Tuesday, September 11, 2001 started out like any other clear, crisp, late summer morning. That is until 0846 when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center and began a chain of events that would become the longest day for many of us.

When I was asked by Grifter to write an article for 9/11, I said "sure, no problem," but I really didn’t know how to approach it. At first I thought about doing a timeline of events, but you can watch the History Channel for that. Instead, I picked things that have stuck in my mind over the years. I decided to write this as a reminder. As a country, we can never forget the horrific events of that day. To most, it is a day which has been long since forgotten.  To the newest generation, it is something they read or been taught, but don’t remember happening. As I started writing, the angrier I became. These motherfuckers came to my city and killed my friends. Then, I was  overcome by a stifling and overwhelming sadness . I had to walk away from my laptop a few times while writing this to wipe my eyes and steady my hands. Even though it has been 14 years, to me, it still feels like it happened yesterday . The friends I lost that day are still with me and every year I am reminded of how they died.

I was born and raised in New York. The World Trade Center was a place  I visited as a kid and I remember marveling at the sheer and massive beauty of the Twin Towers. My grandfather would tell me how he remembered them being built and when they fell he had seen the lifespan, in its entirety, of two of the most iconic buildings in the world. For me, they were more than just another set of skyscrapers. I have fond childhood memories being there. The North and South Towers were the skyline of lower Manhattan and part of my everyday life.

Absolute panic and confusion is the best way to describe the scene that day. Within minutes of the first tower being struck, the the coordination of a city-wide crisis response was initiated from the Office of Emergency Management. Unfortunately, this office was located in building 7 of the World Trade Center and it too would collapse later that day. The burning debris from the collapsed North and South towers ignited fires in surrounding buildings four, five, six and seven. Cell phone networks were intermittent at best and the radio network for police and fire response was overloaded. There was bleed over from other channels and massive confusion when it came to the locations of responders. Emergency call centers received over 230 million calls that day. Firefighters and Police Officers were missing because while those towers were burning and everyone was evacuating, they were running in of their own volition. 343 FDNY firefighters, 60 Police Officers and 8 Paramedics died when the Twin Towers fell. Those brave and courageous souls will always be the Pride of New York City.

The Falling Bodies

The most haunting event of that day for me were the falling bodies. “What the hell is falling so fast?” “Holy fuck! It’s a body!” Responders looked up with mouths agape in disbelief. At first, it was thought that they were blown out of the building by some explosion. Then came the horrifying realization that these people were jumping to their death because it was the best option. Think about this: You are in a cramped office on the 80th floor of two of the tallest buildings in the world. There is fire so hot and smoke so thick all around you that there are equal chances of burning alive or suffocating. The only other option is to jump out of the window and plummet to your death on the street below. This isn’t a "what would you do?" question. This is to illustrate the utter desperation of those poor souls. Those men and women were put in that situation by terrorists whose mission was to kill Americans. Fuck, that makes me angry. They made their final phone calls or texts to their love ones and jumped because that was the only way out. Next came the horrific sound. The swoosh and crash of a body hitting the atrium and street from 80 floors above is beyond indescribable. One after another. Then a pause. Then 3 or 4 more. The cacophony was that of sporadic gunshots, or hammering on a construction site. “Were those more bodies?” “I think so” “FUCK!” I hope those who chose that fate found peace in the next life. Below is a picture of FDNY Chaplain, Father Mychal Judge. He was struck by a falling body and killed instantly.

Darkness Fell

As the sun set on the most tragic day New York had ever seen, New Yorkers began to rally. It's what we do. We pull together and look to serve something bigger than ourselves. Everyday citizens showed up wanting to volunteer their services. Some gave blood, some brought food, some made coffee, while others volunteered their hands and bodies to start digging out any possible survivors. Bucket lines were formed and debris was starting to move. At this time we didn’t know if there were still people alive under all the rubble. Ground Zero, as it was now being referred to, was massive. The smell was obnoxious.

All the power was out in lower Manhattan, which offered it a surreal and terrifying ambiance. When you walked a few blocks away the silence was eerie. The city that never sleeps was in a coma. There were no taxis or buses moving. The air was thick with a grey fog and there was the scent of burning garbage. The streets were covered in grayish-white powder and office papers, briefcases, clothes, vehicles, and glass were strewn about everywhere. It looked like the end of the world had come and at certain moments, it felt like it.  During those quiet moments, thoughts of the missing started to creep into my mind and the sadness hit me hard. Some of the toughest guys I know were dropped to their knees by the uncertainty of friends and loved ones and as the totality of the days events crashed into their souls.

Never Forget

After 9/11, the rally cry was loud. On September 14th, 2001, President Bush stood on top of the rubble at Ground Zero and said "I can hear you!" he declared. "The rest of the world hears you! And the people – and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon." The crowd reacted with loud, prolonged chants of "USA! USA!” This cry has died out over the last 14 years and most people have fallen back into their bubble of ignorance. Look what is happening in the world currently. ISIS is on a rampage and sympathizers have orchestrated attacks overseas and in the U.S. I think it is time we remember what these evil individuals did to our country. We must remain vigilant and not think for one moment that it can't or won't happen again. This 9/11, don’t just get wrapped up in the shows on the History Channel and some of the sensationalism that happens. Try to remember our way of life before that day and how 19 hijackers changed everything. The World Trade Center, The Pentagon, and Flight 93. Try to remember how four planes put our country at a stand still and showed us just how vulnerable we were.

I've visited Ground Zero a few times after 9/11. Every time has been equally difficult. I instantly tear up and get the chills. I can hear the sounds from that day and that obnoxious smell fills my nostrils. All the chaos, terror, and confusion comes back as I stare into the pit at Ground Zero. Then the memories of friends; their laughter, their stories, and even the little annoying things they did, simultaneously brings a smile to my face and cold sadness to my heart. Because for me, it all happened yesterday.

- Rudolfo Lespari

Mabus /mābəs/ noun. Professional politician who regards career preservation as lexically superior to interests of; sound judgement, military lethality, and/or national security.

          Not long after the Marine Corps released its findings on long term combat simulations with gender-integrated units, Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus grabbed at every straw and went for just about every fallacious argument to be found in a Critical Thinking 101 college textbook.  Aside from claiming that pre-existing institutional misogyny resulted in female Marine participants having trouble lifting their rucks over walls, and aside from claiming these 100 women were basically subpar to the phantom stock of vagina-owning death dealers the Marine Corps is keeping in some underground, undisclosed location, during his September 11th NPR interview, this jewel stood out from all others:

"Women got injured a lot or more than men on duty. Men got injured four times as much as women off duty. So, we've got these knuckleheads who are, 'here, hold my beer and watch this,' . . . So, do we keep men from being in the infantry because they get hurt so much off duty? I don't think so."

          There is so much to pick apart in that statement, but lets just focus on one issue. Now—let a former beer guzzling, dare devil, first-enlistment knucklehead take the floor.

          First, that's just the demographic; 18 to 22. Whether civilian or military. A frat boy chanting three Greek letters over and over, a young buck on the construction site, or an Army or Marine grunt a year short of his 21st birthday—generally, by and large, share the characteristics our proper leader Mabus scoffs at.

          Second, it’s that exact energy that combat leaders since Alexander the Great (and probably before) have harnessed. It is the fiction of all military fictions, unfortunately propagated by recent Hollywood money makers and our societies bizarre addiction to hero worship, that stoic professionals who serve to protect Mom, God, and Apple Butter are one end of the spectrum, while the other is populated by hordes of mouth-breathing—well, beer-guzzling knuckleheads. Anyone who ever worked in ground combat units will attest, all of those colorful attributes are generally wrapped up into the same guy. It is the wild child who caused the libo incident out in town that also earns the Silver Star and defies death to save his friends and put a round in an enemy’s forehead. It is this energy Mabus criticizes that provides the impetus to storm the infested beaches, kick in the door, or siege the pill box rattling out automatic gunfire.

          Mabus’ blatant disregard for objective evidence and the blistering exposure of his own pre-existing beliefs makes his accusations of dudely Marine bias smack of high irony.

          Keeping a finger on the pulse of this highly debated issue, I see a lot of "well maybe the military just needs a better [that’s Hipster for “Professional”] crop of males." This usually originates from women who never served, or men who never served and spilled their mocha foo foo latte; taking to social media to vent their sad rage.

          Well, as a man now nearing his mid-30s who got out and pursued higher education—looking back on the risks with a clearer head and an unfortunate lowered testosterone level—I can assure you it was, and always will be, the 18 to 22 age group populating the most miserable, most tested, and most crucial billets that gain the ground, attack the enemy like an ant pile on acid, and ultimately fill the lion’s share of the flag-draped coffins. Some military psychologists call it “childlike invulnerability,” a perception that is nurtured to ensure young warriors do what so many won't, and can’t.

          We can all thank those knuckleheads, so can Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus. 

-Mr. Blonde

     To be clear, this is not an anti-war, “Born on the 4th of July” type of write up by someone who is overcome with a deluded sense of morality over past actions taken. I liked war. I liked what the training did to me. I liked the awakening of the reptilian brain—the lethality that it imparted me with.

     With that in mind, after being practically force-fed the new wave of the veteran image, I feel compelled to respond:

“Don't talk like one of them. You're not! Even if you'd like to be. To them, you're just a freak, like me! They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out, like a leper! You see, their morals, their code, it's a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you. When the chips are down, these... these civilized people, they'll eat each other.”

     The truth of the matter is, to many politicians in DC, you the American Veteran, are just not that important. Contrary to popular belief; many do not hear you. You are in fact, quite expendable. You’re a political rally cry, used during elections to boost numbers; and every platitude and bumper-sticker slogan will be used to help their campaign. To them, you’re a short term solution to a problem—whether war in the Middle East or the live debates on TV.

     Some of us need to get with the program when it comes to our expectations and understanding of “higher” working in our best interest. There is an illusion propagated that we will fit perfectly back into civilized societies' attempt at egalitarianism—yet many square pegs have found many round holes.

      Men ranging from comfort-shucking adventurer to outright inter-species predator don’t exactly reintegrate fully into a culture that has become so soft it roves about looking for the next “trigger” to be offended by. But brothers; fret not, the realization coming is immensely liberating.

     There is a maxim that remains unchanged, one must understand and accept this: To them we are nothing more than a method for violence that they cannot inflict on our enemies themselves. We are necessary, no question, but we are a means to a political end. So be it. That is acceptable—if one disenthralls themselves from the hollow promises and the political language. Come to terms with the fact that as we are a means to their goals, so are they, a means to ours—a way to war. A way for those of us who wish(ed) to be warriors have the path to become so. Their need for you is to your advantage, your ticket to the ultimate game.

     And we got in the game. Some are still playing it now. But for many of us, our greatest struggle wasn't the exploding hot metal or the long days, but the push/pull factors of both global and domestic politics; destroying any real attempts at winning. Sure, we won battle after battle, but the “war” itself was sensitive to many factors that had/have no place in an armed conflict where winning actually matters. Diplomacy was a forgone conclusion once the military was committed to action, yet its petulant influence periodically managed to stifle results.

     We knew where the Taliban, Haqqani, Baathist, Republican Guard, mujahedeen, sand people, etc., were located and what would be required to kill them before they kill us. We have eyes everywhere; satellites, drones, HUMINT, turncoats, and simple observation swirling in areas we designate of interest. The entire planet is connected through various forms of electronics, and for the first time in history one hemisphere knows exactly what the other hemisphere is doing, in real time. Yet the administration still appears to have connectile(sic) dysfunction and feign ignorance when it comes to reading patterns of aggression from an enemy who has developed a keen ability with social media and common technology. Typically to openly and routinely proclaim their goal of our complete destruction... usually while killing someone... while its being recorded... and posted on Youtube… and sent to all major media outlets.

     However the overarching diplomacy of “Hearts and Minds,” spanning from the occupation of Baghdad to this very second, would attempt to limit our operational capabilities to the point of what would be politically acceptable and morally palatable for the plebeians to digest while glued to CNN/Fox News/MSNBC. This would have lethal ramifications for the United States military's efforts of conclusively winning the war and unsurprisingly the administration would balk at making the hard right decision of what it would take to effectively Win. Violence of action had become passe' once the war lasted past the commercial breaks of its viewers.

