of carrying the weight before they called it quits and moved on to some kind of B-billet, which was really just a place to catch a break and pretend like they did not quit. They always came back exhausted and lost; a little too pudgy, a little too far out of the loop.

I was no different; I was just honest about quitting. My cup was full and I was done. I did not want to spend endless hours suffering anymore. I no longer wanted to spend what little free time I had getting drunk in the Iso hooch and talking about tactics and gear. I just wanted to go home and fuck my wife and catch some waves. I wanted to be a father and a husband and I wanted to drive a mini-van and have a nice boring life. Most of all, I just wanted a break. Even though I knew it was time to move on, I still regret doing it to this day. That’s the price of going all in.
 

The last person I gave this advice to, about ten years ago, was a guy named Stan. He had a wife and young kids, but he assured me he understood what I was telling him. I saw a young man hungry for something more and even though he heard me, I knew he was not listening. A few years later I ran into him in one of my units. His marriage was faltering and he never saw his kids. He was frustrated with the leadership and his brothers. He hoped that the new batch of leaders, soon to arrive, would be different. I told him he sounded just like a community guy.

A few years after that, he got his leg blown off in the sandbox. His wife had left him and took the kids long before that. The Suck tossed him aside once he couldn’t carry a ruck anymore. He moved down south and I lost touch with him. I remember looking at his Facebook pictures before he disappeared and I saw an angry man who was old before his time; just like a community guy.

I used to tell young men to think a long time about what is waiting for them before they decided to join the community. But, I’ve learned that by the time they get to me, they have already made up their mind. Most of the time when a young man asks for advice, he is just looking for validation. None of them really want to hear the bad stuff. I understand that very well. I will leave you with some words of wisdom to burn into your soul as you begin your own journey down the rabbit hole. They are not my words; they were handed down to me by the men who trained me many years ago:

We the willing, led by the unknowing

Are doing the impossible

For the ungrateful

We have done so much

With so little

For so long

We are now qualified to do anything

With nothing

Never above you

Never below you

Always beside you

     The meaning of the word “grunt” has little wiggle room. You either are one, or you are not. Anybody who knows one will attest. . . a grunt’s distinction between grunt and non-grunt is a perceptual grand canyon. From my experience, the only time the term has become remotely close to foggy is when referencing Army and Marine Corps special operations. 03 at the front of the MOS is infantry, therefore of the grunt ilk.  The 11B status in the Army is the same, with upward mobility into various SOF components. I’ve been called grunt before. Something I’ve certainly never been ashamed of, but personally never felt that it was entirely true. I spent most of my time in Marine Recon. Although I worked with various infantry units in Iraq, I was never in an infantry battalion. I am pretty sure the Standard Issue G.R.U.N.T. would attest that I am not qualified for the title. The title that carries with it the ultimate, double-edged sword of honor and misery. In short, I was denied their specific sadomasochistic experience. Therefore, the following homage ultimately comes from an outsider’s perspective. To wit:

     Fort Story, Virginia, a lively night in the Amphibious Reconnaissance School student barracks. Everyone is packing and prepping for another pre-dawn ruck run, one that will ultimately demand a half-marathon’s distance. It will come quick. We aren’t going to get enough sleep, I think, as I watch my rack-mate pour Endurox into his camelback. As I lurch forward—making sure my obligatory sandbag is snug in the high, interior radio pouch of my Alice pack—I hear it.

     It is nothing new, really. Some quip about how elite we are, with some loose additive of being a priority in the eyes of the military. And the energy isn’t unwarranted; a 20 year old who is breaking his ass off, yet again, to go perform a job considered “high risk of capture,” some ego isn’t misplaced, and damn right—I am proud too.  A corpsmen, in the beginning of his own grueling pipe-line to become a SARC, perks up.  I love this guy, a total animal and who had already deployed with infantry units while some of us were somewhere between smoking pot out of a Coke can, listening to Lifehouse’s “hanging by a moment”, and yelling “yes sir” in our sleep from boot camp.

     “Grunts are always going to be the centerpiece, man. We are training our asses off to be another support role for them,” says Doc.

     A couple years later:

     From an elevated position I could make out the grunts—marching dutifully forward. . . looking about as big as ants, as I now remember it. Kids, most not old enough to legally by a beer, who, for whatever reason, ended up in one of the most grueling occupations in one of the bloodiest eras of the Iraq war. Kids who, through an indoctrination that borders on the religious, had joined immortal ranks and were no longer young Americans fond of Marines, but Marines themselves.  Senior enlisted, so hard and crusty they looked to be touching 50 by their mid-30s; glued together by Motrin and a form of hate and violence that can peel the paint off a wall. And Marine Infantry Officers, men who would write enthusiastic oorah books after retiring as a full-bird, or would get out and work for the CIA—or who would die that day, in Fallujah.

*****

     Ultimately, as missions dictated, the roles of support and main effort between grunts and spec ops flip-flopped. Discriminate direct action: the spec ops game, with grunts usually in support as cordon elements and/or trailers. When we were pulling surveillance and over-watch, we were supporting the grunts; spearheading some imminent, righteous violence.

     Doc that night in Ft. Story didn’t demean what we were doing—why the hell would he? After all, he was also taking a beating to advance in the community. What he did rather was explain the central mission of the infantry… and to never forget it.

     I for one never did, but it’s kind of hard. . . even if one wanted to. Ask an infantryman and they will gleefully remind you of their romantic placement in the annals of warfighting. But it has to be said—equally observable, however, is how they live to stick a figurative bayonet in the eye of anyone in proximity. This goes for all other military personnel, soon-to-doomed hipsters at the bar, or the uninitiated—the distant oglers, romancing some idea they have for the fightin’ man.

     I once watched three psychos march into a Lejeune PX with their arms interlocked like the Rockettes, ready to Can-Can. The freak out these guys caused, how they stormed into the place like banditos, or a pack of wild dogs. Their 0311 tattoos could be seen on their intertwined arms, pushing some artificial sexual limit to the point of PDA. Or the time I watched in stunned admiration as a grunt road-march burst through an uber-POG formation-run. The sun bleached Cammies, caked in sweat. Tattoos, middle fingers and mortar plates. . . they personified Warrior, and War. 

