On Posers

On Posers

Taking a look at these "POSER" bozos and realizing how pathetic their lives must be, puts a new perspective in my mind as to the value of each and every American who has given service to these United States. No one is greater than the other; no one is lesser than the other; and each is owed an amount of respect and thanks for their service. In the services we did the jobs and assignments we were given. Some got signing bonuses, job guarantees, duty assignment, but still, in t...he final tally, we did the jobs and missions assigned to us. In this light, I am reminded of this Teddy Roosevelt quote: "The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat." We have all known the victories of our assignments, the defeats and failures, and the satisfactions; none of this is known by the "Posers", not a single one. There is also a saying about our jobs and missions in the service: "There are no small jobs, just small people". A bit of wisdom I learned at the elbow of a South Carolina NG Sergeant Major, veteran of WWII, Korea, and Viet Nam, was this; "It takes 5 people in the rear to support one on the line, therefore, if your job isn't infantry, your job is to support the infantry." I am sorry for the length of my comment... but I do not regret it. We should justifiably be proud of our service in all the many jobs we do. Of more importance, however, we should be proud of each other and the duties of each. I wonder, do I make my point. No one is more important, we carry the load assigned. Winning takes a team and a team effort. Semper Fidelis !







TRAUMA, A SIGNIFICANT EMOTIONAL EVENT

It is a beautiful starlit night. A peaceful place where danger doesn't exist; where an unnoticed quiet rolls through humid, listless air under a clouded tropical moon. Hardly a place to be described as emotionally significant or traumatic. The sounds of mosquitoes zizzing all about, a frog croaking it's love call, a bird flying to it's evening roost. This could be the front porch of a Carolina cabin in summer or a campsite on a lazy, murmuring Georgia creek.

Inside the hooch insects cast eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling as they frantically circle around the single light bulb. It is intriguing but not psychologically shocking. As fatigue makes the eyes grow heavy the brain begins to drift. Thoughts of the days events swirl with memories of the last stateside party; friends laughing, telling jokes, pouring beer over some wise guy's head, and the last intimate moment spent with a girlfriend.

Then, without warning, the wailing screams of enemy rockets shatter the night with pounding destruction. Banshees unleashed from hell to steal whatever souls they may. BOOM ! BOOM ! BOOM! The earth begins to explode as screams of "incoming" pierce the night. Buildings are ripped apart and mem cry out in pain and terror. Instantly you know this isn't a front porch; there is no lazy creek; and this could be your last party.

You are experiencing a significant emotional event. One of the most horrifying and traumatic a human could be expected to endure. An event that will stamp into your brain the realization that you might die. You are now a victim of trauma.

If you survive there are plans and stages for recovery to help arrest or prevent substantial and lasting psychological damage. Discussing these stages of recovery will help to better understand the emotional ordeals experienced by victims and survivors. This is with the hope of helping rather than cause further harm.

Trauma recovery is an ongoing process. What the eyes have seen, the ears heard, the nose smelled, the body felt and the taste experienced will never go away. With a program of stages a life may once again have quality and hope.

Recovery is a three stage process: shock and denial, anger and depression and understanding and acceptance. In any significant emotional event assessed as bad, the victim or survivor must progress through these stages if any degree of recovery is to be achieved or accomplished.

War is not the only cause of significant emotional events. Something as simple as moving to a new place, the loss of a loved one through death or divorce, a child going away to school or being fired from your job. Incidents which interrupt the natural flow of life and threaten the mental status quo can set in motion a series of catastrophic psychological reactions.

Whether a person loses a loved one, witnesses a friends death in war or gets fired, recovery depends on how quickly we act and how tactfully we deal with the victims and survivors. The "stiff upper lip" cliché is one of the worst attempts at encouragement we can do.

If traumatized or just caught short, the first stage, shock and denial, is the most critical. Shock can be caused by almost anything going beyond our normal daily happenings. Using a survivor of divorce as an example of shock; "I can't believe they left me !" In incidents relating to war or heinous violations of a person, the reactions of the victim are the same: shock, disbelief and denial.