     Non-warriors directing warriors under the guise of accountability.

     While the doctrine of maintaining a civilian controlled military was rightfully, and correctly designed to prevent military dictatorships (thank you team 1776), it has lost much of its efficacy when those same people are so far removed from the context of what it takes to fight in an evolving stage of global conflict. Our administration would rather incur a loss of American life over that of our enemies because it is more politically acceptable for them when they pander to the population. That, my brothers, is the definition of expendable.

     And yet despite this beheaded snake, despite the imposed lack of lethality; the warrior had his place, and has his place still.

“We’re not like you. We’re the Witches. We’re the violent exiles, the lone-wolf nomads that you bred out of the race back when growing crops and living in one place became so popular. We don’t have, and we don’t need a social context.” ~ Thirteen

   So where do we go with this? Realizing who (and what) you're dealing with, when it comes to one’s notion of “patriotism” in America, is a start. Without attacking that noble notion itself, your leaders, I argue, are unworthy of your efforts. More than that, it is foolish to think the proliferation of the “broken veteran” is not serving some higher end.

     Stagnation.

     Arguably the worst thing one could be faced with; inactivity. Marginalizing veterans is the best and easiest solution to getting rid of the problem of those who do not adapt into “normal society.” We have problems here because strength, fortitude and self-reliance are often mistakenly criticized as not being diplomatic and against the grain of group acceptance and cooperation. But you have to move forward, as ruthless now as you were then. This is imperative. Your “Will to Power” demands it. Evolve and adapt, but do so to assert your own initiative to achieve new goals and new experiences. You know what you are, what you are made of, and you are far more stress-inoculated than your timid neighbor will ever be. You do not need them nor the little tiny box that they wish to categorize and file you away into. You do not need approval nor acknowledgement from anyone as you have already proven what you are capable to those who mattered to you the most. Accept what you have become, what you have done, and use the same determination you honed in war to move forward.

     Allowing society to define you as the reluctant warrior or broken veteran is the first step to failure as it presents you as something that is powerless. Without willful intent. You were propelled by circumstances. The victim. Reject this. On the outside maintain the guise of assimilation in order to achieve your goals but never forget who and what you are: A warrior. You have been forged by war, not by society.

   You. Are. Free. Your life is your own, to do with as you see fit.

- Thulsa

"I lie in bed to the sound, of the wolves at my door. They are speaking in tongues Oh, they join on my floor”-Senses Fail

It seems common sense is beginning to once again fade into a blur, not only in our government, but in our sensibilities and situational awareness as a society. For those that don’t know, here's the skinny: the United States is set to allow into the country 10,000 refugees of the Syrian Civil War which has been tearing that country apart for the better part of 5 years. This figure is according to the Secretary of State, John Kerry. He also mentioned taking in 85,000 next year and 100,000 the following year. 

This has caused all manner of noise from both sides of the aisle, as per usual. You have the blanket xenophobes. You have the basement commandos in their tinfoil caps. You have your 22- year-old barista who wants to display warmth and love, as long as it's only on Instagram. Self-proclaimed, counter terror experts have come out in droves on social media platforms and debate is running rampant in this country on what the United States should do, if anything. 

There is so much conflicting information out there, at least once you pull yourself away from your internet fights and actually do independent research. I had originally gone into this trying to bring you as many cold, hard facts as possible, but for every one out there, there’s a polar opposite. It’s all spin for whatever flavor Kool-Aid you happen to be drinking this week. So instead, I still want to approach this as objectively as I can and still bring this to you as someone who was 18 years old on 9/11, remembers it clearly, and spent the next 12 years putting in big boy work. But, I’m also approaching this as someone who loves his nation dearly. America to me,  is the drunk girlfriend I brought to the family reunion. I’m embarrassed by her a lot and don’t understand what the fuck she’s doing sometimes. But, at the end of the day I still put her in my truck, take her home, and tuck her drunk ass in.

There are essentially two schools of thought on the issue once you strip away the political bullshit and virtue signaling: the humanitarian side and the security side. 

Sorry, no time to post on my social media...got real shit to do.

The humanitarian side is noble and gracious, sure. Their hearts are in the right places for the most part. But, it’s an emotional response to something I fear not a lot of them fully understand. They see desperate people on TV and online and their hearts naturally ache. It’s the same reaction when they’re reminded that millions of human beings are actually starving in African countries in the myriad civil wars which plague that entire continent. However, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and not use the word majority but, a rather large component of those on the humanitarian side of the issue aren’t arguing for the reception of the refugees because they genuinely care. They just want to post about it on social media and show how much they LOOK like they care. It’s called “virtue signaling” and it’s the same thing everyone does on social media after a tragedy. They want to show support, with the least amount of effort or sacrifice possible. They want to APPEAR to show support, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience them in any tangible way other than having a colored flag over their profile selfie. Anthony Jeselnik said it best in regards to the practice, “You are not giving any of your time, money, or even your compassion. All you are doing is saying, ‘don’t forget about me today. A lot of crazy distractions in the news right now, but don’t forget about how sads I am.’” A lot of the teary-eyed hipsters are just trying to seem “right on” to their friends. I’m willing to bet none of them realize what caused the refugee crisis in the first place, nor could they find Syria on a map. I guarantee they don’t want any refugees in THEIR neighborhoods or frequenting THEIR coffee shops or going to THEIR kids’ schools. It’s all a show folks. The real humanitarians are the people writing checks, filling care packages, and working in those refugee camps. 

The flip side to the humanitarians are the security conscious crowd. Now, I admittedly fall into this category. However, just as the humanitarian group is tainted with hash-tagging, oxygen thieves, and wealthy, suburban housewives that have never experienced a bad day, those that choose to lean on their suspicions have an equal amount of tumors in their ranks. You have the wanna be’s in their “infidel” shirts and their shemaghs gassing up their Bushmasters in mom’s basement because “ISIS is coming.” You also have the blanket xenophobes who don’t want anyone that isn’t an American citizen to be in America. These are the same people that run around shouting “Why the hell do I need to press 2 for Spanish? This is America!” 

God forbid you look at something outside of the racial paradigm...

What my ilk and I are trying to get across is that there is a genuine security concern in these refugees. But, if you bring this to light you’re called a racist, Islamophobe, or any other buzzword the user learned on Facebook this morning. There are arguments flung our way that “only 1%” could be terrorists” and that we’re heartless bigots. Of course, we live in a day and age where disagreeing with someone or something is automatically equated to HATING it. The argument that we are a nation of refugees is a fallacy used by the uneducated. Technically EVERY nation is a nation of refugees at some point in their history. That doesn’t mean in 2015, the United States should give carte blanche to everyone that wants to come live here. There was once a time where living here was a privilege to be appreciated, not an entitlement. 

No other Middle Eastern nation is taking in any refugees. They’re right next door. Does anyone want to hazard a guess why? Is it because they’re cruel, indifferent pricks? No. They don’t want the security risk. Period. The lives of their citizens will never knowingly be put in potential jeopardy by them. To them, it's not worth it. They understand that there is an element that has infiltrated the refugee population and wants to do bad shit.

My concern is this, “even if it IS only 1%, is it worth the risk of another potential terror attack?” People use the argument that a potential 9/11 is always a possibility. I agree, totally. But should we knowingly risk it? To me, it’s just as irresponsible as getting rid of security in airports. 99% of travelers are do-gooders, but should we risk it for the 1%? Why KNOWINGLY INVITE the possibility for another massive loss of American lives? What’s it worth? It’s easy to say the righteous thing now, but God forbid something happen here at a mall, at a school, on public transportation. How righteous is your humanitarianism when it could COST the lives of your country men and even more horrifically, children? Could you stand there and still say it was the right thing?

The rub is that you can have compassion and security, ask any Iraq vet that worked for Civil Affairs units. However, sacrificing security in order to be the best humanitarian on the planet, is the method by which martyrs are made. 

Syria is a war torn country whose ability to keep records has been abysmal at best. Biometrics in the refugee camps are rudimentary and can be faulty. The DHS is going to do what it can, but with what material? You let them in and what do you have to go on for a background check? Their word? These are questions the compassionate crusaders aren’t asking. These are the same people that curse surveillance and wire tapping, but expect the government to protect them with security screenings and paperwork.

But hey, they don’t know what they don’t know. They have the privilege of being able to shove earbuds into their ears, and glue their eyes to a phone screen and shut out the world around them. It’s devolved back into an almost pre-9/11 mindset. Do we need to be paranoid? No. Do we need to be vigilant? Yes. ISIS is here. They’ve already said they have people among the refugees. So far, these guys haven't bullshit. The tacticool guerrillas are on the lookout for jihadists dressed in ninja costumes, but they don’t realize it’s not going to be a gunfight. The last thing you’ll think is “Man, that guys' jacket is big” before the lights go out. 

There is idiocy on both sides of the fence. But one opens the door a little wider for another horrific tragedy.  Compassion is a wonderful, incredible thing. It separates good from evil. But, is it really compassion when you're selfishly putting others in danger?

I’ve heard all kinds of analogies being used lately involving candy and other things. But the question is simple, when you live next to a prison and a stranger knocks on your door, do you get to know them, or let them in to live with you for 6 months? How many American lives is it worth to LOOK LIKE the most noble country in the world?

-Grifter

“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”

― John Quincy Adams

          Yep, that's right—I'm going to talk about why art is important to a bunch of dip-spitting, armor-clad gunslingers. Neck-Snappers and Check-Cashers, yet somehow mediums such as Drawing, Film, Painting, Performing Arts, Photography, and Sculpture are still worthwhile to my rough, sordid group.

          Nope, Operator as Fuck has not been hijacked by your zany 9th grade art teacher. No, this isn’t about how finger painting will lessen the ravages of PTSD… Although I suppose it could. And no—this isn’t a coy way to insulate our own artwork and writing from criticism. Bring it [insert bearded smiley face here]

          More art needs to come from the gun club for a couple of reasons. I will save the more serious one for last.

          First things first. Its fun, especially if fleshing out the jaw-dropping individuality that exists in the rank-and-file. Our world is full of vibrant, complex personalities—imprudent tattoos and Superman boxers under the flight suits.

          However, despite the rich pool of characters; genuine creativity and self-expression aren’t exactly nurtured in the military, and for some tried-and-true reasons.  Most institutions—at least ones coming with some type of uniform, which is most of them— function by the sacrifice of the Self, a characteristic run out of town to insulate the group ideology of military units. So it’s no dig on the military world, just a realization: creativity and individuality are generally stifled while in it.

          But, come on, we all know the individuality exists, often in stark contrasts. It would amaze me at times the diversity in a team; an Atheist, a born-again Christian, a diehard Conservative Republican next to a guy so Liberal he’d make PETA board members look like personal chefs for The Nuge.

          All of them, from the eyes of the casual spectator, look exactly alike and presumably are motivated to serve the same purpose. But we know the truth. At the end of the day we’re quite different, and it’s fulfilling and fun as hell to express yourself in a medium you feel is worth your time. If, of course, that makes something move in your pants. If you’re not into any of this, then no harm no foul and stay with what does make something move in said pants.

          But, perhaps more important than a future Cubism painting, depicting the headshot you took after pounding a Nalgene full of Cell/Nitro Tech—censorship is up our collective asses.

          Art actually requires a fierce (re)surging of the Self, and in today’s society, hell-bent on strangling the life out of everything deemed remotely edgy or offensive, it’s needed more than ever.  There's an issue, and it's dead center in the backyard of our own community. The military figure has been exploited and made a caricature more than possibly any other demographic to cross a desk.

          I know, I know. . .  bigger issues. But hear me out. How large is the audience for military books and movies? Huge, right. Now how many works in recent years have been shallow, one dimensional, politically motivated, or just exaggerated to the point of masturbation? I have my own answer to that question, and I’d be willing to wager your answer isn’t too far off.