     All too often these days the laymen (AKA the consumer) sees the wars of Iraq and Afghanistan were fought efficiently and smartly by the Hollywood names. The SEALS and the other silver screen figures, contrasted against the mediocre “rest”. . . akin to the savvy detective against the backdrop of the mouth-breathing, near-useless street cop. It’s a shame it gets portrayed this way. Makes for a Primetime script, full of the subplot and hero worship that sells the tickets and renews the advertisement.  But those of us who live(d) it know the truth. . .its large numbers of like-minded shooters that ultimately won the day. . . and will win the day again; existent in the grunts as much as special operations. It is the individual, hard-as-nails combatant that forms the lethal, collective body. Or simply, as Kipling wrote—the strength of the pack is the wolf.

—Mr. Blonde

     There's a thorn in the side of most who ever pulled a trigger for Uncle Sam: a specific type of self-proclaimed "military fan."  You know the ones. . . quick to whip out some quote about men and war; smiling quaint, as if admiring a kindergartener’s achievements in basic math? Those ones. Oh how they gloss over the icky parts, and Oh how they sit content in the rosy patches within the idea. Take the beaten-to-death quote by Orwell, for instance, with his iconic reference to “rough men.”

     Okay, fair enough. The final image is crystal clear; a soldier kills a bad guy so a citizen the soldier protects can live peacefully. Honorable. True in numerous cases throughout history—but linger a moment longer and a disconnect can be observed. What genuinely makes this protector “rough” is rarely examined. Why the disinterest? If, after all, rough men are allowing them to lap up their freedom (and comfort), isn't it reasonable they'd at least be curious who these rough men are, and wouldn't seeing what "rough" is be a good place to start? 

     Now I wouldn’t care or even pose the question if we lived in a society that was blatantly turned off by the roughness. If that were the case, a reasonable answer would be, “they don’t want to think about what makes one rough, it makes them squeamish, uneasy, and even terrified.” But the reality of the situation makes that answer an immediate fiction. The American citizenry—from a safe distance—is utterly obsessed with the roughness. Various muddy races marketed as some step toward warriorhood, SF beards and "Infidel" T-shirts at the CrossFit box, tattoos. . . #OMG the tattoos, a veteran mechanic holds a big rifle with baby-polished arms and the people jump from their peaceful beds to salivate and claw at the image. 

     So it will be out there, and for the permanent record. . . lets take a brief, honest tour of the real roughness; not the approved for television version. The following may shock some to the core, whereas others will undoubtedly cry out a grateful "finally, someone fucking said it!"

     Rough men may use profane language (often in public), and don’t give damn if you think their joke is sexist or racist. . . or that you're offended. They train for months. . . sometimes years, with the high hopes of blowing another man’s head clean off his shoulders. . . rough men are not forced to do it. . . some really, really want to do it. Rough men may hide the GoPro in their pile of dirty laundry, to of course later show the other rough men their righteous sexual conquests. Rough men may have run-ins with the law, puke on your lawn, punch-out your shit-talking boyfriend (or girlfriend, for that matter), and damn sure not toss and turn every time they hurt someone else’s mind, body, or spirit.

     And guess what . . . . . . They still do the heroic shit!

Look to this immortalized quote:

     Although ol' El was specifically referring to Marines, this is not limited to the Marine Corps whatsoever. This speaks equally of the brother gunslingers and smoke-poppers who went to the other recruiting offices in that strip mall.

     The bottom line is this; the distant on-lookers, and occasionally sloppy imitators, don’t really want to know what rough means - at all. But this demographic is only one side of the coin.

     On the other side things are equally hilarious. The lion’s share of the US population simply can’t relate to its warrior class. It is now common place for well-intentioned souls to immediately thank a service member (active or veteran) with that lemon-sucked look of sheer pity. What horrors we must have gone through! How awful it must be for us to see Iraq in its current state of chaos! You soldier = you victim. My ears pick it up often, as if torturing me to hear yet again that my generation, my warrior class, isn't truly seen as fierce practitioners, or for fucks sake. . . even "tough". Rather we are broken. . . haunted by the things we saw, the things we did, the things we . . . had to do.

     Before I roll out my old kit and take to the street, I must include the following; there is possibly a benign explanation for all of this, although it is arguably just as frustrating. The current American populace knows little about the history of American warfare. Don’t even ask a random sidewalk-walker a question about WWI. Korea? Wait, we were in Iraq in the '90s? The only two they're connected with on any aggregate cultural level are WWII and Vietnam (mainly due to the entertainment industries decades-spanning presentation of these wars). Both wars are extremely important in the explanation for current sentiments regarding GWOT veterans.

     WWII was a bona fide triumph, a government was defeated, our nation prospered—basking in post-war ambiance, and there was no doubt that the WWII veteran served for a higher, noble purpose. Fast forward a few decades and the national honey moon has been impaled by a punji stick. Vietnam; riddled with political push/pull factors, obscurity of objective, and ultimately—the notorious reputation of the crazed veteran emerged. The suicidal, booze-fueled, PTSD maniac—lost in his own world, scarred from a pointless war.

     Which of these two wars do you think the GWOT aligns with more—especially in the eyes of the portion of our civilian population that has never heard of Kyle Lamb, or of Restrepo, or of the Triangle of Death ?

     We are the new Vietnam veterans. . . at least in the eyes of the Cross-fitting Infidels and the lemon-suckers sleeping peacefully in their beds. Yet, where our fathers in this twisted chain dealt with open hostility, the slings and arrows we dodge, or suffer, are the lethal combination of utter indifference, and a form of pity inspired by rampant cultural surges demanding one to be politically correct.

*****

     Every war shares one universal jewel; the courage of men performing in combat. It is the most horrific and chaotic thing a person can encounter, and from it comes possibly the highest virtues there are to know. Past this lone jewel, however, the GWOT only has one detail worth writing about. No, not the WMDs, or the dubious democratic elections—but an explanation for the fact that for over a decade an all-volunteer military populated two simultaneous wars. Why this small portion of US citizens chose to go to war, many of whom did so several times—is the only real attractive feature to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The history books may or may not say it, but it is said here.