OF WARRIORS

I can instruct you in the skills of war and how to be prepared

I can pass on to you our glorious history of courageous generals, great battles and selfless heroes
I cannot, however, teach you the urgency needed for you to do your best
That lesson must come from within
If it does not, it may be learned by looking into the cold dead eyes of a friend
September, 1985

 (C) R. Roughton

WINTERS WIND

When winters' wind comes howling
  with breath so bitter cold
  I think of all the summers
  and our hearts so happy and bold
...

We lived our lives to the fullest
  we laughed and cried and screamed
  we survived the fleeing seasons
  with their pains and broken dreams

We loved and lost and dared love again
  each time the last we swore
  but we gathered up our shattered hearts
  and went back out the door

I know our days are numbered
  as are the sands upon the beach
  they must be lived to their fullest
  significance given to each

When my life has ended
  and my final hour drawn near
  I'll look back over those seasons
  but I'll shed not a tear

Not because I'm angry
  or won't see another day
  but because the Creator loved me
  and through His love showed me the way

December, 1985
(C) R. Roughton

METAMORPH

The minutes of shock became hours

The hours of denial and pain turned into days

The angry days spun into weeks

The weeks of depression and rejection evolved into months

The months of learning and understanding

       gently, reluctantly, became the passing seasons

The passing seasons became growth

       acceptance... a new life

August, 1988 CpyRt

 R. Roughton

THE USS JUNEAU, LPD-10

    I spent 9 months and 26 days on board the Juneau in 1973-74-75 as a member of embarked   troops:Battalion Landing Teams (called BLT in those days) 1/9, 2/9 and 3/9. We floated from ROK

 to Subic Bay, RP; from Red Beach on Okinawa to south of Brisbane down into Sidney, Australia.       During this time we trained with military units of many other nations. Our purpose was to be   prepared to go back into Viet Nam where needed, when needed.
    A young midshipman I had the privilege of working with 23 years later, Lance Priest, also spent       time on the Juneau as a crew member. His job and that of his shipmates was to move other units   similar to mine through the same waters to do a similar job. There was a considerable time

 difference in our tours on board.

    We spent our days aboard the USS Juneau, LPD 10 (Landing Platform Docking) preparing and   waiting, to go back in if needed.

     All naval vessels are of importance and for a myriad of reasons.  The USS Juneau also holds a   very unique place in history.

    The USS Juneau (CL-52) an Atlanta Class Light Cruiser,  was commissioned 14 February, 1942.

 She was sunk during the Battle for Guadalcanal, 13 November, 1942 by Japanese torpedoes
 claiming the lives of 687 men.  Among this number was the five Sullivan brothers from Waterloo,
 Iowa. 

    Despite naval policy stipulating that siblings could not serve in or on the same military unit,   brothers George, Francis, Joseph, Madison and Albert refused to serve in the Navy unless they were   posted to the same unit.  The Brothers became navy heroes.  In their honor, a Fletcher Class   Destroyer, the USS The Sullivans (DD-537) was named after them.  The USS The Sullivans was   decommissioned 7 January, 1965.  In 1977 the ship was processed for donation to the Buffalo and   Erie County Naval and Military Park, in Buffalo, New York.

    The Juneau was discovered in 4,200 meters of water by an expedition in the South Pacific ocean   funded by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen. The search team located the wreckage of the USS   Juneau off the coast of the Solomon Islands on St Patrick’s Day, 19 March, 2018. 

