The grunt

The average age of an American infantry soldier is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father’s; but he has never collected unemployment either. He’s a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers. He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less-in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job. He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them. He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to ’square-away’ those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful. Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years. He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

- Jay

January 5, 2009 | Filed Under Army, Random | Leave a Comment 

Know…

Know yourself…
Know your equipment, tools and weapons used in performing your job… Maintain them…
Know where you are… What your surroundings are… At all times…
Know the job that is expected of you as well as it can be known…
Know those who supervise you and what to expect from them…
Know your adversary…
Know yourself…

D. R. (Don) Staton, Chaplain to Peace Keepers
BlackWater USA

October 27, 2008 | Filed Under Random | Leave a Comment 

My kung fu is dope yo!

I want to get that tattooed on the back of my neck. It would either be a great conversation starter at a social event or an opportunity to get my ass handed to me by Chuck Norris. I guess there’s only one way to find out for sure then huh?

Earlier this morning up in the guard tower, i watched some dude wipeout on his bike during typical Iraqi rush-hour traffic. I roflmao’ed for a good 10 minutes till i nearly shit myself with the effort of trying to contain it and maintain my military bearing but failed miserably. I couldn’t help it. He looked okay though for a dude who just wrecked his motorcycle albeit a little banged up and extremely embarassed. After i painfully managed to regain some composure, i had to order him in broken Arabic to move his broke motorcycle further down the road away from the front of our outpost because he couldn’t be parked on the shoulder. No civilian vehicle was allowed to for any reason, lest they want to get shot at by U.S Army grunts manning the guard towers. We protect our crib fiercely homey! Werd. Anyway, he did not at all look happy with me and gave me the crazy eye while animatedly waving his hands about in clear frustration at my order all the while cussing me out in rapid Arabic, which made me bust out lol’ing again. I did feel a slight twinge of guilt for being an asshole to the poor guy as i watched him painfully limp away while pushing his wrecked motorcycle along. Ok, maybe not but that’s okay. Karma is a painful bitch and i will get what’s coming in due course. Till then i can relive the hilarious moment in my head and go to bed tonight satisfied that i can still proudly say, “i’ve never wiped out on a motorcycle in Iraq during rush hour traffic right infront of an American outpost before.” That and “Chuck Norris doesn’t want to fight me because my kung fu is dope yo!“

- Jay

October 23, 2008 | Filed Under General, Iraq, Random | Leave a Comment