     And there is an explanation,  arc welded on the faces and sleeves of the rough men. War is the antithesis of the modern American sentiment; wailing out over the paper cuts and high-tailing it the other direction. We come from a nation of pussies, and by the American standard, it was a window into a vanquished world. The world of our grandfather’s war, the world we grew up reading about—ogling over on the silver screen, as men with blue faces and green kilts bludgeoned and slashed—and the world which our contemporary institutions have gone to every length to blot out. In war, there is no 10th place trophy, no room for how offended you are by one’s crude humor, in war the person you are means everything—and the person you appear to be, or the class you came from, melts away the moment you are asked to prove yourself to your brothers, in whatever dire form that takes.

—Mr.Blonde

6:00 A.M., on a drive up Highway 1, just South of Santa Barbara; the world rested in a peaceful calm.  I had the driver’s side window down and my elbow resting on the frame.  The cool sea breeze washed into the white Impala, filling the car with the smells of the ocean and the taste of salty, crisp air.  The sun had yet to crest over the peaks of the mountains to my right, which colored the Pacific and the sky in a blue hue, like blue-dish-soap.  The oilrigs emerging out of the water glowed with lights indistinguishable from the stars still visible in the dawn sky, giving the horizon a modern romanticism.  I fell into that moment of serenity and regarded an empty seat where my ex-wife - my best friend – once sat.  I wished she could enjoy that view with me.  I envisaged her curling both of her legs on the seat as only women can do.  She rested her head in her hand, supported by her elbow against the open window.  I saw her hair being gathered by the wind and tossed about in large strands that had been gummed together by the previous day of salt-water and sun.  And in an instant of serendipitous fortune, as if in a semi-lucid dream where consciousness and fantasies converged, a song* streamed out of the speakers and pulled me further, deeper into my imagination.  The rhythm of the song and the world harmonized perfectly:  the waves - the wind - the cars speeding by, strummed in tune with the vocals.  I knew - I knew! - she would love that song, that moment. Her body swayed to the beat and then paused when she caught me watching her, mesmerized. She closed her eyes and a peaceful smile dimpled her cheek. She recognized what I saw and what I felt.  The infinitesimal smile creasing her lips transformed into something that only a deep love gleams.  A smile that said, “pull the car over and kiss me - now.  No, wait, screw it - kiss me now!”

I blinked to behold the seat still vacant. A metaphor no less, of my heart, and one typified by the tears slipping down my cheeks.

The moment stilled time.  It caused a painful self-reflection that I needed but did not want.  I just kept repeating the same question: “Where did I screw it all up?”

I had what every man envied, a wife that made life meaningful.  Beautiful.  Caring.  Funny.  Since the day she first caught my eye, I thought of her constantly - I still do. I could laugh with her over anything.  Her smile could crush me and heal me in the same instant.  We made fun of each other and told one another things no transitory couple would (or could).  She did anything for me without even a question.  She was – she is - a rockstar.

The memories are the worst. I once bought her the “ridged for her pleasure” condoms so that she could have as much fun as I planned to have on our first time together.  I found out years later that it felt like crocodile skin.  We had a good laugh about it, but what stood out was she said nothing about her discomfort.  She wanted to make me feel like a gladiator, her gladiator. I still cringe and pound the ceiling of my car when I think of how stupid I must have looked.  Once while I was in New York, on another business trip, she also called me screaming in pain, reeling from the miscarriage her body had induced.  I had never felt so helpless before.  All night I waited on my knees, holding my heart, wishing I had said no to work and yes to her.  I wanted - I needed to stand by her side - to tell the nurse checking us in, "I'm her husband" - and to hold her hand while they worked on her.  Instead, she went alone.  I label that memory: "the final straw."

Veterans, especially the combat types, live in a world of success and failure that only a small percentage of civilians will ever understand.  Failure on anything crushes us.  So to prevent failure we push ourselves at a level that often produces great success.   Many times though, we fall victim to the law of diminishing returns. All excuses aside, I believe this explains much of my failed marriage.  Since the beginning of my career, just before I slipped on the ring, I traded important and needed time with my girl for office tasks.  And once hitched, I barely changed, chocking the pain of separation to early marriage issues and business requirements.  The early days were tough. Our first bed had to be blown up and our first TV stand resembled something close to a blue milk crate.  We were poorer than bluestocking British writers.  But looking back, it was a wonderful time, and the difficulty brought us closer together.

Most veterans reading this know what I’m saying.  They identify with the urge, the need to please “the self” through personal success.  It’s about getting the t-shirt and attaining the achievement that will qualify your position in the world.  But as I write this, I recall how numb my fingers were as I scratched my signature on the divorce papers.   With each stroke of the pen, I cursed myself.  If only I had said no to work more and yes to dinner at the dinner table - to that date night - to that talk - to that kiss before leaving on another trip.  For me, that internal drive that earned me Sergeant in four years and a hand made paddle, replaced her needs and her wants.  I only understood the drive within me.  This, in my opinion, is an unseen, and often unrecognized, cost of years in the military.

 Veterans can have a difficult time being loving and emotional.  When you know what a 155 mm shell does to a vehicle and a human body, it can be hard to relate to someone who has never witnessed such a thing. Feelings are hard to translate when you still remember the face of your fallen friend staring at you with his tongue resting on the dust; only the dead do that.  How would she understand?  So at times, it’s even harder to remember the one person in your life that forgave so much of you and did everything in her power to be there and take care of you during your hardest days.

I tend to think, “if only I was a better husband and a poorer worker, then maybe she would have continued to see me as she did when we first met.”  But that is all water under the bridge.  It was a mutual break. 

Now life moves a little slower.

When you’re single, everything is unhinged and the unknown is exciting. I find myself doing things that I never thought I would after saying, “I do.”  Now, I lock eyes with women wherever I go.  I randomly talk to them in a fleeting hope of something more.  I even found myself ambitiously clicking “confirm purchase” on a bulk size box of condoms in shameful anticipation of things to come.

At first, the possibilities seemed endless.  To be unshackled and not held down by someone for whom I cared deeply, felt liberating.  For a guy that travels internationally, being solo is a freedom you can’t imagine.  But that’s a young man’s mentality that reflects the pettiness that tends to be personified by provisional conquests, not by real choices.  As young men, we are identified not by the decisions we make, but by the poor ones made by optimistic women.  I don’t want to live like that.