Movement to Action

Movement to Action

Show time was 0830 at the 'Can-do' pad. A PSP landing strip (PSP=Perforated Steel Plate, all hooked together to make a solid landing pad) which was usually used to saddle-up, load-up, and ride into combat. It never failed, we would sit there for at least 30-40 minutes. Time enough for our brains, the FNG's anyway, to begin to sweat the mission. The were called 'CA's", Combat Assaults. We waited, yawning, because of the anxiety, to load-up and begin the "Ride Into Combat". We were smoking , making small talk, sometimes going over the first 5 to 10 things we were to do on our 'once landed' checklist. I don't think I ever had a comfortable ruck sack. Something was always poking around the 'C-ration' box I used to keep things from poking me in the back. We used the outer C-Rat case material as a pad between our backs and pointy things inside our rucks. I always tried to doze a bit. Never sleeping, just hiding my controlled fear...
I could hear the 'Slicks' starting their run up.  The whirring then the infamous 'wop, wop, wop' as they neared hover check.  I looked at the two Marines.  One a for sure 'FNG'.  Not our term but hanging with these men, this company, our jargon had started to meld with theirs.  The 'newbie' was a kid from a small town in Oregon.  He wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box but he was motivated.  Motivation can take a man to incredible places if he listens and doesn't let that Ooo RAH motivation screw him up.  My number 2 man was a Lance Corporal trained in the so called art of NGF (Naval Gunfire)  It was his third CA and so far he had shown the calm expected when stepping into what could be a dose of hell.
"Hey, you got the call signs?  You got the shackle code; it's 'KNOWLESRAT' ".  Each letter stood for a number from 1 through 0.  We weren't supposed to use shackle codes but they worked and were quick, never used twice.  We also had reference points.  Ours were different from the unit we were supporting, 'Bravo Company'.  We kept their reference points on our maps, but had ours there as well.  Our reference points were 'Car Parts'.  Point one was 'carburetor'; point two was 'hubcap'; number three was 'mirror'; and so on.  Theirs were 'automobiles';  chevy, ford, bronco, Cadillac, etc..   "Whose got the 2 extra batteries?"  Simpson had the batteries. "Burris, you got the extra chow for Simpson?"  I was carrying the radio, had the ship on the horn and was running radio checks every 5 minutes.  We shared the weight of our combat loads and we swapped rucks everyday to even things up.  The Marine with the radio called the missions.  The insertion was my radio because of my experience.  "Any questions?"  "Yeah", Simpson spoke up, "how many days out?"  "Didn't you get that down at briefing?"  "Damn, boy, where the hell is your green book?"  "Yeah, I got that down somewhere but was just double checking."  "Alright, three, maybe four days."   "It depends on what?"  They both chimed in, " Depending on Victor Charlie's strength and attitude."  "Damn right!  Now Simpson, watch me for arm signals and you'd better be moving."  "Burris, are you jake (squared away)?"  "Yeah, I got it."  "Good, we're set, just waiting for the Army"
After their hover checks the Slicks slowly moved into a line and slowly moved over to pick us up. We stood on the edge of the 'Can Do' pad and waited.  Those seconds seemed like hours.  The slicks moved in all lined up and we checked straps, maps and testicles.  We rushed for our bird, hopped on and began the butt-pucker factor.  There was no safety strap, just us, and 5 other souls headed into the unknown.  Once onboard, the birds did another hover check, upped the RPM, pulled the cyclic, began moving forward with our noses headed down until speed was reached and we climbed into that hot muck we called air.

OF TIMES LOST

"The controversial statue that critics have deemed as "San Francisco's monument to white supremacy" is coming off its pedestal. The bronze statue that shows a partially clothed Native American man at the feet of two men -- a cowboy represents how land was stolen and innocents murdered; and a Catholic missionary.  That is a joke unto itself.  "Join my church or we will garrote you, burn you at the stake, drowned you as a witch".  I'm sure the Spanish and Italians want to see the priest go -- will be plucked from its prominent location in San Francisco in a process that begins in coming weeks.

Just who, exactly, are these mysterious critics???

 To its critics, the bronze statue called "Early Days" is an offensive and condescending depiction of Native Americans that fails to acknowledge racism, colonization and genocide."

This isn't a condescending depiction of Native Americans.  It is a condescending depiction of an Anglo cowboy and a Spanish priest.  Get real you Cally-phoney idiots!