          Taking it out further, to the 1000 yard line;

          This handling of the veteran image with soft gloves (ya know, the greatest generation cliches without ever really addressing anything that may have a bite) could ultimately just be an appendage extending from a much larger body; the emergence of --- what I once heard them referred to as --- the Neo-Liberal Thought Police. Yep, those guys; muffling the human spirit under the banner of preventing emotional discomfort in all forms of expression. If you're curious and want to check out some peculiar examples of this infection (especially in academia), trying to round off all life's hard edges, open Door #1, Door #2, Door #3,  and of course Door #4.

          Make no mistake about it, certain rights are being infringed upon, in their own little insidious ways—not just by the Right's Legion of Decency—whose conservative complaints about provocative art are as old as time (hip-wiggling decline of civilization, slippery slope to godlessness, insert fig leaf, etc.), but now from the Left too.

          It's coming from both sides.

          Well, what kind of military sub-culture outfit would we be if we didn't find places to plug quotes from the Man-Eater Hall of Fame? So, in the words of none other than the late great Chesty Puller:

          And I say fire at will.

          Anyone whoever worked in Iraq or Afghanistan will attest if more authentic narratives about what goes on in combat zones, rear areas, and barracks rooms were actually depicted via paint, book, or film—both the Far Left and the Far Right would come to blow a gasket—and for their own predictable reasons.

          But, Mr. Blonde, people need their heroes, maintain the facades. Silent professionalism (the most misunderstood military slogan since Every Marine a Rifleman or Army of One), blah blah—

          You forged your identity! You suffered the boredom, the uncertainty, the dead friends, and possibly a few pieces of hot flying metal. It is your identity, your story, your experiences. Express them to the world as pleases you.

          Are there bigger issues at hand? Of course, and there always will be. But. . . recalling the largest personalities I ever met, "Front Toward Enemy" patch on the front of their plate carriers, with jokes that had the power to somehow leap out of decimated houses and crawl out coffins. . . It sure'd be a blast to see some of that hit the arteries.

—Mr. Blonde

Author's note: cover art provided by a fellow hitter at Taylor White Art

“I’ve seen those hush hush looks you give, when you’re talking to him.”-The Spill Canvas

I just finally got around to seeing the movie 13 Hours last weekend. It was quite the spectacle. I can’t say I’m a Michael Bay fan in any sense of the word, but the advisors on the film must have been pretty decent. We wanted to let the dust settle as far as unsolicited opinions go on this particular film. I’m going to try to share my two cents on the flick without spoiling any of it (in case some of you haven’t watched Fox News in the last 3 minutes and know nothing about what happened in Benghazi, Libya on September 11, 2012.)

The short version goes like this: On the 11th anniversary of September 11th, the diplomatic compound in Benghazi was attacked by a shit ton of angry assholes and it ended with 4 Americans dead, including a United States Ambassador,  and to this day no one has been held accountable.

I’m not going to get into “how realistic was it?” I’m also not going to sit here like everyone else in the team room and dissect weapons handling and tactics. But I am going to expand on the fact that there were many things this movie got right that I went in thinking would be botched. Not a lot of movies have been made about Security Contractors. During the GWOT, contractors played a massive role in performing (at a ridiculous cost most times) jobs that the U.S. Government just didn’t have the manpower or the capability to do. People hear "contractor" and think of some bearded guy with Oakleys, making $500 a day to sit on his ass and look cool. That’s definitely the case, for sure. But there are people that are contracted to mop the gym floor, purify water, perform administrative duties, fix radios, do construction, and on and on. When I refer to contractors now though, know I’m referring to the former.

Bearded dudes that sit on their asses for $500 a day and look cool. Yeah, that’s about the extent of it for the most part. But, what the movie nailed very well was the relationship between client and contractor. The CIA treated the contractors like unwanted baggage. They saw only what was in front of them. Essentially a bunch of gun-toting dudes who like to work out, play X-box and bitch about not having enough time to call home. I can tell you from experience, as can all of the OAF Nation staff, that this is typical no matter what government agency or even NON-government agency you work for. They don’t see you as the one that may have to take a bullet for them, or get them off the X when shit hits the fan; they see you as a burden that impedes their ability to perform a critical task, the depth of which your uneducated, knuckle dragging, trigger pulling ass couldn’t possibly fathom. I’ve seen this in the Dept of State staffers on the Baghdad embassy and the good ol’ folks over at the DOD in Afghanistan. You are paid well to know what’s best for optimizing their survivability in a shitty environment and mitigating any potential threats. They do not appreciate having to defer to the guy without a Master’s Degree for anything other than their McDonalds order. This was portrayed perfectly from top to bottom. The disdain of the men at arms and the denial of how essential they are is crystal clear in this film.

Another aspect so well portrayed in 13 Hours was the inability of the government agency involved to acknowledge any kind of threat from radical Islamists. I was (un)lucky enough to witness this first hand, two summers ago in Baghdad, Iraq. The State Dept saw ISIS steamrolling across the country and dug their heads far into the sand. They said no repeatedly when my fellow security contractors sat them down and explained the contingencies that needed to be implemented. They wouldn’t hear of parties being cancelled and that sandbags needing to be filled. Nothing to see here, everything is fine. Diplomacy is working. Go Away. If what happened on Sept 11, 2012 hadn’t occured, I seriously doubt the Dept of State would have made the calls to Washington to get the ass we felt we may need in order to protect the thousands of Americans there pretending to nurture democracy in Iraq, and I wouldn’t be writing this today.

The best thing this movie did well was capture the sense of brotherhood that warriors share. A lot of dudes get into the business simply because they miss the camaraderie. The paycheck is nice, but there’s nothing better than being around a bunch of dudes who have a similar background and field of experience as you. Your team “gets” you. It’s a great feeling that is almost impossible to replicate at home. Yeah, dudes are leaving their families to go to a country that’s not at war, to do a job the client doesn’t appreciate, in an effort they don’t really care about. Why? Well, aside from the fact that some of them HAVE TO because they’ ve been doing since the “good ol’ days” and have gotten their kids and wives accustomed to the porsches, private schools, and tennis lessons a six-figure income allows; guys just want to be around their buddies in a familiar setting. I’d have died for anyone on my team in Afghanistan, hands down. I can look back and say it was the best time of my career in the gun club, and that’s something I can’t get at home. The men in GRS are portrayed as brothers who'd die for each other if necessary.

All in all, 13 Hours was a damn good flick and I highly suggest taking your lady to go see it. Warning: she may end up pregnant and you'll end up growing a third testicle. 

-Grifter

Don’t kid yourself, when someone thinks “veteran suicide" in 2016—the focus is dead center on the GWOT. Keep that in mind as you read on, because when someone cries "the 22 refers to veterans in general" -- bullfuckingshit. While it could, and should, the rally cry was created for post 9/11 veterans and is most heavily proliferated by that same demographic. 

Diving in;

Yeah, 22—the number that has become practically inseparable from veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan—it is false.

22 GWOT veterans haven't been killing themselves each day. You can shut up about the number now. We all can.

We’ve done it too. Both the issue and the slogan have been in OAF articles and posts. But in lieu of evidence, confirming some long-held suspicions. . .it’s time for a (much needed) cultural adjust-fire.

In a recent, concise and illuminating article we learn the 22 a day figure originated from a report that is now over three years old. Not all potential sources even contributed to the data. Moreover, veteran suicides from several years prior to the Afghanistan invasion were included. In short, the numbers are old, limited, and not representative of the veteran generation now directly associated with it (and being unrightfully stigmatized by it). Perhaps the most somber (arguably, hidden) detail is it was our beloved Vietnam vets who owned the bulk of those grim statistics during the time frame covered in the report.

According to the report, the number of GWOT veterans killing themselves averaged one a day. One. With those widely different numbers staring you in the face, it seems a runaway train of sorts occurred with limited information, and then exploded on social media and mainstream news outlets.

However, even one a day is one family devastated, one set of friends ripped apart, working toward prevention is still paramount. No argument there.

We all have (at least) one. Mine is a Marine I contracted with in Kabul. A gun to his head was the sad end to years of surviving the threat of death by the hands of others. He once told me of a gunfight somewhere along Route Irish where a man, half on fire, emerged from a decimated car to do battle with him and his team. Him and that man are both gone. It’s hard sometimes to make sense of the furious energy that took place between them, if it means anything at all now.

Thinking of him, it makes total sense to raise awareness, any way possible, to bring veteran suicide to its screeching halt. Veteran suicide is a problem, whether 19 or 90, and current comprehensive efforts should be backed fully. But, if veteran wellbeing is truly centerpiece to all the memes and ruck marches, then there are some legitimate concerns that have emerged due to the “22 a day” movement.

One has already been touched on; it has created a lasting negative association with an entire generation of veterans; giving them the aggregate appearance of being broken. And beyond how this may damage their prospects in the future, at-risk members within the generation may have since taken the notion to heart, which leads me to the next concern. 

There is the issue of self-fulfillment. It would be a terrible reality if all the noise was indirectly bringing about a bizarre form of call to action. This may lose a few of you, but its impossible for me to leave the notion alone—purpose and belonging are fundamental to us. Nobody is exempt. My worry, echoed by several vet friends, is that insisting there is an epidemic of demographic suicide may draw (or have been drawing) troubled men and women to belong to it. 

The last concern is far less existential. Many of us have seen them—the pictures floating around that look like a bad rendition of The Last Supper; just cammies under the beards, and liquor and pills instead of plates and loaves of bread. In a moment’s raging cynicism its hard not to think there are organizations, artists, and businesses who are, via the "22 a day" and related heart-string pullers, simultaneously shielding themselves from criticism while exploiting a caricature of vet suicide to push their products and/or services.

If this is occurring, then to them is the following message: Fresh numbers are coming  via the fledgling Suicide Data Repository. Soon you may have to hold your place by the merit of your products and services alone. Best of luck, assholes.

But if that parasitic approach does exist, it is surely a minority. All over the country many veterans have found a post-military identity to be as proud of as military service itself. And just for that alone these movements have continued to thrive.

FRAGO:

Great news! News a lot of warm-hearted energy aimed (and still aims) to bring about with blood, sweat, and tears. The self-inflicted genocide of a subculture is not our reality. But, this isn't code to drop the proverbial ruck. There is still much work to be done, on your own flourishing as well as others,  suicide prevention and everything else.

It is time to take the veteran narrative to the next stage.

—Mr. Blonde

“I am a coward masked in courage and just admitting it will not save me this time”

-Counterparts

Let me go ahead and preface with the disclaimer that I think exercising your constitutional rights is amazing and one of the things I love about this country. Also, sticking it to “the man” is one of the hallmarks of OAF Nation. This article is meant to inspire independent and critical thought and not just what some left wing or right wing media outlet wants you to think. 

On January 2nd, 2016, a group of armed “militia” members chose to take a book from the Occupy Wall Street movement (which I’m sure they scoffed at) and set up camp in the Malheur Wildlife Refuge in Oregon. This was done in protest of the imprisonment of two ranchers convicted of arson on federal land in 2012. The minimum sentence of arson on federal land is 5 years. Smokey the Bear also said if he caught them in a dark alley, they were going to get the “shit bummed out of them.” 

These “militia” members were getting their cues from Ammon Bundy, the son of Clive Bundy (the rancher from the standoff last year). Apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with the 15 minutes of fame his family had gotten and needed a fix. He implored followers to come to the wildlife refuge, bring their guns, be prepared to stay for years if necessary, and expressed willingness to engage in armed conflict. He had gotten a “divine message” to carry out this mission of taking over a remote and largely uninhabited swathe of land.

The “standoff” lasted a little over a month, claiming one casualty and costing over a million dollars of state and federal dollars. The final militia members surrendered and turned themselves February 11 with a grumble about paying taxes to fund abortion and war.

Surv kit and hand mike attached to....iPhone playing AC/DC.

