A couple of my drill sergeants figured that out and used it on occasion.

One of my favorite DSs was a good-ole Airborne soldier with a great sense of humor. Even when he was “Caping” (they couldn’t say “smoking” for punishment exercise anymore) he managed to maintain the comedy.

He mentioned to our platoon one day during a little bit of slow time that he wanted something special for his headstone when he died, a message that would be both inspiring and insulting if one looked deeper. He turned directly to me.

“Got it, drill sergeant. I’ll work on it.”

By the next day I handed him my first draft.

He smiled wide. “That’s it,” he declared and wrote my work on the battle-bay whiteboard where it remained until graduation day:

Freedom can only be
Understood by those with whose
Courage gives them strength and
Knowledge to fight for it.

Years pass quickly and
Our lives are seldom valuable
Until we serve a greater cause.

I’ll be published in granite.

She said that when she found out I had been shipped to Missouri for Basic she thought, “Well that’s a tough one.”

But, she told me, “At least you weren’t in the 1-48th while there, right? They are notorious.”

“Um. I was in the 1-48th.”

She calmly replied, “Oh s#!t.”

Hey, so I had a little tougher than average Basic. Big deal. I was wondering why my friends were all wide-eyed when I mentioned I had been tear-gassed at least 12 times.

Then again, how bad could it be if they also took us to a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert? Yes… for real… with a 17-minute rendition of Freebird to quell the masses…

My knees survived. Dare I say it I think they are now better than ever. In fact, my time on my final Physical Fitness Test for the two mile was 13:03. Not bad at all for an old man. It max-es out pretty much every age group. I even outran the drill sergeants.

But tonight a buddy and I went to the gym for the first time since I got back.

I’m weak as hell compared to before. I’ll get it back but it will be a while, I can tell.

Then I stepped on the scale.

I have lost 22 lbs.

In 10 weeks.

22!!!

Someone get me a sandwich.

“What?”

“You got here at just the right time. I need a medic,” Butterbar’s little Younger brother shouted down at me.

I had already been greeted by name by several people whom I did not know as I got out of the jeep at the 4-H camp where we were staying for the weekend. We were in the cabin in the farthest back section of the hollow, just before the baseball field with the 8 signs around the fence that read “No Shooting.” It was a very kind welcome just getting in from the long drive, made longer as I stopped to nap for a few minutes and also stopped to help some people with their car.

It was black, the bit of night sky visible in a thick scar above, surrounded mostly by the dark of the mountains rising in walls around us. I could hear the river running, echoing up the rock face. Somewhere nearby there had to be a waterfall. In this cleft of land everything smelled moist, green, clean.

I grabbed my clothes bag, pillow and medical bag. For some reason I thought to bring med supplies, even the good section with all the surgical instruments and heavy oto/opthalmoscope (that I didn’t get any gifts of replacements for this Christmas I might add).

The Younger had shaved since I saw him last year. The eyes were just about identical to his big brother’s, the voice very similar. He had recently returned from a tour of Australia and New Zealand, prior to that having spent a month in Spain, all places where he was in lumberjack competitions and showcases. He’s one of the fastest woodchoppers in the world right now. Not THE fastest, but give him a few more years. He’ll be there.

“There’s something in my foot,” he told me, “been there for a few days but it’s really starting to hurt now.”

“Think it’s metal shavings from the garage?” his touring partner asked.

“Metal shavings?” I said with a raised eyebrow. Oh yeah, he makes axes, too. He gave his brother one to take to Iraq with him. When handling his axes, you do have to be very careful. They quite literally are razor sharp. Just before an event he might take a whetstone to his axe and make a few swipes, then runs the axe along his leg, shaving a perfect strip down to the skin, the hair jumping off like fleas.

So we talked, we caught up as he lay there, me checking out his foot then pulling out the forceps and other equipment. Whatever it was was well buried. Surface level picking was not getting anywhere so I pulled out a fresh scalpel. His friends came in the room and moved in closely, silent. The Younger and I kept on with our conversation while a few minutes later I was pulling out strips of wood, not metal, small, but disintegrating.

“Holy crap,” one friend said, “That must have hurt.”

“What?” he asked. “I didn’t feel anything. What did he do?”

“The guy took a knife to the bottom of your foot.”

“Nope. Didn’t feel a thing. Actually it all feels a lot better now. He’s good.”

I smiled with a bit of pride. I like helping, especially without pain.