I, having been both married and unmarried, now know that the grass is always greener on the other side.  To every married man, the single life appears wonderful. I can feel their stares as they watch me.  They resemble prepubescent boys picking their way through a tattered porn magazine. They ask questions like I was the first one in class to touch a girl’s boob.  Because let’s face it, guys miss the sex and the lack of variety.  But if those same married men were honest with themselves, they would not give up their best friend for a fleeting interest. Would you give up a friend to get laid?  I doubt it.

The Marines imbued me with many skills during my time there.  It directed my mind to accomplish the mission and to never quit.  To the contrary though, the Marines also numbed my mind to some important emotional facets of life.  The same way I stepped over my friend so I could continue to clear the room, so too, I took for granted my former wife, I just kept moving and focused on the next objective.  That drive, that created so much success, also blinded me to my most important entity, her.

Work, money, and success are very important, but they are worthless if you are not willing to live poor with your highest value, whatever that may be.  And it may be work.  Who knows?  But to have one without the other counts as a loss, and that loss will continue to be a hole in your life, as I have found it to be in mine.  I guarantee you one thing, even if you slow down just a little bit, you will still be much farther ahead of your colleagues.  But you will be happier.  It’s worth it.  I promise.

After I finished that drive up the coast, I arrived at work and my mind was awash with regret.   I regretted missing all of those birthdays, Christmases, and “sick days.”  I can’t get those choices back, and I probably will never be able to fix what I have done.  That is the hardest part I think.   Because my job won’t be there for me when I’m sick, when my parents pass away, and it won’t hold me in bed – scratching my shoulder so she knows, that I know, she is still there.

            So choose her, guys.  Choose what you have waiting for YOU at home over that extra hour in the office.  Lose the smartphone for while and focus on her.  The job can wait.  Life is too short to spend it slaving away all the time.  Do you not remember how quickly it can be snuffed out?  Never forget that!  Her wellbeing and happiness is worth that extra moment of letting your guard down - that extra sweep of your fingers through her hair - that extra kiss that says, “you first, but now I must go to work.”

-M.E.

Note: This article is the first of a three-part series; spanning the next three days. The second article will be published on August 20th, and the final article will published on August 21st. 

“On one level, Americans are too distant from the Middle East, too naive to understand its complexities and history. On another, it's the people who show up in Washington-Iranian and Arab exiles nursing a grudge, with time on their hands and money to pay for a hotel-who influence U.S. policy by default. They color Washington's view of the world, drawing us into foreign adventures we have no business being in.”

—Robert Baer

     The US State Department (DoS) is heavily populated by a. . . what I like to call. . . self-perceived, New American Royalty. Why are they called such? Because, despite an oblivious nature towards credible threats and with almost zero knowledge of the regions they visit, they expect to be treated as elites, and demand respect (unsuccessfully)—when none, of course, is actually due. Moreover, they are the furthest thing from cultural experts, yet fancy themselves to be exactly that. How do I know this? This was witnessed firsthand through years of working on PSD teams in both Iraq and Afghanistan with the most notorious private military contracting company in history.  Out of all the geographic footprints, I must say, "diplomacy" in Kabul, Afghanistan  left me the most amazed.

     Now enjoying my well-earned ex-military/ex-contractor freedom, soaking in the luxuries of the good ol’ US of A, I am compelled to impart these fucking absurd stories of US diplomacy. I hope you enjoy this peek into the window of personal protective details, three-piece suits and Ivy leaguers convinced they were changing the world one sip of chai at a time, whilst avoiding having to look a single Taliban fighter in the eye, or even worse—a Blackwater “mercenary.”

     And onto it:

     State Department personnel seemed wide-eyed and oozing with a misplaced fondness for cultures that delighted in killing people in the cruelest of ways; often for unforgivable offenses like being a woman and learning to read. Yet, at the same time, these DoS personnel had a repulsion toward guns,  which were ironically the tools of the one trade that prevented them from ending up in an orange jumpsuit on Al Jazeera.  This repulsion often created stories of both disgust and hilarity. Tales from instructors back in the States told of mandatory firearms training that resulted in some colorful moments. Moments such as someone breaking down crying when they had to hold a pistol. . . or closing their eyes, then emptying their magazine toward the vague direction of the target. . .  or rudely casting their weapon aside, into the dirt; shaken and in full disdain that their delicate hands had touched such a weapon of minimal destruction.

     Meanwhile in Kabul, “Credible reports are coming in from the TOC that the Haqqani Network, operating in the Kabul area are specifically targeting Department of State motorcades tomorrow with the intent of using white KIA/Tuk Tuk/Motorcycle VBIED's to engage with DoS motorcades in conjunction with follow on attacks of RPG and RPK small arms fire. There is also credible local source intelligence(sic) using suicide bombers in burkas as a cover to gain proximity to diplomatic personnel or place magnetic IED's on diplomatic vehicles.”

     Speaketh the new American royalty, “Yes, but it is crucial that we go to the Agricultural Fair to show our presence praising the progress this country has made at growing watermelons.”

     Progress is such a cute word when describing such a place in which you are surrounded with examples of abysmal political and economic decay. This was especially confirmed when we would roll by Afghany Professor X anytime we left the Embassy in one particular direction. This little gem of the country's incredible gene pool was a beggar who crawled around on a what appeared to be a mechanics cart with his legs folded up to his shoulders, and propelled himself with a flop in his hand, presumably trying to read people’s minds or place thoughts of donations into their heads. Everyone saw him on a daily basis, and out of pity from every gushing American, British, NATO alliance person around they had attempted to donate a wheel chair to him on several occasions, only to have him routinely sell it off to add to his mounting cash pile of money back in his troll cave. 

     Kabul was not the most dangerous place in Afghanistan, and to be clear every region had its highs and lows as far as threat level depending on how spastic the locals decided to be. But it had its moments. It had a caustic haze of smog that was so thick you would mistake it for fog. This usually stemmed from the 900K leaded fuel shitbox cars, the multitude of open sewers that actually had instituted the creation of a daily “fecal count” for embassy personnel operating out in town, or the simple fact that the ‘Ghans would burn anything in sight.

     There was a feeling of being contaminated by it because the unctuous smell would permeate everything. No matter which seat you chose in the Land Cruiser you would see a constantly dusty—yet moist—dirty, garbage-strewn, post-apocalyptic scene of crusty people and sickly farm animals going about their lives in an insect fashion, ordered, but not ordered in the manner that we are accustomed to seeing in more developed countries. It’s if as the city was infected with humans, something that the organism tried to slough off and failed, succumbing to the infestation, died, and now, like illiterate maggots, these people existed in its carcass. And this, of course, was the more established part of Afghanistan.