The bronze statue called "The Early Days" should stay. When it goes the public traces of the abuse heaped upon Native Americans will disappear and soon be forgotten. These removals of all subjects, plaques and statues showing or attesting to man's inhumanity to man are absurd. The left believes that through these P.C. removals their sins will be washed away. All that will be accomplished is to provide another opportunity for these hypocrites to pat each other on their backs and say what good thoughtful boys and girls they are. They believe the memory of hunting down Native Americans for sport will be forgotten. It is in the books and Ishi will not be forgotten. Ishi (ca. 1860 – March 25, 1916) was the last member of the Yahi, the last surviving group of the Yana people of the U.S. state of California. Ishi is believed to have been the last Native American in Northern California to have lived most of his life completely outside the European American culture. I have a great deal of difficulty with seeing this happen.  If I had the wherewithal, I would purchase a huge plot of land, move every one of these historical statues and plaques to this land, arrange them to be historically and timeline accurate, and call it "The Other Side of the Story", open to the public for only a single buck, for upkeep.

I'm still waiting for the "Politically Correct Act" of Spain, France and England apologizing to the peoples of all lands colonized and enslaved by them. I'm not forgetting Holland or Belgium or any of the other countries who subjugated groups of indigenous peoples for their desire for wealth, land and false grandeur. What a twisted bunch some of our ancestors were. And now, the left leaning and fully engulfed liberal confetti trash want to hide the truth.  Good luck you Satanic spawn.  Karma is coming for you.

.

STACKED UP

                                                      STACKED UP

These stories aren't going to be pretty.  They 'are' going to be real and about real people.
Young men, who months before, were considered and treated like boys. Some stories most folks would not want to read, but they are true. Real people die in combat. Young men died in that combat. They bled real blood. There was no 'catsup', no colored water, phony screams or cries for Mom, but the real things. The things my Brothers and me saw were real. Truth is stranger than fiction and there just isn't any way this fecal matter could be made up. It just wouldn't fly.

 The day after the "Tet Holiday" of 30 January, in 1968, the bodies of the enemy were laying on a lot of street corners.  Many were laid four or five bodies across.  Then they were turned 90 degrees and four or five more bodies were laid across. Sometimes they were laid five or six bodies high. Like stacks of chord wood laid up to dry. And they stayed that way. The putrid sweet, sickly smell just didn't wander off on a breeze. It was registered in our brains. Like the bloody gore in the games our children play, there was blood and corruption everywhere.

A day or two later, after it was supposedly safe, a couple of us went back to one of the houses we had assaulted. We went back to see where we had spent hours exchanging rifle fire and grenades.  To see the aftermath of what had been for us the culmination of a series of house to house and street to street searches and fire fights.

That day, when we came up to an M.P. compound.  After a few laughably exchanged epithets, were told there was a sniper inside a house across the street.  We really had no idea what was there.  We had been moving through the city since about 2:30 in the morning.  It was nearly 6 A.M. when all three of us decided to hit that house and take out the "sniper".  It had been one small incident after another until we got to that house.  We started across and down the street toward the house. There was a gated, 10 to 12 inch wall around the house.  Sam started moving forward on point.  When he stepped into that opening, all hell broke loose.

Now, we had come back to this place to see just what was left.

That house was pretty torn up. In a square foot of the front outside wall there were more bullet holes than could be counted.  Many, one on top of another, and another. We fought those Viet Cong until reinforcements came.  We had asked for a couple of M-79 grenade launchers, which we called 'Bloopers'.  When the requested support got there, it was about 11:00 and a whole new atmosphere commenced.  We had been there for hours and the 'Butter Bar' that brought the relief wasn't too interested in anything we had to say.  He just started barking out his textbook spiel.  We decided to blow that 'pop stand'; to move along, leaving as quietly as we had come in.  We got the impression they didn't need or want us any more. We headed out to our headquarters and to check in.   

