- M_Gargantua
- Oct 16, 2006
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STOMP'N ON INTO THE POWERLINES
 
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Exciting Lemon
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Go for it!
E- I wonder if half of the value in this is that it's handwritten and pure.
Reading this in handwritten form pushes the reality so much more intensely. This is continuing to be amazing and memory-inducing.
I love the handwriting. The handwriting does so much more than the text on its own. I don't know exactly what it tickles in my brain that adds something to the telling. I can almost see how the format gives it the right sort of distance from ghoulish mass market post-tour novels.
But even still - Here are the first 5 transcriptions for posterity, but for real anyone reading these words down the line and haven't seen the originals click the button to see the original for the best experience.
If seeing it in font inhibits the writing experience let me know and I'll strip it out and not get in the way.
"I'm good at 3 things
Fighting
loving
And Lying
Before we start, lets get one thing straight - I am far from a virtuous man. But I will be honest and genuine, or at least endeavor to.
I was raised that War Stories were a bitter sacred thing. You didn't request them, they were gifted from the Elders
gifts purchase in blood, the humor encased in scar tissue. They are the lessons that keep you alive, the myths that give you hope the fables that build your culture.
They are sacred, and deserve our honesty. They are sacred to both the speaker and the witness. Too often you read the Vegas War stories - everyone went, everyone had fun, no one lost any money. Too often, either from self service, careful edits, or whatever, the war stories become sanitized and sensationalized
the blockbuster stories of the illiad. That's not truthful, and we - you, the witness, and I, the testifier deserve the truth.
The first question everyone wants to ask a combat veteran is the one you should UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ask:
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
Killing another human being, no matter the circumstances, is a deeply intimate thing. You are bound together, forever. You don't ask strangers about their fetishes. You don't ask a sexual assault victim about their assault.
You Do Not Ask A Trooper If They've Killed
It doesn't bother me to be asked, because I was under no illusions what my job was. I was the god drat Infantry, descended from a long lineage of Grunts.
Yes I have killed. That's the job - part of the job. It's the Hollywood part, the bombastic part, the glamorous visage. There ain't nothing glamorous about it. We lie, we share the great mythology of tinsel town. The Warrior Caste keeps a vested interest in maintaining it. I'm sure I will be guilty of it myself. You need to understand it's an incredibly complex thing; how can the worst moments of my life also be the best? How can I crave poison? It gets in your blood. Beyond that, the childhood I had prepared me in ways I hadn't understood. Trauma conditions trauma. We will get to that later.
Killing was only part of the job - at least to me. I understood the job as
HELP WHO NEEDS HELP
HURT WHO NEEDS HURT
KILL WHO NEEDS KILLED
DONT EVER CONFUSE THEM
Pretty simple, Preschool Level poo poo, but a foreign concept to many in the field. I have to admit all those ideas - what some rear end in a top hat too smart for his britches (Hi!) could call the Hurt/Help/Kill Spectrum - was built on the finest Pop Culture an orphan of the Cold War could devour. With no adults to help filter my intake, and few of moral fiber in my life, I learned from movies, TV, comics, and of course, books. This is important because it will come back up. Style choices, word choices, even phrases long familiar may pop up. Many have been a part of myself for so long, I don't even recognize or notice. Please forgive, and also recognize that cryptonesia is a thing.
Some stories may sound like ones you've read before. You might have. Many weird situations and seemingly "unique" instances are near universal if you were in theater at the time.
So gather round, and an old man will share stories of a wasted youth.
TW: Death
pre:We found them slain
After the day was won
Together, ankles crossed like lovers -
A Sacred Band of Beltfed
bound in love & disintegrating links
Their belly scrape boudoir
sheeted in crimson
Choirs of flies drone a dirge
For the eternal slumber of those embraced
At the Tabernacle of Spent Brass
pre:I watched you, a bit older and more experienced,
a callous glance in my direction -
Brown skin in blue jeans, dark hair in the morning breeze.
My eyes red from too little sleep and too many drugs,
dressed in ill fitting clothes -
Our eyes lock, both the earth tones of your ancestoral home
A short breath, a light touch;
my first time with shudders long familiar,
yet new in the open air.
The only scent- the immediate world:
Baby Wipes & ancient dust.