     There were times when I would glance back in the rear view mirror, out of curiosity, wanting to see how the New American Royalty was visually absorbing these scenes of human decay from a civilization barely out of the Middle Ages. Only to unsurprisingly find them, face down, obliviously captivated by their Blackberry or Embassy-issued phone of choice. They would usually be texting about some party they would later attend back at the Embassy, unaware of the man exiting the Kabul river bank, post bowel movement, in broad daylight, and “cleaning” his hand with his now fetid beard.

     For whatever reason, despite willfully ignoring the nausea of Kabul stimuli, they so desperately exclaimed the nobilities of that deplorable society. This notion initially instilled by their professors, no doubt suffering from Theomania whist being insulated in their fragile little bubble of academia. Their incredible willingness to place themselves, and us, in the most absurdly dangerous situations for the dumbest of reasons, combined with their need to dismiss every credible intelligence with a sort of cavalier aplomb. . . well, it was jaw dropping.

     It is ironic because we, the knuckle-dragging gunslingers most of them adamantly despised,  relished the opportunity to engage, shoot and kill anything that threatened the safety of our team and the principal with an exhilarating pleasure that only justified violence can provide.  Everyone on the team was an experienced veteran: ex SOF military unit member from assorted groups you may recognize as Army Rangers, Marine Recon, the SEAL's, SF, PJ's and other alphabet soup acronyms of badasserey, or maybe some hardened back-to-back-to-back deployed grunt with a propensity for belt-fed weapons.

     It was just the wildly ridiculous manner in which those who possessed zero tactical experience or knowledge, would impose their farcical opinions on exactly how we should carry out the mission. This in turn would only make things exponentially more dangerous.

     One glaring example always sticks out: 

     Intel had just said an attack would be highly probable, based on the cell phone chatter of radical militant groups. We. . . in an obvious American Embassy vehicle, overtly crawling along at a snail’s pace looking like something important and worthy of blowing up. . . advise the principal, and get ready to make way onto our secondary route. 

     "Just take Jalalabad road, " from the backseat. J-bad was red, of course they would want to take it.

     So, with smiles on the faces of every American in the SUV aware of the risk, and not afraid of a gunfight. . . My Lord Marquees of Political Science from Stanford, sure—we will take fucking Jalalabad road… 

Note: this article is the second of a three-part series.  The first article has been published, and the final article will be published August 21st.

     Alas, our red route was clear and no kills could be earned amidst the smoke and haze and funk that was Kabul. My attention then, unfortunately turned back to the New American Royalty, now demanding some other near-sighted idiocy.

     In truth, DoS personnel were like oblivious hormonal teenagers in a stereotypical, summer horror film. Myopic and effusive, unable to possess any semblance of a survival skill when faced with overt danger. The route every intel source is screaming not to go down, you say? Oh well in that case, right this way my naive, doe-eyed detail of cultural affairs experts. If you will just follow me downstairs in the dark to the ominously cold and damp basement reeking of the sickly sweet smell of death, you may enjoy your Embassy planned luncheon with Leatherface as he gives you a tour of his prized Husqvarna chainsaws.  

     But I digress...

     The reigning crown prince of this twitterpated diplomacy in Afghanistan, at the time, was Ambassador Karl Eikenberry. He was jokingly referred to as “Karl” or simply “Monday” because well, nobody likes a goddamn Monday.

      In a grey suit and bearing a square face, compared to the local populace he was a towering individual. His head, well. . .  it was as if a sculptor started out with a molded head made of clay then accidentally dropped it on the floor; compressing the neck, squinting the eyes, and pursing the lips. He was always swarmed by his sycophantic court of note-taking strap-hangers, barely keeping pace while furiously texting Embassy business on their Embassy issued—and Embassy routed through Iran, roshan mobile Blackberry's—wheezing and sweating under their poorly fit, encumbering body armor in the heat of the day. Karl had a long, lumbering yet fast gate, humorously reminding me of an Ent from Lord of The Rings. Ol' Karl refused to wear armor, “it sets our mission back for them to see me in armor, besides no one is trying to hurt me.” he said numerous times before mission in a smooth pompous tone.

     Karl routinely ignored the threat reports just like everyone else, but in a bizarre swing of the pendulum he delighted in taking an unplanned stop to walk around aimlessly, dry humping the sights and “atmospherics” of an area whose favorite national pastime is cultivating suicide bombers and VBIED's.

     We would pass by a fruit stand and like some hyperactive child he would tug repeatedly at the locked door handle of the still moving LC trying to get out so he could peruse some cholera-flavored watermelon or potatoes, deliciously bathed with some gut-wrenching parasite. He was obsessed with produce in his favorite third-world home away from home, and after an impromptu limo stop to peruse some e-coli riddled squash, he would drone on about how it was all a sign that Afghanistan was turning around.

     He should have been an imposing figure, but he wasn't. The furthest thing from intimidating by his own design. He had a very focused and deliberate intent of being accessible and friendly to every local Afghan. His lack of body armor was no doubt replaced by a bulletproof, IED-defeating sense of accomplishment. After all, he was an ambassador of good will and smiles from America.

     These moronic stops would, without fail, be in an area that we would have reports of routine threats against us, and during the middle of the day, when traffic was at its worst; making any evacuation a serious issue, and certainly guaranteeing civilian casualties, should contact break out. A fact also completely oblivious to him. One must realize, and those who are paying attention in this very violent country do, that the Afghans acknowledge strength and intimidation. This is a holdover from being invaded by every major power with a military since Alexander the Great. So unbeknownst to Karl, or anyone else in his diplomatic retinue from the Embassy, being intimidating is viewed as a strength and is regarded with respect, whereas smiles and capitulation is quite laughable to denizens of Afghanistan. The bigger, meaner dog rules, as per ancient SOP.