So, on this day we were back trying to look at the scene where we had spent so many hours.  When we went inside, there was so much damage and everywhere there were brown streaks and splotches on the walls and stairs.  We just stood there, not saying a word.  We looked down.  There was a thick layer of brown goo on the deck. We were standing in it. We see it.  We feel it on our shoes.  We smell it every day we draw breath. These words don't make people heroes. It makes them alive and just a little dead inside. And we hurt from wounds that can't be seen and will never heal. This is what needs to be told.

When we got back to our HQ that morning, our C.O chewed us out for doing what we had been trained to do.  After that and for about 5 or 6 days, we were told to take a position on top of the BOQ and to run patrols throughout the adjacent area, all at night.  I guess our Naval Officer wanted to make sure we were safe.  In about 2 to three weeks they split us up: I went south to Phan Thiet; Jerry went to Ninh Hoa; and Sam, he went to Tuy Hoa.  We were never together again except for one operation.  We still stayed in touch and got to see each other about every 6 to 8 weeks at our II Corps headquarters.  We would fly, drive or hitch a ride in to pick up our paychecks.  Later, Sam and Jerry transferred out.  One went to 3d Force Recon and the other, 3rd Recon.  But we still toast each other at reunions and on "TET", the "Vietnamese Lunar New Year".  We weren't special.  We were just Marines doing their jobs, who could have been , I suppose, reprimanded worse than we were.

RAIN

I sat by the window during the rain this morning. The sound of the drops hitting the tree limbs, the grass and leaves, the sidewalk; they were all a pattering with a strange but familiar rhythm. There was a rhythm on my helmet, and sometimes my bush hat, when we used those. Kind of hollow, not a splat like on wet concrete or metal. A thud or thump, the dryer the bush hat the more the thump. Sometimes there was a quiet rhythm that would grow in volume as the rain came down harder. That was usually in the afternoons during some seasons of the year, mostly monsoon. It was so hot. I can remember it but don't know how to describe it. There was no cool; just a wetter or dryer 'hot'. Oh how we prayed for that afternoon rain. And then prayed it would stop. We could stay wet for about an hour. An almost hour of not so hot. In that almost hour it was an almost relief to be savored. Then, quicker than the almost relief, there were other sounds. Our brains were now back on auto. Every squeak, snap, bird or animal, we heard. The lizards especially; they kept us jumpy and cautious during the day. Not jumpy as when someone goes "Boo!", but really extreme hearing, sense of smell and eye sight. It's hard to explain when one's eyes become binos and a microscope at the same time; we could just see better. At night, they sang to us. Not the rhythms down by the lake, but their night rhythms. and they were nasty. There were others as well; no sense or reason or rhyme at all. They were their sounds. We could smell them too, right after the rain. A contest of noses; we smelled rice and Ngoc mam. They smelled our cigarettes and all kinds of other foolishness we often took in the bush. If we were fresh in the field we were walking lifebuoy and pop-up air fresheners. And we kept moving. No straight line, no 'on-line', but maneuvering. In the wet hot of the morning hours; through the pee slop hot of mid-day, and the hateful hot of the afternoon waiting, with hope, for a shower. Always maneuvering, spaced correctly, watching you, watching me, watching feet, studying for lines, wires and what might be a pressure plate. We moved toward our night position. Then came a new set of skills. Automatically turned on by the sinking sun and rising moon, if there was one. Now there were new questions for our conditioned minds and bodies to bring up to night defense level. Did I want a moon out, or would we be safer in the dark. We were on auto.

A VOICE FROM ON HIGH, THE MILLENNIALS

"We are millennials and we love complaining more than any other generation," David Hogg said on HBO's "Real Time with Bill Maher" when asked how long he and fellow student Cameron Kasky would push for gun control.

The wonderful generation of 'Millennials'. 1% fighting for the preservation of the rights for the majority. Accepting the truth that among the remaining 99% there is a large silent majority with a vociferous minority who does nothing but complain, demand a free ride and expects their every whim and fancy to be catered to.