The entire thing was a fucking clown show. It showcased exactly how NOT to enact change within government, nor stick it to “the man.” It didn’t further anyones rights or free anyone from any sort of oppression or tyranny. The Hammond family, the ranchers convicted and imprisoned for arson on federal land, dismissed any and all motives of these so-called “militia” members saying “we don’t really know the purpose of the guys that are out there.” Well, Mrs. Hammond, let me tell you; it’s because they had nothing better to do and wanted to show off the guns and multicam on which they’d spent their disability and social security checks. It’s the same concept as all the mongoloids that came out to “defend” recruiting offices last year. Stand around in kit and be on TV. Have people come up and shake your hand and you can tell them about the 10-power optic on your M-4. It’s simply an attention grab. Shit, even Cliven Bundy was confounded as to why his son was out camping on TV.

I’ve observed that a gross majority of the “militia” who seek publicity are made up of has-been’s and never-were’s. You have a bunch of grown men that never joined or had lackluster careers and want to play soldier. They live in this fantasy realm where they sit around and shoot with like-minded idiots and discuss tactics for the day they have to fight the U.S. government. They hide behind the concepts of constitutional liberty and claim to be fighting for the common man. I’m here to tell you, stop. If the day comes, the common man will fight for himself, thanks. We don’t need a bunch of assholes crawling out of their trailer parks to make me and mine look bad, which is exactly what the Oregon fiasco did. A bunch of right-wing, Christians supporting the second amendment and sticking it to “the man,” all they did was make right-wing, second amendment supporting, Christians look like assholes. Way to go. It’s just like the Occupy movement making a bunch of left wing, trust fund protestors look like idiots pooping in the street. This type of protest is counterproductive. There’s a time to raise your militias, sure. I’m pretty sure it isn’t when a couple ranchers go to prison for breaking the law. 

These militias are a bunch of guys who have never seen war, yet want a war with the U.S. government. It’s evident in their preparation, or lack thereof. They open carry guns to “peacefully protest” ( a term used as a technicality when I’m sure everyone there was talking about how it was going to “go down at the throw down.”)  which seems like a pretty ridiculous notion to me. Can it be done? Sure. But is it a good idea? Evidently not. They brought no blankets and no food but, there was plenty of guns, ammo, and nylon. These retards have entire doomsday bunkers at home (you know, for when the "shit hits the fan"), but they don’t bring the supplies necessary to go camping? C’mon! They appealed to social media to have supporters send them “snacks”. Oh yeah, and send it to a federal mailbox too, please? That should be pretty humiliating for a bunch of guys trying to come off as a “well organized militia.” They tore down security cameras in the refuge, claiming they were “surveillance cameras,” spying on them. Apparently, they don’t realize that the government has drones and satellites at their disposal. If they really wanted to watch a bunch of hill-jacks drink moonshine and compliment each other’s Bushmasters, they probably wouldn’t need to rely on a foggy plexiglass box on a telephone pole. Oh, and the “Tarp Man”….I’m pretty sure REAL cowboys could figure out you need a blanket when it’s cold outside.

Speaking of the Tarp Man, sadly there was a casualty in all this calamity. Robert Finicum was shot by a state trooper after speeding away after a traffic stop, attempting to evade a chase, trying to bypass a roadblock (which probably didn’t need to be set up with stop sticks and spike strips nowadays, but I digress), oh yeah, then reaching into his pocket (which contained a loaded expression of his second amendment right) when the police have him at gunpoint and are issuing commands. It’s a tragedy for his family, absolutely. There’s cries that he was gunned down in cold blood, that it’s all a cover up and conspiracy. Pictures of him and his family plastered social media, painting him as a man with much to live for, much like the Michael Brown media campaign. The man was apparently a cowboy, and had talked numerous times about not being taken alive and talking all manner of shit that showed his willingness to go guns up if the authorities ever were going to arrest him. He took his fate into his own hands. The same guys saying he was murdered are the ones that talk about how if they were in Iraq and a civilian reached in his pocket, he’d smoke them and “be judged by 12 before I’d be carried by 6.” A lot of tough talk double standard going on in the interwebs nowadays.

The whole ordeal makes you wonder; what was the intent of Bundy and his circus? He’s in jail now, vowing to take the fight to the courts and D.C. Isn’t that where the fuck you should have started? Instead, you call out a bunch of III%ers to hang out and break laws and end up with a casualty on your head; You embarrass yourself and your movement on international media outlets and become a joke on social media. Some conspiracy theorists are coming out to say that Ammon Bundy is an informant for the FBI and that he invited a bunch of people as bait for a watch list. Others say he had the “Sandy Hook actor” out there protesting with him (because you know, we have the luxury of saying a tragedy is a conspiracy and didn’t happen in this country.) Time will tell on those, I guess. However, Ammon Bundy and his merry band of tools should hang their head in shame.

I sincerely hope next time a bunch of idiots decide to take it to “the man, “ they do it in a smart fashion and take their asses to Capitol Hill, maybe hire some attorneys and lobbyists, and try that out before they go camping and beg for Slim Jims and blankets.

-Grifter

Many people join because they were drawn to the awe-inspiring sense of purpose. Their branch, the uniform, their unit, an MOS, saving ‘Merika for a buck-o-five—the whole beans-and-bullets bundle gives a distinct identity—whether they wanted it or not.

It doesn’t happen overnight. For most, after the bootcampness fades, they perceive themselves pretty much unchanged; many, in fact, take it as a matter of pride not to succumb to any of the brain-dead jargon; to hold out against any of that recruiter’s officialdom. But at some pivotal moment—maybe a party back home gone awry—they look themselves in the mirror and realize exactly how damn different they’ve become.

The process of getting there varies, both in time and in severity. From the perspective of my own personal narrative: Forgoing funerals, weddings, and owning my own ass—all in exchange for doors opening that otherwise wouldn’t have. Forming the tribe. Honing lethal skills. Learning firsthand how pain and misery are often the giftwrapping for life’s greatest lessons.

And then for many of us another big day rolls around. You peel out of there, hell bent on growing your ZZ Top beard, hit up the first head shop you see, and swearing that one day you’ll show back up with earrings and flip flops on, hoping a motherfucker dare life you out. When that day comes, whether it takes three years or thirty, a transition arguably far more arduous than becoming “military” has just begun. And it is this transition that hits like a deluge, and then can seemingly last for a lifetime.   

*****

Oh, These Modern Times

The civilized world in the 21st century, by and large, suffers from one, great writhing case of plot loss. Humanity may have galloped toward innovation so fast that we now smudge up against an unyielding glass ceiling. It’s now more about looking retro, wearing a beard and flannel, or sporting that leather fashion—rather than actually being a lover of late ‘60s Rock culture, being a rugged lumberjack, or being a biker. It’s like what they used to be doesn’t exist anymore—can’t exist, for some godawful reason. Industries and cultures and frontiers have evaporated. All that is left are paltry revisits and scrounging for the cleverest hashtag.

Many new veterans are particularly hard hit by an identity crisis, though they exhibit it a bit differently. Where like the cases above, a lot of people look to the past and try to redefine it to fit their own modern terms, military veterans turn nostalgia into a vice. The clichés of ritualistic obsessions, beating people to death with the same three war stories, and having Veteran translate into roughly He Who Shall Never Move On all exist as clichés for a reason—namely because they all occur so damn much.

While this topic usually leads to some caustic, light-hearted humor about military culture, there are a few underlining principles involved that are powerful as hell.

Pocket Systems and the Meta-System

Picture smaller circles inside a larger circle. They don’t interlock and can only exist within the confines of this larger circle’s boundary. The smaller circles are pocket systems, and the one they all reside in is a meta-system.

These systems have a direct social context; for instance, micro worlds like gang culture or the military (not to be judged as equitable on any qualitative grounds—I mean, I don’t care—but god knows someone will take it literal and get all assed up). Inside the meta-system of American society, these smaller systems exist.

A pocket system is where the weight/rank of a person is only relevant inside the system itself. Example is an E-9 has clout, while on base and, say, active-duty. But the significance of their social standing is dependent upon staying within the system that gives the social status its weight. Once outside of it (via retirement, for example) E-9 doesn’t translate into a social standing in the meta-system. Translation: Home Depot doesn’t care you used to be the senior enlisted of an entire Division—now go stack those sheets of particle board, please.

This reality is illuminated even more potently when considering specific billets. Take a drill instructor (yut). I like using this example because of the billet's iconic social context. However, notice that the billet is only relevant in the military. Or in short, there is no direct equivalence out in the meta-system.

Notice how this doesn’t apply to something like a JAG lawyer, or military trauma surgeon. Though both may be required to undertake changes to be qualified to work outside of the military, the social standing of Lawyer and Doctor are also directly relevant outside of the military.

The take away here is jobs, titles, billets, and identities that only carry weight within a pocket system are temporary. Since military work has a time-limit, those who wore the temporary identities the proudest may, and likely will, undergo a severe transition.

*****

Many veterans feel nothing they do, or will do, after military service will compare to what they did while in. The simplicity of mission accomplishment, the bonds forged, the crummy pay wildly spent, and the adrenaline rushes that put 120mph on a freeway into a soft, cute shoebox. Its all downhill from here. They may never say this explicitly, but their actions and lifestyle implicitly scream it.

The truth was always out there, just hard to realize until experiencing it for one’s self. It wasn’t going to last forever.

If you're currently in—it’s not going to last forever.

Having been out twice as long as I was in, I still think of my old MOS and my friends almost daily. For some reason my time in seems somehow more recent then things that happened last year—their impact more powerful, their tiny details so crystal clear.

How potent, yet short-term, military identity truly is.

But its no sad story; doesn't have to be. The key is to return to the disparity between Doctor and Drill Instructor. While the latter’s identity and relevance isn’t directly transferable, the intrinsic values expected to be found in it (professionalism, zeal, etc.) are the stepping stones into the future.

If you’re the gunslinger who misses your war and what came with it; pushing the limits, sweat by the buckets, and tackling challenges that deem you half-crazed all still await you in many other arenas. The medals on your wall aren't going anywhere, but neither are the mountaintops. . . and you only have so much time. 

Connect the past and the future with a maniac's smile.

—Mr. Blonde

It had to end eventually—defense contracting. Granted it never actually “ended” as it is alive and well; it’s just… different. The ultimate ex-military, money gun-club, the “golden age of contracting” has passed. Between the military and PMC work it was a good run at that. We are most pleased.

So in the process of executing the exit plan, one’s personal healthcare is an issue that requires increasing attention as you get older. Those injuries do not get better as time drags on. No pain is not weakness leaving the body, it’s just pain. While the VA has always been laughably absurd as far as medical help, it seemed to me for a brief moment that it would not be bad to let them handle some minor issues.

I arrived, and the parking lot was packed with cars of every make and model; from the post-apocalyptic Ford Stranger generously adorned with death-dealing Glock, Nobama, cold dead fingers, Infowars, and colors that don’t run stickers, to the ZO6 Corvette with a DV tag. I pause as I give way to a morbidly obese man who was cruising the crosswalk at a Wal-Mart pace, overtaking an elderly gentleman in a bomber jacket and cane.

I entered, and the education began. Going from years of gun-work in the free market to the screeching halt of government run anything was like hitting a wall at 60mph. What immediately follows is more or less and op-ed. The memories reside as flashes, and with a slew of paperwork the whole thing seems to tell a story. To wit: 

*****

Law 40: Despise the Free Lunch - What is offered for free is dangerous—it usually involves either a trick or a hidden obligation. What has worth is worth paying for. By paying your own way, you stay clear of gratitude, guilt, and deceit.

—48 Laws of Power

While VA healthcare should be a contractual agreement between the veteran and the government for services conducted in the military, it is just purgatory—limbo for disabled vets dependent on the government for paltry healthcare. Anyone who has ever been in a VA waiting room can attest that words like “efficiency,” or “progress” are about the last things that come to mind. What is on the docket is your VA appointed Vogon, taking their looming lunch break—which will be taken on time, Hard-charger. So why don’t you join the rest of your salty people back in your chair and watch the news about Kanye’s twitter war, hmmmm.