     Karl was a consistently-inconsistent war tourist who would routinely venture into the worst regions to show that “Suhfeer American” was there to save the day. While on the surface it appeared to be acts of bravery, it reeked more of ego due to his disregard of credible warnings from people with extensive combat experience and time in country. People far more capable than him at operating and living in the region outside of the illusion of safety that the embassy provided. Karl would severely castigate subordinates if they painted the country in any light other than favorable; therefore threat assessments would be manufactured by people with a flowery wash.

     All of these aforementioned characteristics, all of them, seemed to have culminated during one specific event.

     A mission to a location along the Pakistani border, previously shot down by High Threat (and rightfully so) for being too risky to send the top US Ambassador into the area, was finally granted.

     In Karl-esque overtones, the SITREP presented to us prior to the flyaway showed the danger level in the area along the border was less than zero—which was absurd. Anyone who had been paying attention to the news, or had paid a visit to the TOC to check out the region along the Paki border, could see that the area was far from sunshine and daisies.

     We stepped off from the aging soviet Mi8 HIP in Nuristan to meet the advance party. We escorted Karl and his bright-red-scarf-wearing, sniper bait of a wife and their assorted groupies and fluffers to the security/intel briefing on the FOB. Our diplomatic mission of the day was to survey a farm, a school, and attend a ribbon cutting ceremony of some random Afghan building. Clearly, a mission of the highest priority. Major General Hood was in attendance and was visually perturbed at our field trip to the border. A tall and stoic man,  yet jovial in demeanor, he fit the rank of “General.” He commanded respect, the kind of respect that was through action, not words. He appreciated our efforts for trying to manage, and somehow protect this goat rodeo that was taking place.

     Talking with one of the Army Infantry Sergeants stationed there, we learned of a failed attack by the Taliban just a few weeks prior to our arrival on the 4th of July. A salty Navy JSOC Chief doing some intel-based role, had stopped to inquire as to exactly what we were doing there and exactly when we would be leaving. He had received information from his local sources, along with SIGINT and Satellite feeds, that the Taliban noticed our helicopter landing and decided to mobilize roughly 60 fighters to conduct an attack on the base around noon. Specifically he said, because we were there. Specifically, because word had gotten around that the US Ambassador would be arriving.

All but apparently Karl could feel it, something was about to happen....

Note: This is the final article of a three-part series. The first was published August 19th, and second was published on the 20th.

     After all the information had been briefed to Karl, he deemed  “the risks were not associated with me”, and that he was determined to see the farm, see the children’s school, and attend the ribbon cutting ceremony. The location was surprisingly a far more picturesque scene than the derelict junktown of Kabul. Imposing tall mountains, scattered with green foliage and what appeared to be clean air. A refreshing departure from the malodorous lead, cadmium and mercury-laced atmosphere, with that 30% splash of fecal matter. Our motorcade had grown significantly in size with Army MRAP's and the accompaniment of ANA troops. These local attachments were one of the conditions set forth by the base commander for us to depart on this mission.   

     Karl hated any US military/PMC presence , or their accompanying weaponry, and would always make the comment “this sets our mission back by the Afghans seeing your guns, this sets the mission back.” This did not apply if it was Afghan; then he was perfectly fine with it, and would happily smile and wave as a kid would at a trucker trying to get him to toot his horn. But although his fondness for armed Afghans was endearing and strong, on this day—Karl was dismayed. Scores of ANA troops; AK-47s slung to them. . . or haphazardly carrying it by the barrel. . . or by the handle with their fingers gingerly toying with the trigger and flagging everyone around them, along with the belt-fed RPKs, and the soviet success .50 caliber “Dishka”, or “Shitty-Cal”, on top of their vehicles.

     Karl no understood irony. This was a bitter pill to swallow, vastly different from his originally proposed idea—him and his unfortunate RSO leading the motorcade in a green, FOB only... John Deere Gator.

     The first venue was the farm about 1 kilometer outside the FOB. Small plant-green houses, little patches of vegetables and a small, typical Afghan, concrete structure. A mortar unit back at the FOB was firing on a hill adjacent to us in a display of force for the would-be attackers. Done, and without a hitch, we moved on to the next event.

     The second venue was the school house roughly a half-kilometer away from the farm. The MRAP's had “wagon wheeled” around the school and afforded more cover and fire support with their mounted M2 .50 cals. The ANA punched out a few yards to provide more bait—I mean dispersion. Inside the schoolyard were several Afghan children, very excited about the big procession and Americans there to see their school; eager to show off their backpacks or say the few words of English they knew.

     It was here when the Taliban attack kicked off.

     From the opposite direction,  a series of RPG's and small arms fire blasted on the point of our convoy which was the ANA support. They were immediately engaged. We were actually in a good area, oddly enough, because schools in Afghanistan usually had a concrete wall surrounding them, and the inner building that we were in was solid concrete as well. This was inconvenient for the screaming orphan children who had to evacuate while all of this was going on, but luckily we had a decent-sized contingent of US Army with us who managed to get them out of harm’s way.

     Like a frightened horse, Karl bolts from our protective circle at the sound of the small arms fire and incoming mortars; pushing one of our detail members aside and almost knocking over his equally frightened wife. This would have been an issue if he had not lost his footing in those expensive penny loafers, face-planting onto the concrete slab below. We recovered and hard-pointed Karl in a safe spot immediately. We had a remote monitor that we used to notify everyone important in DC, the Embassy and our base of the attack and of course the radios began to bark requests of SITREPs from the TOC inquiring about what was going on with increasing urgency.

     With the Ambo secured inside a hard point with immediate guards in the school, the rest of us, along with our advance team, were outside; excited at possibly engaging with the Taliban. The excitement was stifled by the obvious fact that our M4's were out of range and the MRAP's had full long range coverage with their M2's and, well . . . the ANA were soaking up all of the assault. Plus we couldn’t directly see the enemy who had decent cover in the mountain side to launch this attack. Just ricochets, small explosions and errant RPG's flying from the ANA's position. So sad frowny faces for everyone.

     “I fucking told him! I fucking told him! Fine, Sergeant get up here with comms!” yelled General Hood, standing outside with us, furious and cursing. Close air support arrived quickly. Two F-16's scattering the assault while another sergeant ran a fire mission from the mortar teams back on base. It is impressive to see a military General such as Hood, unafraid, standing side-by-side with us during this side-show circus of a hearts and minds, and taking the effective action given.