I watched you with the excitement of having waited so long,
years of reading & watching the tapes I was too young
to understand.
Both travelled hours and miles
measured in foreign words & different gaits.
All coming down to the exquisite moment;
Slowly gripping fingers, nervous gestures
The look of surprise as it came.
forever binding us like lovers in a silent film
no words from either of our lips
The embrace fails as you fall in slow motion
I watch, entranced for a brief moment,
basking.
Caught up in you -
my first love,
my first offering,
my first kill
I left you upon the alter of Athena,
allowing the growing day to carry me to more lovers,
and more heartbreaks
There are days where I still see you in the morning light,
standing proud upon the roof and I smile,
remembering the feeling of excitement.
The excitement of being your last, of being my first,
the myriad complex of hate and joy, love and loss -
That only your first time can bring
Image: a soldier stands facing away from the viewer, a man is bleeding in his car behind him, waving his arms.
"لكن ماذا عن سيارتي (But what about my car?)"
in bold yellow font"gently caress yo' CAR!"
"Homie, I get that you love this 86 Buick.
But you're gonna bleed out.
Please seek medical attention
XOXO
PV2 BAD EXAMPLE.03"
Baghdad 2003. While Guarding an overpass, a gentleman stopped, waving bloody hands. He had been shot 2x (1 thru-thru in the gut, one through the thigh. Said gentleman was much, MUCH more concerned with his red (I colored it wrong on purpose) Buick
It took multiple attempts to get a local to take him because he kept raising the issue.
One of the few "powerless" moments that DON'T haunt me, because as the old joke goes
"I sent you two boats and a helicopter"
<3 Worrier King 2021
I promise not everything will be a downer- I have some half started stuff from a notebook, and a ton of good/fun memories.
This isn't one. More will come from this incident, but I wanted to get this out because it still bites after 20 years. I carry no blame in her death, but I do carry the obligation to make sure this unnamed little girl isn't just a nightmare. This came spilling out after a brutish therapy session.
pre:Blood & Vinyl
After hours discotech
the blinking lights a taboo tattoo
on orange and white quarter notes
Tears like sweat streak faces
dancers with hands thrown up
Big eyes alight with the terror of intrusion
And that petite, frail dancer
so still
so quiet
so peaceful
doesn't dance when the music changes
The music starts again
I turned to the Emerald Dark
Having learned
The vinyl wasn't supposed to be red
pre:We counted coup
handprints of the Kalashnikov Tribe
With the high bravado of victory
and the perverse exhileration of being alive
Along side of the poor Panama Nag that brought us
hitched in destroyed runflats
We counted those marks on her back
and laughed by tens
Until the humor and joy tapered off
that delicious dope left our veins
Leaving us sick and sad
like that faithful camo Appaloosa that bore us
through the din
And we learned that 34 is too many
to enjoy
even in victory
"C-4"
2003 Invasion. Somewhere South of Baghdad, possibly Karbala or surrounding Province.
The Big Brains from Intelligence had been staring at some satellite pictures and saw an intact bridge. Concerned said bridge might support the armored element of the local Republican Guard, they handed my section some prepped Demo, and gave us that classic Paratrooper mission: Go Blow Up A Bridge.
Our little field trip of 2 trucks that became our standard patrol element for my first tour. In addition, our Company Commander rode slack in the follow truck.
"Woody!" I hear called over the constant groan of the Humvee engine.
"Yes, Sar'nt" I slur in the way only the Army does.
"When we get there, you are gonna blow the bridge"
"Sar'nt?"
"When we get there, you are gonna blow the bridge" louder in case I hadn't heard him over the engines grumble.
"You know how?"
"Strap charge to pylon. Pull Pins. Run away"
"Correct"
I don't give a poo poo how good of a person you are; how charitable or humanitarian or whatever, blowing up a bridge is cool as hell. Being a Grunt who grew up in the Golden Age of Action Movies?
There was more anticipation than when I saw my frist tit.
The Bridge of Great Concern was a pedestrian pontoon bridge, unable to support a loaded pickup, much less a T-72 tank, the expected armored threat.
I have no doubt my disappointement was palpable. My memory fails in some details - like how the topic even came up - if I asked or my Squad leader offered from pity - but it was decided that if we came across something else to but Forbidden Cream Cheese on, I'd get to blow it.