News flash you bunch of hypocritical little pee ants. The Baby Boomers, though they have often proven themselves inept, greedy and treasonous, especially in politics and government matters, rule the roost. Not far from saying "The Devil Rules the Roost". With the glitzy percentage not really counting for much, drop out the politicians, the thieves, the scoundrels, the whiners and just plain confetti trash and you are looking at yourselves in 50 years. The silent majority will one day find their mouths. They will start understanding they must take responsibility(s) for their kids, their actions, or lack of actions, and really step up to lead. WE are held captive by an oligarchy. It has been years, with a minimum of exceptions, where everyday people aren't held back because of a lack of resources. Ever see a poor politician? Again with exceptions, how often have we seen passed down money eventually try to exert pressure for gain or get into the political toilet. How many more Kennedys and Clintons can we handle. Young Master Hogg is not much more than a pawn of notoriety and his personal love of hearing himself blat. Being on Bill Mahers' show speaks volumes to intelligent folks. Bill Maher makes money, not from real comedy, but from spouting the ridiculous. He has never done anything to make a good difference. Master Hogg, you will be assigned potential value by the company you keep. So far, you ain't doing so hot!  And time marches on. That beauty is only as deep as the time spent helping others. One day I'll give myself a big party. I won't be there but the barest of elements that was me will. There will be nothing false to strut, no funny clothes, no prizes undeserved, just a memory of a life well lived. I don't need a special party to proclaim anything. I won't need fools to praise me or spew tripe into the ozone. Just a few to tip a glass and nod knowingly. I'm drifting again. Slowly moving to the earned peace and yawning greatly. It was all another nightmare... thankfully.

PONDERING, 18 YEAR OLDS ?

I'm sitting here, fresh cup of Jo, stogie in my paw and pondering this 21 to vote; 21 to 'buy' an AR style [ i.e., assault ] rifle; 18, 17 with parents consent, to serve in our Nations military; and "18 year olds aren't capable of making good, rational decisions". Man/woman, that's a lot for a guy to be pondering! My first thought is to the broad statement that, "18 year olds aren't capable of making good, rational decisions". Maybe that is true if their only tutelage is a current home life that may be lacking. However, an 18 year old, or maybe the case is a 17 year old, who is in the military has a life of enforced regulations, supervision and discipline. They, men and women, are more than capable of making intelligent, rational decisions. There is a short piece floating on face book showing a kid, clearly disrespectful and absolutely threatening toward a teacher. This idiot is clearly unhinged and is presenting as a possible cause for this teacher to be fearful of bodily harm. I'm not real knowledgeable on the ins and outs of "assault" and "battery". Isn't 'assault' any threatening vocal or physical action? And isn't 'battery' the actual physical contact by the person making the threat. Or in a number of cases, a sucker punch, which would be simple, but painful, battery. I was concerned for the teacher! It is obvious this student was threatening, a real physical threat, a disturbing element for the class and should have been taken into custody for at least observation if not arrested for his actions. Look out, here it comes; men and women in the military may have at one time been like this kid. Entering military service however, through a series of training evolutions, changed that. All of a sudden these young men and women have a new environment. One which provides them with guidelines, boundaries, standards, and of real importance, goals. In a nutshell, they have entered a new family with those things their real family life was lacking (if it was lacking). Truly just another rant on my part, but this is how I make sense out of hollow rhetoric spewed from pundits with no clue to which they speak. I believe that age is only relevant when there is no substance for the man or woman to relate. Food for thought for me and I recommend this to the powers that be. Bring reality into this mix

On Fear and Composure

This is a portion of the Marines' "Rifleman's' Creed". Note particularly the paragraph(s) in quotes.

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

 My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

 Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. 

"I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will…"

My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit…"

In the story concerning a criminal hiding in an RV, the bad guy fired twice.  Law enforcement, 65 times; no one was hit by either side. Sixty five rounds were returned fire! What in the hell were they shooting at? They couldn't see the bad guy, only the sound of where the shot might have come from.