The problems with the VA are nothing new. Washington DC will claim they care about your health and well-being because it is an easy election slogan to get around. Veterans dying while on waiting-lists for care makes great political currency; it does not equate to actual, tangible money, however. For the problem to be solved budgets and allocation of money have to be fixed. In the end it is government mandated healthcare. Therefore your overall well being isn’t the priority of the institution; providing the minimal amount of services for the least amount of cost to its budget is. Money is the ultimate monkey. Sweet, sweet taxpayer money.

Solution? There is no easy one. Being aware of this, an important question eventually looms “why go at all?” Some have no choice due to lack of income. Some are immediately locked into the system due to severe injuries sustained in combat.

Yet many go because it is “free,” and they were told that its presence is there to help them. This is a mistake. The overwhelming evidence of abuse and corruption makes a pretty convincing case to the contrary.

The VA is not without its proverbial charm, however. I would highly suggest referring to our past piece on acquiring some of those benefits: One needs to realize clearly what kind of animal they’re facing.

Look at the VA like Denny’s.

If you go in expecting to get filet mignon Au-Poivre you will be sadly mistaken and given your country fried steak with mashed browns and a side of fried diabetes—and you’ll like it, god damn it.

If you have legitimate injuries and disabilities the VA, through a long, lengthy process that is more tedious than sitting through another don't-beat-wife-and-kids-post-deployment brief, you can eventually be compensated for those injuries.

Once received, however, that same money can and should, I argue, be used to subsidize/pay for medical care from a more competent and vetted provider. Use the VA for basic needs like the flu or minor ailments. Anything relating to the utilization of a scalpel should be handled by a highly rated physician and/or private healthcare system. Nothing with the moniker of free is going to be worth it or an adequate measure for results. Being in control of your healthcare is invaluable.

Private insurance and healthcare allows you to acquire the services from most qualified, verified doctors in your area who will see you sometime this century. The private sector will always be superior to any free lunch prescribed by the government. Hell you lucky bastards in Colorado can have medical marijuana prescribed for your, ummm.. "glaucoma." This is, the US of A—for good or for ill—in a land championing free enterprise over all else . . . you get what you pay for.

Did you pay for it by serving in uniform? Yes. But did you see “Honor and Service” as one of the payment options next to Visa and Paypal when you order your patriotic star spangled Truck Nutz off Amazon? Private healthcare is not perfect, but it is better than waiting in VA purgatory, only to maybe end up contracting HIV or Hepatitis.

I would wager that if we made it personal for lawmakers and took all five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress and replaced their very first class Gucci healthcare with that of the VA, the issues that are plaguing it will be rectified with a quickness. Suddenly those political slogans and platitudes have merit and real intent behind them.  Suddenly your well being, is their well being.

*****

I was late for my appointment but only because parking was at a premium with the outside looking like a swirling Mongol horde of cars and Rascal scooters. Not like it made much of a difference considering that my appointment wasn’t showing up on the kiosk, nor was it on what appeared to be a 90’s era DOS system computer. The Vogon instructed me to wait and fill out more forms, forms that I had already submitted online. In the waiting area I sat and perused what was once a fully grown spruce tree, turned white rectangles peppered with "on a scale of one to ten" questions.

“Uh. . . what?” I asked. The man leaning toward me held a smile, mid-block in a leathery face. He was well dressed and powerfully built for a senior citizen. A small CIB Vietnam Veteran pin was on his carry bag, and his hands—which looked like something that belonged on a rock biter and geared to crush skulls—curled around the head of a cane.

“Yeah” he laughed then cleared his throat. “The VA thinks I’m dead. They cut off all my benefits. I have no idea how or why, but I called ‘em after I didn’t receive my payment. They told me I was deceased.” He went into a fit of laughter, looked down, and then cocked his head back up. “I’m like ‘the hell I am.’ I’ve been fighting with ‘em ever since. I’ve shown up with my ID, passport, bank statements, everything I can find to show I’m . . . alive. They still won’t fix it. They tell me I gotta fill out these forms, and I do, but nothin’ happens.”

“Jesus tapdancing Christ,” I said, “the VA literally killed you. Goddamn man, how long has this been going on?”

“Six months.” He grabbed his cane with one hand and his armrest with the other. Lifting to his feet he said, “I’ve been at this with them daily. They don’t want to believe I’m still alive.” His loud, gravelly laughter rang in my ears as he hobbled out the door.

—Thulsa

A few years ago I learned a valuable lesson while sitting on the flight line in Jalalabad, Afghanistan waiting on a bird that never arrived: always have a clear extraction plan.  During my time in the United States Army and as a private military contractor working for Blackwater, I was reminded countless times to make a plan, double check it, and then be prepared to refine that plan when problems inevitably arose.  Failure to do so could leave you stranded and very unhappy (or even dead).  We all know this lesson, but most of us fail to make long-term plans for our personal and professional lives.

This last year has been fantastic for me since I have been living in Australia and now Vanuatu - a tropical island paradise in the middle of the Pacific - but I realized that at some point I needed something more substantial than the odd consulting job here and there.  I updated my LinkedIn profile to make it a little punchier and more attractive then began see what opportunities I could find.  I found the posting for a dream job as the base manager for a sailing charter fleet in Phuket, Thailand.  I have a passion for sailing, having chartered several times and living aboard my own sailboat for two years.  The top skills the employer for this job had listed included customer service, team management, management, leadership, and negotiation.  I am an expert at all of those things!

Unfortunately I had set up my LinkedIn profile for the job that I previously had, not the job that I wanted.  The skills I had listed included unfriendly and often misunderstood things like Afghanistan, weapons, security, and military.  I realized in that moment that despite years of successful planning for clients and superiors in my previous roles, I had done nothing to develop an exit strategy for myself from the world of guns and combat zones.  I was still stuck in private military contractor mode even though I had left that job and was pursuing new opportunities.  Why would a yacht charter company hire someone who views Afghanistan and weapons as core competencies?  It was a needed moment of clarity: I should have started planning and marketing myself even before I left Afghanistan.  Thankfully, it is never too late to start that process.

Whether you are military, private military contractor, or in another industry, start planning now for what you want to do in the future and begin marketing yourself.  After all, you are the best product you have to sell.  While it helps to identify what job you want, knowing what you do not want is also useful to help narrow your field of options.  I decided that I wanted to continue team building and strategic planning, but I did not want to carry a gun or work in combat zones.  I wanted to use my experience as a leader and manager to help organizations solve complex problems and operate more efficiently.  Even narrowing my focus down to that rather broad category has helped me find new opportunities here and begin to recognize other opportunities for the future.  

As I think back to that frustrated moment sitting on the flight line in Jalalabad, I now realize what needs to be done.  Do yourself a favor and start preparing for the future now rather than when you absolutely need a new job to pay the bills. Employment should also be about satisfaction and challenge, not just income. Identify the skills you have and what you need to develop or acquire, then begin to craft your image so that you can show the world you have so much more to offer than just carrying a gun.

-Wade 

     "... in a singular way, we were more like the men we were fighting than the people hugging us at the airport. It fades, at least for most of us. The rage. The thoughts of life-taking that make one salivate. The lethality dripping in disappointment. The fading process is as random as what spots in Iraq were hot and what spots were dead cold. Some it leaves as they board the Maine-bound plane, some a decade later, some at an internal investigations tribunal for excessive use of force that pumps the veins swollen with ice water. And for some it never fades. Their bullets find a target, themselves high in the list."

- Why Go at All

     "Avoiding a military brat of my own, at the last second..."

- B.A.H.

     "Word had long since reached our battalion about the hit we took. The injured had arrived there many hours prior, some of whom had already landed in Baghdad for surgery. Humvees parked in our motor pool, gear brought into our team room; our first sergeant met us at the door with tin-foil wrapped dinners. The night before had been Thanksgiving, a thing that meant something to some people. I had forgotten all about it, and it wasn't until the following Thanksgiving , this time at my aunt's house , that it meant anything at all. Not the stupidity of celebrating pagans teaching zealots how to grow corn, nor the food or the football, but that the day itself was connected to an extraordinary memory.

     Taking my plate from my first sergeant's hand, I heard from behind me Derrick say, "Fuck that. . . I don't want his pity." I didn't either, I thought, as I bit into the white meat."

- Hearts & Minds

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Buried in my Facebook notifications is a ten-year-old friend request from a ghost. A high school friend who battled internal demons for a long time and passed away around 2010. At the time I didn't see the notification, or I ignored it, or I forgot about it. By the time I realized I had a friend request from her, she was gone. 

For nearly a decade I’ve put off clicking “accept” out of fear that her current friends would somehow be notified. That somehow my sudden addition would startle the ones who were truly close to her, the ones who ritually post to her wall every year on her birthday. I don’t want to disturb these people, some of whom I remember from school, some of whom I've never met. They seem to find comfort in sharing memories with the digital representation of their friend. 

Ten years is too long to accept a friend request. But I don’t want to decline, either, out of respect. She and I are stuck in ethereal limbo. 

As the years go by, these ghost profiles become a larger percentage of my friends list. A friend on Facebook is not a person. But it is the digital extension of a person: hands and eyes and brains connected to a phone, projecting consciousness into the digital void. When someone dies, these become empty unchecked inboxes, unread posts. Eerie cloud-based shells filled with personal information, photographs, sentiments, drunken stories. Profile pictures that haven’t changed since 2012. When someone dies, their Facebook profile sticks around. 

When I look at these profiles, a deep unease takes hold of me. I can’t look for long.

For a year I was in a group chat with two dead men. One was killed by his spouse. The other took his own life. After they passed the group sent message after message to a profile picture of a smiling dark-haired man with sunglasses and a five o’clock shadow, and to another profile picture, a Springfield .45 caliber 1911 pistol. We carried on like they were still reading the texts. Except there was nobody on the other side of the screen. Nobody to check the phone. We had one-sided conversations with people who were buried or cremated somewhere and would never log back on again.

I became uncomfortable and left the group. The two dead men still follow me on Instagram.

Ghost profiles aren't new. I remember the first time I noticed them; in the year or two after I left the Marine Corps, two of my platoonmates passed away. Car accidents. Gone before they had time to really grow up. Immortalized in their early twenties. They survived the war only to be killed by the peace.

For one friend, his ghost profile picture is a minor irony: a kneeling Marine, him, at an Afghanistan KIA memorial ceremony, next to a pair of boots, a rifle, dogtags and a helmet. I remember that day. And I remember our near-fistfight during our first deployment, and lifting ammo can weights and taking pictures of each other at our remote patrol base. The other Marine who passed I remember just as well. I recall how he carried the guidon in bootcamp, how we separated into different jobs at the school of infantry, how we both shared the last patrol on our last trip overseas.

At different times I took a knee with both of these men in the waist-high poppy fields of Nawa or Garmsir. Now I kneel at the digital altar of remembrance.

How long will these ghost profiles go on? Will we all carry on into eternity after our deaths as ones and zeroes? Internet memorials to our projected selves? As we age we make fewer friends, and the friends we have pass into the ether.

In fifty years, will fifty percent of my Facebook friends be ghosts?

Two deaths in one week in late 2019. These men I can’t remember as well, so I scroll through their pictures after they pass, trying to place their faces. A barracks catwalk in Hawaii. Parade rest and high and tight haircuts. Yes, Corporal. No, Corporal. I recall them as joyful, brutally young men with sheepish smiles and crisp uniforms who would laugh at my stupid jokes as I stood duty at the barracks. 

In our society people used to fade away and nobody but their closest family would know. Now friends watch each other die on Facebook. We follow chemo treatments and final ballpark visits with detached interest.

For one friend, I follow his battle with a rare form of cancer, hoping he’ll get better. I don’t know how to feel when he doesn’t. As I look at his updates I picture him as his past self: the deep booming voice, the enormous hands, the gregarious smile. The hot temper and the unrelenting loyalty and the three hundred pound bench press. But on Facebook I watch him lose a third of his body weight as he fights for time. I try recall this digital representation of a person as a real life person: how we slept on each other’s floors in states of inebriation. How I somehow managed to get his massive semi-conscious figure into a taxi and home after a fancy convention at a hotel. How he snuck me into a party on a bridge for which I was not invited and vastly underdressed. I feel far away. I am ultimately so detached that when he passes away it takes me three days to cry. 