     During the lull we evacuated everyone into the MRAP's and proceeded back to the FOB, the occasional gun fire broke out, but sporadic and short-lived. Inside we were laughing at the absurdity of it all when the interrogative statement passed on from Karl broke all levity. Would we be proceeding to the third venue, which was past the point of our attack, to the ribbon cutting ceremony? The advance shift leader let out a groan and buried his head in his hands while we quizzically looked at each other, wondering if this was actually happening. Then—erupted in laughter. No. Karl. No. No. We will not be proceeding to the next venue you will be going back to the Embassy, Karl.

     Back on the FOB, during the AAR meeting, Karl was petulantly vexed that he couldn’t proceed to the third venue. This nearly caused a career-ending altercation from a rightfully-irate Army lieutenant. This officer had to deal with two wounded soldiers and seven dead ANA. Karl would have been done for, for sure, if it had not been for our guys and members of the lieutenant’s own staff wrestling him to the ground.

*****

     This oblivious blundering in combat zones by DoS officials was typical, and was certainly not exhibited only by the Ambassador. It was almost a rule. Routine. Expected. Yet there was always this misplaced sense of accomplishment after the mission with them, but nothing of lasting quality was accomplished, nor will anything substantial be accomplished over there. It's not that they were wrong for wanting to help, it's that they wanted to do “something” only so that they could say “Oh look what I did. Look how charitable I am” with no concern about actions being ineffective or worse yet, harmful. It's a very brief hazardous duty posting to list on their resume that will provide them with memories of fun times at NGO bars and mingling with foreign indigenous peoples, occasionally doing something that had the air of diplomacy. Democracy in that complex tribal system is a joke and a farce, just ask the average Afghan what he thinks about the voting process.

     It's as if the power generators there run on bribes. The US has made the same mistake it made in Vietnam and Iraq and in Afghanistan. Corrupting every official from top to bottom with its munificence; foolishly assuming that money will just solve all the world’s problems and they will simply roll over and adopt American democracy. . . and that they will love us for it. However you cannot buy an Afghans loyalty, only rent it, and they know that all they have to do is wait us out until another US election and there will be a new money faucet. They also know that the American public will get tired of hearing about Afghanistan or Iraq. They will yawn laboriously whilst sipping their mocha latte at the mall, dizzy from the diabetic inducing glucose rush of caramel whipped non-fat creamer, and recovering from the onslaught of some Labor Day Weekend sale-a-thon. The caffeine will eventually kick in and they will take to social media to proselytize their outrage over the vicarious violence “over there.” The social buzz, which in numbers, will effect rabid vote-hoarding politicians, which in turn will affect congressional policy... and we will leave.

     This of course will result in that failed state eating itself while it circles the drain. As if the handshakes, cheek-kissing and let's not forget, the massive sums of American dollars that were passed off with a complete lack of accountability, along with the appalling loss of American life; was really going to make a concerted effort towards building a better third world war-zone. As if that money was really going to be put into building a school for orphans, not funding the supposed Minister of Education and his immediate family an all-expense paid trip to Dubai. Even Butterfingers Karzai had an inability to keep track of triple digit million dollar brief cases; funding his local, rolling clown-show private army, making backdoor deals with radical militants and local drug warlords. He would operate with impunity and no one at the Embassy, none of them, would hold him accountable for it. But we will have drunken parties back at the embassy congratulating each other on a job well done.

- Thulsa

     Just in case you were under a rock the past couple of weeks; two women have graduated from Ranger School. Unsurprisingly perhaps, with this significant event has come a renewed energy regarding the fundamental debate underlying all the praise, scorn, speculation, and sheer noise—women in ground combat jobs.

      It is a bad idea. 

     Not everyone who feels this way speaks out about it.  From active-duty, to veterans, to civilians alike, one thing I've heard is the reluctance of many to publicly oppose the idea. This reluctance stems from a fear of being tarred-and-feathered “politically incorrect," a term apparently as morally reprehensible as child molestation these days.  However, we here at Operator as Fuck aren't interested in toeing any lines.

     This isn't a smear piece, nor is it rabble-rousing. The reason for this article is very simple; to clearly categorize some of the different concerns regarding women integrating into combat units, and then elaborate on them to hopefully shed some (still) much-needed light.

     To wit:

     The lowering of standards, yeah, I know—I'm not interested in whipping a dead horse either. Not that this concern isn't an important one, it is.  But there is a rather simple solution; if universal standards are mandated and enforced there really isn't much more to discuss. Moreover, I want to use this space to address concerns that are not so easily remedied.

      Degeneration of the combat community structure; this is the big worry, right? So, with that in mind, lets suppose that women are granted full entry and that the requirements for men and women are exactly the same. Lets also suppose nobody tampers with the vetting process: meaning no overseeing, Yes Men generals pushing women through, as well as no misogynistic gate-keeper putting an extra sandbag in a girls’ ruck prior to some training evolution. Given enough time, it stands to reason, that the process would result in infantry platoons, recon teams, etc. - with some women in their ranks. It is here where the argument resides; the legitimate concern of how this will ultimately effect a combat unit’s ability to carry out it's mission.

     Let me be clear, I am about to dive into why women should not be in the infantry and special operations communities—but let me be equally clear—this is no degradation of the women, present and future, that want to confront this grueling undertaking. Now maybe this is just a sign of me getting old, jaded, and time to wear one of those black ball caps with all my medals dangling off it . . . but considering the women who would presently strive for combat occupations are Millennials, and the average female of that ilk can’t go without their daily Instagram update; popping anti-depressants for the latest calamity, and Adderall for their next exam . . . if a young lady from that wants to shit in a wag bag next to a huddle of men, carry a M240G for 15 grid squares without so much as a Tweet . . . then right the fuck on, they absolutely have my respect.

     I will even go as far as to say women should be allowed to attend any and every school in our military.  For personal accomplishment, promotability, or familiarization with cousin-communities and occupations that can help her perform her job all the better—yes, I am a card carrying member of this idea-club.  

     But past this, here is where I get off the train. Nothing will change biology, human nature, or the life-or-death importance of a combat unit’s framework.

     Some things to consider. . . 