We made our way back toward the encampment we were staying, me with the keen eye of a child given demolition charges.
Left, up ahead, an abandoned Iraqi Army GAZ truck.
"Can I blow that up?"
"Wait one" Wolford grabbed the handset and makes a call back to the CO "Delta Six, Delta Five Two. Over."
"Five Two, go for Six"
"Delta Six, Delta Five Two. Delta Five Two Delta (D-52 driver) requests permission to blow that truck ahead. Over."
"D-52, D-6. Negative. Too close to locals. Over"
"D-6, D-52. Roger. Out."
Even back then, it was pretty understandable. I don't recall how much C-4 we had, but it was enough to gently caress up a bridge, so definately something that might upset the neighbors. My little game of Eye Spy started again. Bingo, Baby.
Up ahead, a bit away from people, was a big rear end gun, some sort of artillery piece, seemingly abandoned.
"Hey Sar'nt?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I blow up that gun up ahead?"
"Let's find out!" he replied with a smirk. The verbal waltz of standard radio traffic starts up again.
"Delta Six, Delta Five Two. Over."
"Delta Five Two, Delta Six. Over."
"Delta Six, Delta Five Two. Delta Five Two Delta want's to blow that artillery piece coming up on the right, Over"
"Fiver Two, Six. Wait One"
We come about even with the BFG and can see someone else already had their fun, and could oracle the response coming.
I can only recall a few requests, though I want to say there were more. This may sound strange to people unfamiliar with the military, but service attracts iconoclasts, smart asses, and "That Guy" from HS. I can't say that the concept of malicious compliance started in the military, its DNA runs deep there.
Being able to annoy the "adult" on the road trip with some impunity is a gift to those kids who need a bit more attention in class, so the idea that there were more examples than I recount here isn't out of this world.
I will err toward the accuracy of my memory (one of the few times I can). I'm sure the error in my recollection comes from the verbal bureaucracy that radio traffic comes dressed in. It's exactly why the "joke" is funny. I've done my best to be accurate as I can, with the caveat no unit follows all the rules.
As we drove on, I desperately searched for something, anything, I could plausably find an excuse to blow up. I was of the mindset that the demo was given to me, and were mine - everything fun in the Army is "Use It or Lose It"
Ahead I spot the carcass of a dead dog. If I were the enemy I'd put it to use. You can't put a bomb or mine in the corpse if there is no corpse.
"Can I blow up that dead dog?!?" I asked, pregnant with desperation and excitement.
"Delta Six, Delta Five Two. Over."
"Delta Five Two, Six Over."
"Delta Six, Delta Five Two." his voice rang with that smug tone of mischief. "Delta Five Two Delta is asking if he can blow up that dead dog on the side of the road. Over"
"ALL DELTA ELEMENTS, DELTA SIX. Halt. Over." Uncle Mark was mad
We pull off the road a short distance from my requested target. From the follow truck walks up Captain Olsen, our Company Commander, his face lacking the amusement of ours. With no prelude, a hand is jabbed through the open window.
"Give me the C4"
My head immediately jerks to the passenger seat, where my Squad leader sat - I'm sure with the pitiful display of puppy dog eyes. His face was draped in resignation that the fun was over. Or maybe it was sympathy that nothing got blow up that day. The corners of his mouth dipped slightly as he passed over the bundle of dual primed dreams.
The rest of the day was unmemorable, just the dour mood of children leaving the park.
That's how I didn't blow up a bridge.
Not my finest moment...
Baghdad, Spring 2003
On of the more fun aspects of occupation was curfew enforcement. At 10pm, the streets were to be clear - no souls about. Our job was to ensure this happened.
When you get down to it, the fun was being a deliquent enforcer; You, the armed children of George Dubya, run the show. We became jump out boys, our doorless soft skins clown cars of Kevlar and testosterone. We rolled around, no lights, engines idle as we crept our post. Those nights are when we made those streets our home, learning landmarks in the dark. We spent hours slowly learning the back alleys and main roads of our new world.
If it wasn't a slow sunday drive in the shadows, it was pouring out of a moving vehicle to completely overwhelm some drunk gently caress or perfidious partner creeping back, or suddenly hitting your high beam and doing ad hoc vehicle interdictions. We got good, and always hoped for a runner. The call of "Vehicle!" a whaler's call of "spout", and the game was on.