But I do, and as I do I feel real pain, real remorse, as if I’m standing graveside at his funeral. And perhaps this is the redeeming quality of social media: that for all its inauthenticity, all its fakeness, the people behind the profiles are real. Day to day we hesitate to feel for each other because of the distance the internet puts between us. But ultimately, when the worst happens, at least we know about it. We have a venue to remember someone by. And we would rather have a ghost profile than just a ghost.

Books and movies—the military kind. Do you watch them? Read them? Today we’re going to talk about them, and how the facts aren’t always… accurate. And a little bit about why that is.

Two elements to consider.

A: the entertainment industry knows what sells. A few story-telling terms to start us off could be agents of change, the B-story, the standard arc of Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis —all tools successful creators use in various mediums and on a regular basis. It isn’t shocking that military blockbusters contain "against insurmountable odds," or fighting until all ammo is blasted out of the righteous side of a god-fearin’ barrel. What passion! These help the rugged themes and praise and galloping jingoism that make the genre the financial mega-success it usually is.

B: the military is a culture—inside and out—that adheres to a strict value of authenticity.

Like many cultures, there are specific ways of dress, speech, and customs. Then there are the other specifics. You wearing that tab? You better have earned it. Said you fought in Ramadi but never left the wire? Themz fightin’ words in the wrong/right crowd. Retired Navy SEAL Don Shipley has gained formidable recognition for his investigation and exposure of individuals who’ve made false claims of military service.

Keep all that in mind, because as far as military art/entertainment is concerned, the problem is when A inevitably collides with B.

Or in other words, Entertainment Formulae Meets Military Authenticity is usually a relationship at odds. Rarely do perfect, realistic accounts of battle, or military life, fit the Hollywood mold or the bestseller template.

Some things are perhaps forgivable, like dispersion being off due to the camera lens and similar constraints of the medium. Some things, perhaps, not so much; like most vets rarely experienced life (before, during, or after) on par with the Campbellian hero and his nice, clean and tidy story arc.

Let’s start with the funny stuff. Every veteran knows another who seeks out what’s wrong with an actor’s uniform. And they’ll usually find them, too. A Marine being called “soldier” or an Air Force medal seen on a seaman, these discrepancies come with the errors and artificiality that happen when any profession is flung onto the silver screen (just ask cops).

But there are larger discrepancies at work, ones not easily dismissible as amusing, or a mistake.

Ghostwriters, screenwriters, directors—the whole gang—they seek out real stories with big potential. Once found, they embellish a few components, omit others, and then give the stuff a good, final polish—and voilà —the product ‘Merika seems eternally poised to devour.

But there is a question here that needs to be asked: Do book readers, movie goers, Netflix bingers, vets themselves, do they care when the actual stories are changed? And, maybe more on point, should they?

Entertainment Formulae Meets Military Authenticity has its upside. Saving Private Ryan wasn’t a documentary, but Americans did fight the Germans in WWII. Fleshing out attractive story-telling in a landscape of reality has always been fundamental to the arts. The problem, however, arises when the art is sold as true-to-life. This happens a lot these days; proven perhaps the clearest when a figure in the story is practically shoved into the searing limelight. They’ve become authorities, advocates, poster-children, resident experts.

The reason people want to listen to them is the belief in their experience. Yet, there is a reason we didn’t see Sons of Anarchy star, Charlie Hunnam, giving lectures on how to deal with criminal motorcycle gangs. Right?

Altering events to make a story more attractive—no matter how small and non-pertinent it may seem to some—in the eyes of the vast military culture, the work becomes a piece of fiction. Or, if trumpeted and bannered as nonfiction, a case of politically-motivated salesmanship.

 At this point, it’s probably a good idea to make clear that this article doesn’t aim to change a damn thing. Elements A and B are arc-welded into our culture.

 The only added value we offer here is a source where a critical conversation can root itself.

 There are good versions on both ends of the spectrum: Documentary and Drama. The merits of a good documentary need not be stated. For military drama we could look at Platoon. Nothing about it claimed to be based on real life. The movie used the backdrop of a war and its specifics to examine aspects of the human condition.

 But you got to give it to the previously noted content creators. They find a way to muck these up too. How? You mix them.

How do they mix them?

Kind of like… you know how metal and rap can both be awesome but Limp Bizkit patently sucked? Right. Fusing elements that thematically oppose one another may be good in theory, but usually ends up just being another commercially-geared Frankenstein. When the documentary bends truth or states fiction as fact, or when dramas sell their story as truthful rather than based on isolated fragments of history, then we run into the issue.

A big issue? Nah, probably not. But for what it’s worth, veterans, nonveterans, whatever, people tend to dislike false advertising.

Most people have heard sayings like “You are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with.” This is one of the advantages of belonging to a SOF community. When everyone around you is driven, disciplined and holds themselves to a high standard, you rapidly start to think it’s normal. You adapt to it, you internalize it. We always swim faster with the current. This tendency to bias our behavior to be more like those around us is known in behavioral research as herding.

A variety of this, known as self-herding, is when you refer to your own past actions for subconscious guidance rather than mirroring what others around you are doing. The interesting thing about herding is that a behavior or decision bias can persist a lot longer than the situation that produced the behavior.

For example, let’s say that you’re at a restaurant with a group of friends. You’re all members of the same MMA gym and are training for a tournament in two weeks. You’ve just finished a workout together and are all feeling great about your training. You skim the menu and see plenty of appealing but unhealthy options, but due to the social context and your I’ve-got-my-shit-together mood, you order something healthy. Protein, veggies, healthy carbs.

A few months later, you stop in at the same restaurant by yourself in the middle of a busy workday. As you scan the menu, you subconsciously refer back to the decision you made the last time you were here, so you repeat the same healthy order. Over time, this becomes a habit. Every time you’re in this restaurant you save time and mental energy by defaulting to what you did before.

This tendency for one-time passing emotions to influence long-term decision-making is known as an emotional cascade. You could think of it in the context of sensitivity to initial conditions, covered in-depth in the chaos and complexity section of our book. Small factors in the beginning of a process can reverberate through time into bigger things.

One of the most effective ways to take advantage of this effect is with the common practice of successful SOF candidates, to “quit tomorrow.” In selection, it’s incredibly tempting to tell yourself that the run is too far, the water is too cold, or you just can’t do another pushup.

Some days in selection, we wanted nothing more than to make it stop. One of the ways we coped with this was to promise ourselves and each other that we would never quit in the middle of an evolution. If we did quit, it would be at the end of the day once it was all over and the intensity of the moment had passed.

Say it was beatdown time. We’d be on the beach, with a big sand berm above us and the frigid ocean right behind us. We’d be going through an endless series of pushups, burpees, eight counts and flutter kicks.

The instructor’s face-to-face torment and running commentary on our personal weaknesses – ranging from a pathological inability to do a correct pushup to what a great disappointment we must be to our parents – would only be interrupted by sprints into the surf zone and up to the top of the sand berm for a fresh coat of wet and sandy.

Doing 100 burpees in a row is an extra special experience when your clothes are sopping wet and sand is rubbing your skin away with every movement.

Sometimes we’d have this conversation among one another, in a spare moment away from the earshot of the instructors. We’d encourage each other with the reminder that we could always quit tomorrow. Other times, it was just a conversation you had in your own head. No matter how bad it was, it could all be over tomorrow. Just keep going for now.

It wasn’t planned at the time, it just happened. But it helped.

A six-month course became one last conditioning run that we’d never have to do again. Months became minutes. Minutes became manageable.

Most guys would look back on the evolution that made them want to quit, realize that it wasn’t really that bad, and be damn glad that they had waited before making a permanent decision.

Each time we decided to “quit tomorrow” we were cementing an action of pushing through pain to keep going in moments of vulnerability. Each morning, we’d wake up and realize that even though yesterday sucked, it was within our power to handle it and keep going. Fuck it, we survived yesterday. And we were one step closer to finishing the course and confidently facing each new challenge with the same fuck it, we’ll get it done attitude, no matter what the day held.

You can use this effect to your advantage in many different settings. If you’re in the middle of a horrible set of high rep squats, you’re going to want to come up with any reason to stop early. Don’t. You can quit the entire workout once that set is over, but finish that one set. Once it’s over, you’ll probably find that you have it in you to finish another. And then another.

With conscious control, you can affect your actions today and establish the habits which you’ll rely on in the future.

This practice becomes especially important in times of tumult, whether that means that your new normal is the day-to-day grind of a SOF selection course or the current societal upheaval that we’re all facing in the coronavirus pandemic.

When we’re under chronic stress and navigating unfamiliar territory, our cognitive function changes. We have reduced access to the executive parts of our brain that run long-term goal-oriented decision-making. Instead, we’re more likely to revert to more primitive and reactive parts of our brain and solve problems reflexively with only a short-term focus.

If we let this run uncontrolled, we end up with a lot of solutions that create future problems.

We solve the problem of cold water and sandy burpees by quitting the course. After a warm shower and some time to think it over, the weight of sidetracking our career will seem a lot more pressing than another afternoon of burpees.

We solve the problem of a crashing economy, social isolation and a looming threat to the lives of our elderly loved ones by tuning out, binge-watching The Office and filling our freezer with ice cream. We kinda-sorta feel better (or at least, feel less) for a while, but when it’s over we’re still facing the same world of uncertainty and challenges, just with a little more blood sugar and a few days less time.

If we can remain aware of how this contextual stress will affect our decision-making, we can maintain enough control to use strategies like quitting tomorrow and forge new reflexive behaviors that support our long-term goals in this new environment.

Moment by moment, day by day, we can bias our responses toward doing the right thing even when the right thing is hard. Eventually, that bias solidifies into the habits we fall back on in our lowest moments. Quitting tomorrow, a temporary override, leads to a new baseline: a mind that never feels the urge to quit.

Before going home, Phyllis took our team to see a place I’d never forget. From Cape Coast, we ventured West past thatched-roof huts and giant anthills to the seaside city of Elmina. Elmina was incredibly lively. There was music everywhere. Street side musicians collaborated with familiar and foreign instruments to drown out songs blasting over blown out speakers. Fishermen sold their fresh catches, sometimes still wriggling in buckets. Old pieces of net and line littered the greasy, trash-filled streets, the pungent odor of fish assaulting our nostrils stronger than hot, flying brass.

So far in Ghana, I did not experience much harassment from beggars. Aggressive salesmen, yes, but little in the way of beggary, until arriving in Elmina. Most of the beggars spoke French, and very little English, the lingua franca in Ghana. I found out later there had been a military coup in the former French colony of Burkina Faso, and refugees from the neighboring country sought safety and opportunity in Ghana. My heart felt for them, even more so when our driver, Karl, would yell at them to leave us alone.

The group of us strode up to an enormous white fortress and past the “gate of no return,” where enslaved Africans would pass before being crammed into slaver vessels and leaving their continent forever. The fortress’s high walls, towers, and old, rusted cannons made a statement:  Do Not Fuck With Us. The Portuguese had originally built the large white edifice which was later captured by the Dutch.  This structure, Elmina Castle, was the oldest European building in sub-Saharan Africa. Inside, a guide gave us the historic tour of grounds where so many lives ended, figuratively and literally.

The main plaza at the center of the castle was surrounded by high white walls, each with dungeonesque doors and chambers. There were small slits in one of the walls for slave traders to peer through. They’d peek through the cracks to bid on slaves behind the walls so they wouldn’t have to look their victims in the eyes.

One of the doors had a skull and crossbones up top which looked cool and piratey. I had my coworker Wells take a picture of me standing in front of the door. I later learned that the skull and crossbones were symbols of terror designed to keep the enslaved Africans in line. Any African who entered that chamber did not come out alive, condemned to death by starvation, heat, or disease for even mild forms of rebellion, like spitting too close at a European. I imagined other slaves behind the crossed bars of the adjacent dungeons peering through the medieval gates to see their rebellious friend one last time. After learning this, I thought about the irreverent instagram influencers inappropriately posing for travel pictures in front of the death camps at Auschwitz and Dachau. I’d just done the same thing in Africa, ignorant and unaware.