I know the confusion of battle. That confusion is why we train to maintain our tactical composure and control our fear. Wild firing is a sign of uncontrolled fear and inexperience. The good guys were laying on the ground, flopping around like fish in a hot frying pan. The timbre in their voices was indicative of their angst and lack of composure. I wonder, would it have been better to maintain and, as calmly as possible, evaluate the status of the situation?
Sixty five rounds of pretty much non-aimed and wild firing.  They posed clear and evident dangers to anyone within at least 100 yards. Just my opinion, but wouldn't a few more days at the range and in situational training have reduced the clamor and confusion of the situation.
I'm not trying to be a backseat driver or portray myself as a guy with all the answers. I am trying to offer constructive criticism.
I have known fear.  I've almost dropped a load in my drawers! Knowledge based on experience and acquired through training really saves lives. But, there is also the very old adage that it isn't the bullet, the arrow or the rock with our names on them we need to worry about. It's that sucker addressed "To Whom It May Concern", that fatherless devil we can't avoid.
This incident was in California where the Los Angeles SWAT is world renowned.  All the expertise necessary for success.  The San Francisco PD has access to those assets.  Used they would provide for a better and safer officer corps.  One of inspiration, professionalism and protection and not one of ridicule.

The Long, Long Trail to Experience

"The Long Trail to Experience"


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I left my home on June 1, 1966. On June 2, I arrived at a small seaside community in South Carolina. There I was fed; given medical treatment; provided with clothing and such equipment as I would need to learn a very unusual vocation. I was taught how to maintain my mental stability, though that hasn't been a piece of cake. They instructed me in history, some politics, government and a healthy knowledge of basic medical procedures: I.V's, closing a sucking chest wound, treating for shock, sun stroke, heat stroke, dehydration, gastric difficulties from lack of food or wrong food. All this, plus so much more, was given to me. It cost me nothing. Nothing but my loyalty, commitment, and dedication to an invisible but always present belief in freedom and equality. From that time until now, I, along with many, many others have gone forward learning newer and more difficult subjects and tasks.  More difficult but extremely important to myself and my Brothers and Sisters. Some days were unbearable, but perseverance, learned early on, enabled our success. There were times when tears were bitter and burned our cheeks, but we went on. It was our vocation; our job; our duty. My Brothers and Sisters and me have trained young ones from across the country, and some from other countries. We taught them for the same reason we were taught, because we owed them the chance to succeed and survive. 39 years and 10 months after I left, I came back. I wasn't the same as when I left. Obviously I was older. My physical self had survived broken bones, bits of flying metal, tears, cuts and cancer. How could I be the same. I learned over those years what a bully was; what condescending meant; how not all believe in equality and may be short on real freedom. Mostly I overlook what are normally called shortcomings. But my shortcomings are not overlooked. I'm judged and given a position in society. I can live with that. I was taught to overlook the shortcomings of people and communities and groups. To look for their best; to try and catch them doing something right and praise them. My Father wanted me to be a 'business man'. Finish college and amount to something he thought was appropriate. That didn't work out but I found a higher calling. One that requires me to be awake while others peacefully sleep. One that requires me to move toward the gunfire, not away. I may never meet the cookie cutter mold expected as status quo, but that is also alright. I'm not so sure others meet my standards and those are what really concern me. I've been to college. I've been to VoTec Schools. My qualifications far exceed many who would try and look down at my beginnings. Though humble, that little community in South Carolina has been the beginning point for more than a few great men and women. It is but one of many for scores of other men and women. But it was my starting point. I graduated the curriculum there, because there was only pass, or fail. I am an Alumnus of Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. I hold a PHD from the University of South East Asia and accolades from around the world. So, as people around the country lay their heads down, know you are protected by those just like me and my Brothers and Sisters. When you equate 30 minutes of confusion and terror to a number on a scale.   Remember this, 30 minutes in some circles really isn't that big of a deal. Built up by certain failures it will be remembered this time every year. It will be in the dreams, intrusive thoughts and force feed by groups like CNN. If a person doesn't have a useful, valid solution or idea for the better, shut the hell up.