You'd rip a deep breath, and depress the petal, the Crows Nest Gunner on the 50, calling out speed, the TC boat captain screaming the rudder calls.
"Go! Go! GO!"
"He's gonna break Right, Woody!"
"He's hosed if he does!"
"Brakes. BRAKES"
A bellowing screech as the Humvee brakes to hard, so overloaded with kit and candy for our foes, she slides, the front end tipping the shocks.
Typically, I didn't feel the bow raise back up, one foot out the door for the chase.
To be blunt, poo poo owned.
The night in question was early on. We had already stopped and detained a looter in his flat bed, so no chases were happening. We put the big slow pig between our gun trucks and prowled about. In short time, we came across an Iraqi taxi, an 80's vintage Passat with a white body and orange corner panels, that would soon be so ubiquitous we had to look to find them. Inside, we found a very quiet, very concerned looking driver, and three "Military Age Males" - Army speak for any male between the age of birth on one end, dead on the other. Our three friends didn't seem chipper, carried themselves with a violent capability. Immediately we separate, and start to search them. My friend, a dour older man, glared as I got him alone.
A tangent before I finish this episode. With no pride, I can admit that I have beaten multiple people on the draw. One study says it's because my brain looks for where a weapon should be - and any deviation toward that location triggers a response; Another says chronic exposure to trauma creates biological changes, allowing for faster reflexes as a greater ability to read the room; I say it's 75% luck, 25% them being bad at their role. I don't know how or why, but I know I won the race.
Through Pointy Talky & English, I get his hands on the hood. As I start to search him, his hands get to creeping down the hood.
Strike One. I physically return his hands to the start position.
We start again, same thigns happen.
Strike Two. I put his hands back, and try again.
I notice that right hand subtle start sliding back.
Strike Three
I slam his head to the hood, and jam the muzzle of my M4 hard into the base of his skull. In a voice that brokered no bullshit, and a tone that transcends dialect, I made it clear that his next mistake will make me need a shower, and him a face. My left hand snakes his waist, delicate fingers blindly searching until they find the grip of a pistol. I recall thinking, "Well, my night's hosed." I was upset. My evening had been a pleasant Mad Max Larp in the Dark, and this gently caress does this.
Look, I always tried to maintain an ideal of proffessionalism, to not take things personal. I wasn't there because I had a private grievence, I was there to do the same job as the Bad Guys - kill my enemy. I can only recall taking two moments personal - When I heard RPG #5 detonate, lifting my truck from the ground, I remember thinking, "C'mon - there are other people around! rear end in a top hat"; and this night.
My dear pistol packing Habibi realized that maybe he hosed with the wrong Private by the less than gentlemanly way he was cuffed and the lack of ceremony as I planted him into the warm night asphalt.
I was quickly decided to stow these 3 in the confiscated Flat Bed, and convoy the group back to our little home, Delta CP, an old Iraqi Camp in Al Bayaa.
And that's the rub.
In what became a living word problem, a very angry 19 year old needs to help a grown handcuffed man into the back of a flat bed truck. I sure as gently caress wasn't uncuffing him, but he still had to get up that 5 feet. Before anyone could mount the truck to assist, I threw Habibi up and over the tailgate. The BANG-FLUMP of a body hitting steel turned to that droning shore of a man knocked the gently caress out. Before anyone realized what was going on, I tossed Buddy Chucklefuck up and over too, The impact of his friend woke up my dearest.
I wasn't allowed to keep the pistol, a TT-33 Tokarev, a Russian Service Pistol. It was loaded with one ready in the pipe. It has no safety, and the round would have blown through soft armor. Nickel plated with black plastic grips - I'll never forget that pistol
Homedude was ok - a major headache the only real injury.
This was one of the few incidents where I lost my typical measure of control. It's also the moment my personal spectrum of force developed:
1. Ask Nicely
2. Ask Not Nicely
3. Tell
4. Make
That dumb little system ensured that as many people as possible went home. It also treated the people with respect, and allowed them a measure of freedom that we could easily demolish. It's also a moment of reverse pride - I don't like that I did it, but it was his choice.
He hurt my feelings first.
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May 15, 2022 05:53