We took some uneven stairs to the upper interior of the castle where the governor and clergymen lived. The governor’s quarters had a balcony that overlooked the main plaza. Whenever the Dutch governor was horny and wanted a quick or overnight fuck, he’d order the slaves from the female dungeon to a military style formation, crudely inspect them, and choose his victim(s) for the night. They’d be bathed, perfumed, and groomed for him, then discarded back to the hot, damp, waste-ridden women’s dungeon when he grew tired of them.

The chapel near the governor’s quarters also had a balcony overlooking the central plaza. Above the interior doorway was a sign in Dutch inscribed with Psalm 132: “Zion is does Heeren ruste. Dit is syn woonplaeste in eternal eewighety,” which roughly translates as, “Zion is the Lord’s resting place. This is His habitation and everlasting resting place.” I was shocked that priests at the first and oldest Catholic chapel in sub-Saharan Africa had the audacity to display such an ornament. How many sermons were given while slaves were being processed, branded, and stuffed into the dungeons below? How many screams from the courtyard under the balcony or the governor’s sheets interrupted prayer? This lesson in hypocrisy and the realization that humans are capable of twisting anything to justify their life's narrative for greed has stayed with me.

Somehow, that awful chapel was more stuffy than the hot, damp, and moldy dungeons below. We exited the church and explored the rest of the castle on our own. I climbed to the top of a high wall facing the sea. Skeletons of old, abandoned fishing boats lined the sandy shore as children played soccer under the sun, their laughs and shouting still audible over the gently rolling surf. There was something so beautiful and surreal about seeing and hearing those wonderful kids at play, dodging, running, and kicking around the broken wooden vessels which once brought the sea’s most nourishing catches to shore. Under the grand, white monument of oppression where an estimated three million slaves were processed and sold to their deaths, and despite neo-colonial efforts to keep much of Africa underdeveloped, the resilient innocence of children had somehow prevailed. It kind of struck me then; that this is why we were doing it. This is what the wealthy philanthropist was trying to preserve, and why he sent me halfway across the world. This is why my nervous mother risked traveling to the Gold Coast at the tail end of the ebola crisis. This is what my great grandmother was trying to make room for when she helped build West African nursing centers for the Peace Corps. That laughter was the sound of hope worth saving. No one can save the world for all mankind, but man can indeed save the world for some of his fellow kin.

I learned a lot about the human condition in Ghana. I came home with many new insights and stories to tell. I could go on about the following adventures to Bota Falls, the Kakum suspension bridges, and all the unique, beautiful art I saw throughout the country. It was one of my life’s brightest highlights to see and work with such wonderful people, and find some more direction in my own life. Sharing the experience with my mother made it all the sweeter. I wholeheartedly encourage each and every one of you OAF Scouts to take up a humanitarian adventure sometime. Add something extra meaningful to your travels. Build a better world for someone if you can. You may just find something inside you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Achilles, the most renowned warrior in Western culture. The hero of the Trojan War. The monster.

On the off chance you have no idea who Achilles is, let me sum up. Achilles was born to Thetis, a goddess, and Peleus, a mortal king. Achilles was almost a god (the offspring of two gods) but Prometheus prophesied that Achilles would be greater than his father, so Zeus and Poseidon, who were both pushing up on Thetis were like, “nah, give her to a mortal.” That’s how Peleus, a good man, a king, and famous warrior in his own right, bagged a hot goddess and sired a demigod. A second prophecy about Achilles said that he would live long and die in obscurity or win great fame as a warrior and die young. We know which choice he made.

Achilles was fast, good looking, and had an ash spear that he used to keep Hades stocked with fresh shades (what the Greeks believed you became in the afterlife). But he had a temper.

And not just that he had a temper, but he had a serious problem with rage. Warriors, does this sound familiar?

Think about this. The first line of the Iliad, one of the oldest and most important pieces of Western literature, opens with “Sing, Goddess of the rage of Achilles.” The Iliad was composed around 850 B.C., making it nearly 3,000 years old. And how is the greatest warrior remembered these past millennia? By his rage.

Warriors, what will your legacy be?

Now that I am old, I think about legacy a lot. I have a son. He has followed my footsteps into the military. And above my desk is a laminated picture he drew when he was a young boy. Said picture is a portrait of me in uniform, holding a weapon. But how did he draw my face? With what emotion? I can only find one word. Rage.

Anger is one thing. A warrior can be righteously angry. In fact, our better nature should be angry at some of the things we have seen and fought against. Anger is a natural reaction, I think, in a lot of ways. But when unchecked and allowed to become rage? Rage is for monsters, beasts, and men (and women) who have severed their ties to humanity.

Achilles is our case in point of this severed tie to humanity. When Agamemnon takes Briseis, Achilles’s battle prize, Achilles’s pride is wounded, and he becomes so enraged at leadership that he withdraws from the fighting. Bad leadership is as old as warfighting itself—again we have the Iliad as proof of that—but withdrawing from the fight? Leaving his brothers to die? Would we do that? I am not overstating the case here, either. Achilles was instrumental in winning the Trojan war. Prophecy said that without Achilles many Greeks would die and the war would be lost. And this brings the rest of that the Iliad’s first line about rage, “the accursed rage that brought great suffering to the Achaeans.”

Let that sink in for a minute.

His rage led to the death of his comrades. In fact, Achilles even begged his mother to ask Zeus to let the Trojans kill many Greeks as punishment for the insult. Where is the honor and humanity in that request? How many of his fellow men died who didn't have to?

Of course, the greatest example of the casualties Achilles’s rage caused is Patroclus. Patroclus, Achilles’s closest companion,  who felt Achilles was behaving dishonorably—and called him out for it—who felt that even seeing Achilles on the field of battle would bolster morale, who took Achilles’s armor, and was killed by Hector.  

The lesson of Patroclus’s death is that a warrior’s rage can cause casualties among the warrior’s closest relations. How many of us have divorces? Strained relationships? How many of us can admit that some of those divorces and relationship strains are on us?

And does Achilles take responsibility for Patroclus and the other Greek deaths? No. He blames Hector. Hector, the good man. The man who was defending his homeland. Who was torn between duty to his wife and son and to his country. Hector, who fought honorably.

Refusing to take responsibility for his actions and lack of emotional control is one of Achilles’s greatest problems, to be honest. At first he blames Agamemnon for starting the trouble, then he blames Hector. Never once does Achilles say, “my bad, I messed up. I overreacted to someone else’s actions.” And so, he keeps distancing himself from humanity becoming more and more monstrous as he stews in his rage. And this, warriors, is his greatest sin. Achilles becomes so entrenched in his rage, he holds on to his rage so tightly, that he severs the strongest tie to humanity—the quality that binds all humans. Achilles loses his compassion.  

Compassion is one of the most important and undervalued qualities of a warrior. Look, there are a lot of evil fucking people in the world and they need to be put down. I am not advocating a dilution of the warrior culture or giving monsters a pass. Quite the opposite. But we have to remember to keep our compassion or else, what’s the point?

We know the story. Achilles kills Hector. You could argue, “hey it’s war. Shit happens.” True, I guess. But what he does next marks Achilles's transition to full monster. He doesn’t just kill Hector in a rage, he desecrates the body and refuses to let Priam, the Trojan king and Hector’s father, bury his son.  

War is war, war is hell, people die, blah blah blah. The one cultural norm of the time was that enemies who met and fought honorably were treated with honor and dignity. By depriving Priam the right to bury his son, Achilles breaks the unspoken covenant of warriors, of humans—respect for our dead.

As monstrous as he is, Achilles is not beyond redemption. Achilles relents and allows Priam to bury his son. Achilles even promises funeral game for nine days—a cultural norm and joyous occasion to celebrate the deaths of comrades—before Hector’s burial on the tenth day.

Achilles regains his compassion and rejoins society. He comes home to humanity.

Rage is real. I have struggled with it. You probably have, too. Maybe some of us have even become the monsters we fight. And remained the monster at home.

Like I said earlier, I think about these things a lot more than I used to in my old age, especially as I watch my young warrior son struggle against peace time. Sitting here writing this, I think of the times where I know I lost my compassion, where I was consumed with rage, and wish someone in leadership had reminded me that compassion is a warrior virtue, too.

And so, as an old timer, and like I told my son once: Strive to keep the monster at bay, check your rage, and when you fail, and you become the monster, remember that compassion is a good thing and that’s how you find your way home.

Deep in the Rio Grande forest of Colorado lies a hidden monument to the Vietnam War dead. The exact location is not a secret, but it’s not advertised either. It is not my place to share. Like all those who have made the pilgrimage, I signed an unwritten pact to keep quiet on the specifics. But if you want to find it, you will. Like the rest of the pilgrims.

The journey from the city is four or five hours by motorcycle. On reaching the trailhead it takes me an hour to make my way down fourteen miles of forest roads to my destination. I stand on the footpegs of my Suzuki V-Strom DL650 as I maneuver around boulders and wandering cattle. The air is late-summer fresh and cooler as I gain elevation. My bike, laden with camping gear, water and books, bounces and slides nimbly. The ride is pleasantly tiring. At the end of the road I arrive at a wooden fence. I am greeted by a field of cows, the sky stretching over a rise just below treeline, nearly 12,000 feet above sea level. As I hop off the bike and scan the clearing, I find what I’m looking for: a solitary marble tower in the middle of a clearing.

The Soldierstone.

Planned by a retired Lieutenant Colonel who obtained permission from the government to build on national forest land, the Soldierstone took five years to construct. Its creator died without ever seeing it completed. The monument is a sad one. Its main component is a tower of smooth marble with engravings in half a dozen languages. Around this fixture is a triangle of stacked rocks and thirty-six marble placards laid into the earth, waiting to be stumbled upon. 

As I approach my legs melt into the ground. The pressure behind my eyes builds. My hands tremble slightly I reach to touch the marble. And when I do, I imagine the men this stone was built for.

“In Memory of Long Wars Lost and the Soldiers of Vietnam,” reads one side of the monument.

Long Wars Lost. There is a reason for my pilgrimage here. I have long identified my Afghanistan experience with that of Vietnam. The Long War: booby traps, rice paddies, endless rain. Digging and moving and digging again. Deadly ambushes. The Longest War: waist-deep canals, a hill filled with scorpions,  endless sandstorms. Green and black flecks in a night vision monocle. Anxious steps, waiting for the earth to erupt. Both wars fought for unclear aims.

Engraved on the monolith are the words Valor, Courage, Sacrifice, Honor. On the surrounding stones are poems and quotes in Cambodian, German, French, Vietnamese, Montagnard and other languages.

The Soldierstone is devoid of politics. It offers no answers and asks for nothing in return. The architect sought an anonymous tribute to all the lost, not just the Americans, but also the foreign soldiers lost fighting on their behalf. Later that night as I am unloading my motorcycle to camp, I think about whirling Blackhawk rotors, Afghan Army soldiers, a blood-spattered wall in a distant bazaar. And I think about other memorials.

***

On the south side of the National Mall in D.C. there is a lonely and half-forgotten monument to the Washingtonian dead of World War I. When I arrive I find four kids filming themselves dancing to electronic music. I loiter nearby until they finish. There is no rush. I feel no enmity toward them. No urge to publicly berate them for their disrespect. The war dead sacrifice so the living can frolic.

When the teenagers are done I stand in the pagoda. I look up into the middle, searching for vertigo. I let my mind find its own way: outside of Marjah, an artillery barrage, five shots on target. Except the target is not the enemy, but us. We, the men who ordered the strike, are the victims of it.

Compare this to the experience of the men who fought the Great War and things are put in perspective. Five rounds in one barrage becomes five rounds per second, fired at young men huddling in trenches. The great thundering bombardments you read about in All Quiet on the Western Front. The Great War was far deadlier than the Longest War. Nevertheless, when I stand here I feel a silent kinship with the men who fought it. Humbled by their sacrifice, I reflect on our shared, shattered youth. I think about the common experience of soldiers at war: monotony interspersed with moments of immense peril. Terror and loss.