     For some odd reason, the anatomical argument receives the least traction (maybe because it’s irrefutable statistics, therefore a buzzkill to the debate). So, I will play the game and abide, and get the anatomical stuff out of the way. It is truly the tip of an iceberg called the Musculoskeletal Injuries in Military Women , but consider these stats: the astronomical difference in reported pelvic stress fractures in male and female recruits (1 per 367 females, compared to 1 per 40,000 males), ACL ruptures in athletes (females range from 2.4 to 9.7 times higher), or trainees discharged from Basic Combat Training for medical reasons (12.7% females, compared with only 5.2% for males). These are only a few of the many findings that should obviously be considered.

     Next there is a controversial argument, one at the epicenter of what combat units actually do, and what combat actually is.

     About a week ago, we posted on our Facebook page a quick blurb explaining that women already occupy various roles in Tier 1 outfits and high-clearance three letter agencies. It is true. Women possess the critical thinking ability, no contest. Have women passed grueling vetting courses? Absolutely. Are women capable of killing—oooooh, fuck yes.

“Women have almost always fought side by side with men in guerilla or revolutionary wars, and there isn’t any evidence they are significantly worse at killing people…"   - Gwynne Dyer

      But there is an important distinction that must be realized. The difference between, say, a CIA operative and a grunt platoon is, what I like to call, the ant colony/007 disparity.  Where the CIA operative works semi-autonomously, and within a spectrum of intelligence gathering to specialized direct action capabilities, the grunt platoon—as is the case for all genuine combat units in the US military—is a rigid and complex structure of hierarchical obedience.  This structure, both creates and depends on order and discipline to operate in the most chaotic maelstrom one can possibly endure.  And I think this is where most people turn a blind-eye: scenes such as your One Man getting his jaw shot off, and having to push his stunned body through the fatal funnel to neutralize the threat is done so by an acquired socio-psychological discipline.  Said discipline is as supported by rigorous order as it is pumped to the gills with hormones.

     Marine Captain, Lauren Serrano touches on this beautifully:

     “The average infantryman is in his late teens or early twenties. At that age, men are raging with hormones and are easily distracted by women and sex. Infantry leaders feed on the testosterone and masculinity of young men to increase morale and motivation and encourage the warrior ethos.” 

     People are absolutely neglecting the human sexuality component in a rather important long-term national security issue. The all too human factors of sexual jealously, men’s general protective nature over women, favoritism, and a Pandora’s box of emotions that have no place in a stack about to clear a hot room, have been nothing short of dismissed; and those who dare mention it are immediately labeled archaic. Instead of facing this reality, the most ardent advocates for full integration usually fall back on the paper tiger of clichés; stating that the members of a “co-ed fighting unit" will miraculously hold (or should hold: cue wag of the finger) some bumper-sticker slogan of unity and teamwork in such impervious, high-regard that it will somehow negate the very sex drive that insured humankind's survival of the ice age and the bubonic plague.

Moving on. . .

     Capt. Kristen Griest and 1st Lt. Shaye Haver, are exceptional women for graduating Ranger School, no question about it.  But the irony is this popular applause contains the Achilles heel to the very argument for integrating women into combat occupations—most women, in fact, are not going to be “exceptional," by the very definition of the word. 

     Now this isn't an issue if the conversation was only about how many tough women can volunteer, attend, and complete elite schools.  But this isn’t the conversation. This landmark graduation is without question providing some momentum toward the looming full integration of women into combat units.  If full integration occurs, this will almost certainly result in a revision of our current Selective Service procedures. 

      Army lieutenant colonel (ret.) Robert Macginnis illuminates future proceedings in his own comprehensive investigation:

“Lifting all combat exclusions for women virtually guarantees that the Supreme Court will declare male-only conscription unconstitutional. And a return to the draft is far more likely than most people realize. The unsustainably high cost of the all-volunteer force, especially with $17 trillion in national debt, and expected requirements of future military operations will probably lead to a resumption of the draft, however politically unpopular it might be. When that happens, women will be drafted and forced into ground combat roles."

     Stop and read that quote again.  Is this honestly fair to women, if objective medical evidence continues to suggest the average woman can’t perform in an overall infantry-centric capacity without accruing substantial and lifelong injuries? Is this fair to the tax-payers who will be forced to foot the bill for the rightfully-granted medical retirements and disability compensations? And is the recent graduation of TWO exceptional women from Ranger School even remotely grounds to further this cause?

*****

     To those who will scramble and say "other countries have women in combat roles," to that I answer; Israel isn't as integrated as most think, and they're also the size of New Jersey, in a permanent defense posture; months rotting in jungles or extended campaigns in foreign countries is exempt from their playbook. Also, the operational intensity of the US military is not paralleled by Romania or Sweden, and their mixed-gender numbers are so incredibly small that, according to the UK's Ministry of Defense (who do not allow women in direct combat roles):

"...the numbers are very small, and therefore, where research is feasible the small sample sizes would call into question the viability of statistically significant measurements in relation to cohesion and the impact on operational effectiveness."  

     The history of ground conflicts the US has been involved in in the past 100, or 50, or even 15 years registers off the charts in comparison to most other nation's militaries, who generally are providing aid and man-power as UN sanctions and international relations dictate. Lets also face it, regardless of how you feel about it politically, the USA will be involved in low-intensity conflicts against terror organizations until the end of time... and likely any large scale wars the future may hold. 

     To those who cry out with good intentions, "women have just as much a right to serve their country as men do!" You are correct. But service is exactly that.  Serving to achieve overall success is priority, and women have served excellently as support and attachments in vital roles, particularly in gender-sensitive regions like the Middle East.  This is not marginalizing women, they are not being shunted to the unglorious support roles so the men can hog the spot light; this is an objective view of how to be the most efficient in a combat zone.

     And that brings me to a final potential criticism, "women have already been directly serving in combat because traditional front lines didn't exist in OIF and OEF." No. They. Didn't. . . Because.Yes.They.Were.  Going from 8 days of snap vehicle check points, cordon knocks, hard hits and patrols to return to an utter fortress where ice cream was available. . . there couldn't have been a clearer distinction.

     In truth, war is sometimes fun, but it is never fair.  The goal is to win, and I don’t care what pandering politicians say—winning is not defined by nation-building or making people happy; that isn’t the militaries job. Winning is killing the enemy while preserving the lives of our own.  The mechanisms to ensure this goal should be the highest priority of the military, and ideally the civilian population it serves—it appears that it isn't, at least not right now.

—Mr. Blonde