Eventually we all fell asleep in the big cabin, awakening early the next morning before the sunlight. The Younger and I got up, showered, dressed and out the door before their friends made it out of bed. We went to town to the greasy spoon on the corner for breakfast, where you can get your eggs any way you like so long as they are fried and flat. Even an omelet was essentially scrambled eggs, folded, with some filler in there.

But it was filling. The biscuits… well, they weren’t southern. Someone had microwaved them. I forgive, but I didn’t eat beyond the second bite. Birds started going wild in the morning air along the riversides. The place for the competition is on an island formed from a split in the river. Away from the stage in an open field food vendors arrived, starting up their garish carnival carts all promising enticing treats from funnel cakes to butterfly fries to chinese food. Everything required a deep fryer I think. Everyone also promised fresh lemonade but I never saw anyone squeezing a single lemon.

The town, Webster Springs, is a poor mountain community with a population of less than 1000, like a lot of places hidden in West Virginia, and yet I think of West Virginia as one of, if not the, prettiest states in the union. I met people who reminded me of some of the folks from my mountain town, though mine is becoming far more connected and resort-like over the years. But the town is unique in that it is host to the World Championship Woodchopping Festival.

Actually, the name of the town is really Addison, but when the Post Office was built in the 1800s, the name “Webster Springs” was carved into the wall and so that’s what people called it.

The women, even the youngest teenagers, though, did seem a little… eager? as if something instinctive were welling up inside them, “Fresh DNA… fresh DNA…”

The day of competition started out with fine saw cuts and axethrowing. In that time I was able to meet and talk with a number of the “big names” in the world of Timber Sports. Okay, so it’s not as big a deal as, say, UFC contenders, but still. These are men and women of great skill. And I’d much rather take a beating from Chuck Liddell than take on one of these guys with an axe considering what they can do to a tree.

As always, even with the competitive nature and the money on the line, these men and women were the epitome of sportsmanship, helping each other, encouraging each other, and accepting compliments with grace.

I tried to serve as an assistant to the Younger, was there on hand to haul stuff, not that he wasn’t much stronger and could haul stuff better, but hey, it gave me the chance to be a part of it all. He was patient with me, introducing me to the others on the tour as his friend, not just his brother’s friend. While on the stage helping him get set up and marked, he would explain to me the choice of where to chop based on what he saw of the wood, how he would mark a log to guide him, how he would lock the log into place to make sure it held well.

Always when a competitor was having problems and everyone else in his heat had already finished, the rest of the competitors stood by, encouraging, the crowd cheering him on, no one letting him think it was time to quit. Anyone could compete in the initial rounds, and there are even handicapped rounds, which led to one of my favorite moments:

During the underhand chop a new lumberjack decided to join in, competing against people who hold world records in this sport. While he had a 20 second head-start, the others on the stage alongside him completed, their logs split before he was even halfway done. He kept on.

At age 12 he kept right on swinging his axe, the crowd cheering him, two of the champions standing nearby, coaching him along. “Bite cut high. Now middle. Now low. That’s it. Another low. Left side low. Now high.”

No one raised the question about whether to go ahead with the competition while the boy hacked away at his log, the axe wearing him down. No one prepped their own stations for the next round, everyone watching and encouraging, the announcer calling for more clapping, more cheers. The round that should normally take 60 seconds at the most continued for 7 minutes as the boy finished. And he did finish, hands blistered from squeezing too tightly, arms barely able to lift up. He wanted to compete. He came in last but he shared the stage with the best of the sport, and he never quit.

That night after dinner we stopped to talk with some of the older legends of timber sports, sitting in a motel parking lot/patio in old plastic lounge chairs. I heard stories of the old tours of Australia, of the many times one of them was on with Johnny Carson, both on “Who Do You Trust” and on “The Tonight Show.”

“At first he kept wanting me to knock a cigarette out of his mouth from about 10 feet throwing an axe, and I would tell him no way. You never know when your throw might be that one time it goes off and that would be bad,” he recalled. “Then one night I was on with me first, then Lauren Bacall [he had my full attention but didn't get to talk with her much] then some singer. We were talking before the show and I asked, ‘You still want me to do that cigarette thing?’ Johnny said, “You know, that was then. I’m making a few million a year now. I don’t have to do stupid stuff like that anymore, but thanks, buddy.”

Later, after the first day of competition was the promise of a concert. A band set up on the stage in front of everyone. There was no private soundcheck. They seemed to have a really hot assistant helping with the setup. Turned out she was one of the two singers. We were all pretty exhausted and figured we’d head on back, but wanted to hear how bad the music would be.