After a time I make my way over to the Korean War Memorial, the most haunting of them all. Nineteen soldiers arrayed as a detachment on patrol. The seven-foot tall figures convey a sense of shared resolve, and it’s as if I’m there with them, next to the radioman, calling up a position report. Next to the machine-gunner, carrying ammunition. I am the squad leader, keeping the wedge intact. I am the pointman, searching for a safe route that will lead us home. I am the statue and the statue is a man I once knew.

***

Back at Soldierstone I am sitting on the rock-wall, drinking a can of Fat Tire. The cows’ bells tinkle as they wander by. Fading light shines on glossy marble. I hear the steady scuff of footsteps and look up to see a hiker approaching from the nearby Colorado Trail portion that cuts through the mesa. He nods. I nod. He takes a seat nearby and begins to unwrap a sandwich. He is hiker-trash of the highest degree: lightweight pack, trekking poles, unwashed beard, bandana. I envy him. We share several minutes of silence.

Then, inexplicably, I grow anxious. I want to implore him: ask me about the memorial! I want to explain the Soldierstone’s origins. Let him know what it symbolizes. Tell him about the foreign soldiers who fought with us but were forgotten in our monuments.  In a moment of selfishness I wish he would ask me why I’m here, if I was ever in a war, what this means to me, so I can explain all about Helmand Province, a Hazara with a hole in his groin, an Afghan soldier running, flailing, and falling.

But I say nothing. The urge passes. The moment returns to its calm, late afternoon stillness. In Colorado, it always rains in the afternoon and clears up again in the evening, leaving a brilliant sunset that spreads its fingers through the trees.

The hiker wraps up the remnants of his sandwich, collects his pack, and with another nod, departs. I leave shortly after. Soldierstone remains, guarding the memory of long wars, foreign and personal. 

Lieutenant Colonel Stuart Allen Beckley, creator of the Soldierstone, died in 1995. He instructed that his name not appear anywhere on the memorial. "It's 'for them,' not 'for us,'" he wrote. 

One of the universally desirable traits across selection courses is what psychologists call low neuroticism. This doesn’t mean being dead inside or emotionless. The best translation would be “high emotional stability.” It’s the ability to self-monitor your emotional responses and stay cool and rational when someone else might panic or fly off the handle.

A selection course is designed to be an equalizer. Physical activities are used simply as a means of assessing underlying mental characteristics. No matter how fit you are, the system will find your breaking point. 

The collegiate athlete who finishes the run in first place with gas in the tank gets less respect than the fat kid who destroys himself to make the cutoff, because in a real-world operation you want the guy on your team who won’t stop until he’s given everything that he has. Aerobic endurance can be trained. The capacity to be trainable, not so much.

This is part of why it’s so common to see exceptional athletes rapidly break down and quit. After a lifetime of being a gifted athlete and receiving steady positive feedback for being excellent, it can be incredibly discouraging and disorienting to be in a world of extreme stress and ever-moving goal posts where every single person is going to suffer. Being amazingly fit provides zero protection. None.

“You can do 200 pushups in a row? Neat! He does 250 or he gets the hose again.”

And that instructor will go to 300, 400, a million if he must. He will get you.

This means that you must learn to recognize, understand, and control how your mind works when things go badly - because selection has a 100% likelihood of going badly. If you’re unprepared to keep your head together when you hit bottom or face a setback, you’re going to fail. So, your goal is to be someone with enough self-awareness to use errors as tools for improvement and to think rationally and act productively when everything around you is falling apart. 

The ABC drill is borrowed from the field of cognitive behavioral therapy. Its premise is that external events do not cause our emotions, but our beliefs (especially our irrational beliefs) about those events do. 

As Shakespeare put it, there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. 

As we’ve covered in previous articles, I didn’t know how to swim when I joined the Navy and volunteered for SOF selection, and it was as painful as you’d imagine. 

At least as much as I suffered in the water from my inability to swim well, I suffered in my head from my loathing of it. Every morning in the pool was a maximal effort. Every day I expected to drown. On some nights I would dread the next day so much that I’d become physically ill. The only thing that stopped me throwing up was the thought of losing calories.

Either I would come to terms with the source of this stress and rumination or I would fall apart. 

One weekend I sat in my room, enjoying the beauty of warm sunlight and unlimited oxygen, and examined what in my perspective could be changed. 

The main idea that I was running from was that I was going to suffer the next day and draw the direct attention of instructors. I saw that suffering as a bad thing and desperately wanted to avoid it. I couldn’t mentally accept the prospect of suffering, but I also couldn’t change it. As a result, I went through as much distress in my head as I would in the water the next day. 

This means I had to question my assumptions. 

Was this a rational belief? Is it true that the pain from a difficult workout is bad? Is it not a necessary part of the path I’ve decided to take? Doesn’t this suffering in training make me stronger, shore up weaknesses and make me more resilient in the future? Is this not why I’m here? I had already seen countless better swimmers quit already. Clearly there was more to this process than being good at underwater side stroke. This questioning brought a new, more rational belief: Tomorrow’s workout is going to be painful, and it’s a productive and necessary pain. It’s something to embrace and even look forward to. The more I can hurt tomorrow, the stronger I’ll be the next day. I have been given an opportunity. 

Here is the sequence:

A - Activating Event

B - Beliefs

C - Consequence

For me, it looked like this:

Activating Event - I have another pool workout coming, it’s going to hurt and I will be the slowest guy in the water.

Belief - Suffering through a painful experience is bad and being the slowest guy in the pool is bad.

Consequence - I will suffer at least as much in my imagination the night before the workout as I will during it, and I will sleep poorly.

The activating event was fixed. Worrying about that part would have just been arguing with reality. Unless I was going to quit, I had to face it. 

The consequence - needless mental turmoil - is what I wanted to change. But, I couldn’t change it directly. I had to alter my beliefs. It wasn’t the situation that needed to change, it was my opinion of it. 

An effective place to use this drill is when examining your internal dialog and effort level during peak suffering in a painful test workout, such as a 500-meter row or a 1.5 mile run. In your worst moment, probably around the 2/3rds mark, you likely started to have some sort of mental conversation about your physical state and your ability to maintain maximal effort.

After the workout, ask yourself: “Was that entire thing 100% of my best effort? If not, at what point did I start to give in and weaken? Why?” 

Unless you’re an Olympic caliber rower/runner/whatever, you probably had a moment during the workout when you dropped off just a tiny bit or at least mentally cracked a little. Even if you only went from 100% output to 99%, analyze your mind in that moment and question the rationality of your thoughts and impulses. 

“I was going to pass out.”

“I was going to puke” 

“If I pushed any harder, I would have blacked out.” 

These are the capital-B Beliefs.

You may not be in SOF selection, or on your way there, but you still have these kinds of beliefs somewhere in your world. 

“I couldn’t shoulder that much responsibility at work.” 

“Managing people like that was a nightmare.” 

“I couldn’t get anything done because my kids were at home all day.” 

Now, question the rationality of those beliefs. Was it really true that you were going to puke, pass out or that you couldn’t have possibly pushed even a little bit harder? Was it really impossible for you to improve your workflow systems, find an opportunity in a difficult management role or adapt to your new at-home work/family conditions?

No, probably not. But at the time, you felt that way. Your mind presented those opinions as fact. 

Next time, when you’re in that same moment and those thoughts bubble up, you’ll know to question their veracity. You’ll know that despite the strident propaganda of the voice of weakness in the corner of your mind, you’re able to keep going and even push harder through the pain. 

Remember, your thoughts and your feelings are not you. They’re passing weather. You don’t have to be controlled by them, defend them or protect them. As Aurelius wrote, it is only according to opinion that we suffer. It is always within our power to change our opinions of things. It is always within our power to choose whether or not we suffer.

I have a love-hate relationship with war movies, and I think it’s safe to say most of us do. David Rose aka Mr. Blonde’s last piece on authenticity pretty much spells out why, so I won’t rehash the many reasons here when you can go read it.

When I got the opportunity to view an advanced screening of The Outpost (releasing July 3), a new film about the Battle of Kamdesh based on Jake Tapper’s 2012 book The Outpost: An Untold Story of American Valor, I was pretty stoked. But I have to be honest, I felt a small twinge of anxiety when I got my pre-screen link. Was this going to be like all the other hero movies?

After watching, I can say with confidence: NO. It is not.

If you are looking for a war movie where the men in uniform are good looking, motivated patriotic American heroes who further the glory of America, with a soundtrack that algorithmically manipulates your emotions, go elsewhere. The Outpost isn't that type of movie.

If I had to only use one word, it’s this: authentic.

When I say authentic, I am not talking about correct uniforms, correct dispersion, correct tactics, and a hardline dedication to actual events, though this is almost spot on—Keating and Yllescas, for example didn’t serve at COP Keating in the narrative present, but were added for narrative effect and purpose.

I mean that the storytelling elements that I as a writer am looking for—narrative arc, character development, etc.—are present without the Hollywood window dressing.

One of the most notable examples of this is that the characters talk like real GWOT vets. Guys do their jobs and follow orders, but they grumble.  And the gunfights and THE gunfight—the guys shit talk and make dark jokes.

In short, this film feels like a real deployment and the GWOT at large, which is exactly director Rod Lurie’s vision for The Outpost.  Let me explain with as few spoilers as possible.

The movie is long—two hours and three minutes long. And the pacing for most of the film is slow. But this isn’t a negative critique. This is the point.

The bulk of the film consists of scenes from everyday life at COP Keating punctuated by short—very short—gunfights. In fact, I felt that instead of a long narrative arc, The Outpost was a series of connected day-to-day vignettes leading up to the actual Battle of Kamdesh (which as a writer who uses a similar narrative style, I was happy to see).

At first, I admit, I was taken aback by the slow wind up, but once I thought about it, bounced it off of what I knew a deployment is like, and looked at the overall narrative focus, it made sense. The film’s pacing is slow, punctuated by seconds of activity.  And this is the heart of its authenticity.

Another authentic feature I appreciated was the barely present but, incompetent higher leadership. There isn’t a specific, named American general making decisions that influence the events. Higher is some mysterious entity making calls over the hook so far from the battlefield that they don’t really understand the situation on the ground—and Higher’s decisions repeatedly put the soldiers' lives at risk—sound familiar? The subtlety of the critique on Leadership is powerful when you couple it with the sprawling day-to-day nature of the film. The viewer soon realizes what it was like to be a soldier at COP Keating without being told, and that is excellent storytelling.

And at the end, after the battle, they leave. The Army decided the position was untenable and they demo the COP. After all that time, all that energy, all that sacrifice and bloodshed and they just left. So, after watching the movie, after committing the time, the viewer is left wondering, WTF.

And again, I say EXACTLY.

Think about it. We fought the Revolution because we wanted liberty and independence. The War of 1812 was more or less a continuation of the same. Our Civil War was to preserve the Union and destroy slavery as an institution. WWI was to stop the German Empire’s expansion, more or less. WWII was to stomp out Naziism and fascism. Korea and Vietnam—ostensibly—were to stop the spread of Communism.

But the GWOT? Can we say we had a definite, overarching mission (besides winning hearts and minds) with strategic metrics? Or did we just go and try to stay alive so that we could do it all again in six, nine, twelve months? 

The theme of survival, of gutting it out until we get to go home, is pervasive throughout. Idealism and jingoism aside, survival is the most authentic theme of our war.

Despite all of the things above I listed that I think work exceedingly well, what I found most remarkable was that the movie didn’t end with an American “victory” at COP Keating. It goes a bit further down the road and looks at the after. I won’t spoil it, just watch it and appreciate it.  

The Outpost does the job of communicating exactly what a GWOT deployment was like with no fan-fare, no dog and pony show, and none of the Hollywood trappings our citizenry are told war films should contain.

And that is what an authentic war film should do.

The Outpost directed by Rod Lurie

Available on Video on Demand July 3rd

RATING:

4.5 Spades: Must Watch.