The band played… competently, starting up, then the hot chick broke into a song I had never heard before but DANG. The lady had chops. She sounded incredible and it was a great song. Unfortunately, the other “singer” on the stage, a cowboy version of late-staged, lounge-singing Elvis came on out. He grabbed his wireless mic and walked the bleachers through the audience, singing one song after another, as the hot lady stood on stage, not doing much of anything.

“We’ll stick around until she sings at least once more,” the Younger offered. We did. As the chords started up, I couldn’t resist… just could not resist…

We left right after, with a quick stop for some beer and rum on the way back to a good night’s sleep.

A great day with another one the next morning.

I dislike city driving. The Viking would do the driving for us, but then came the great idea: we’d take the train from the northernmost station down to the stadium. Made sense.

Sitting directly across from each other we chatted a bit about nothing in particular as we waited for the train to begin its journey into the city. The Viking is a funny man. He can keep me laughing. Then the sound for the doors closing. It’s a very high pitched, loud beep. He jumped a moment. Reflex.

There are sounds we get used to calling us into action. The sound reminded him of the sound just before a blast, the loud clicking of tracks another danger sound. Passing under bridges his eyes dart upwards looking for warning signs. It takes time.

“Thank God they didn’t have a subway in Baghdad,” he mused. “We’d have been all up and down those tunnels guarding that thing too.”

There are reflexes we develop. While not on the same level, I still react to a certain set of 4 tones in sequence, the tones that alerted my ambulance that our particular unit had an emergency call coming in. It was so heightened at one point that I was at home, asleep one morning after a very active 24-hour shift, a full mile away from the station, my bedroom windows opened to the moist morning air. A little after 0700 the tones went out over the radio, the ambulance doors must have been open, and I jerked awake, reaching for my shoes before I realized I wasn’t on duty, the echo of those tones carrying across the distance.

But this is all a part of reintegration: crowds, loud noises, etc. I don’t do well in crowds either, but I knew the Viking was with me. Between the two of us we’d either be just fine, or else there would be a wide swath of carnage of Atlantans who got too close. Luckily one of the MOST attractive women I have seen came and sat right next to me on the train. I did my best not to drool and only stare at her peripherally. Viking boy, the bastard, had a straight on view. It took his mind off the sounds and alerts. She was way too young for me, and I’m sure the reason she chose my seat as opposed to some of the others was that I seemed the least dangerous/safest among the bets. We spoke a little and she guided the Viking and I to the transfer and busses to the stadium. She even had an exotic eastern European accent.

Once successfully perched in our cheap seats, we enjoyed the game, the beer, the hot dogs, nachos, ladies throwing free t-shirts, though none anywhere near us. The sunset glowed over the city in peaceful hues eventually giving way to indigo. And we texted and took pictures for other very fine ladies in New York. (and after seeing the replies I use the term “lady” VERY loosely, charitably even, or, dare I say it, with eleemosynary indulgence.)

Then after bidding goodnight to the Bulldog, into the crowds we went for the trip home. We stood on the train, the seats all around us packed tightly and we made sure we gave ours to others. Funny how reflexes hit, mine from street-medic life, his from wartime life. Facing each other, he towards the back, me towards the front, non-dominant arm holding the overhead rail, slightly off center from each other. For those who know me, here’s the shocker: I didn’t turn around even with several doors behind me. I knew the Viking had my back. I had his.

“We just formed a 360° field-of-view, good perimeter security,” he noticed after a couple of stops. We smiled. “You know, if you wanted to really take over and dominate this city, you’d want to get your hands on the train system. You could dominate and divide up the city.”

“Yeah, but imagine the attempts at damaging the tracks and such,” I countered.

“There’s a chance for that, but there’s so much barbed wire and the tracks are either raised high above, great sniping points with concrete barriers, or they are underground. The transition zones are very well barricaded as it is. Just a little bit of reinforcement.”

Passengers around us seemed to more intensely and concertedly ignore us and our debate/strategy session, the sounds getting more animated as we worked out security and assault points. Support the troops, just don’t talk to them or let them get too close, people. Is that it?

He’s going to be alright. More than that, he’s going to be great. People will follow him because he’s a man who cares, each lesson making him stronger, better for the next challenge. Don’t be sorry for those scars, they are part of who he is, and that is very good person.

Secret Message to Michelle and Erica: Can you read the sign here? I mean, we know y’all went to those inner city public schools that were nothing but gangs and drugs, but we figured you might have picked up something… you know… other than disease… (with all due respect, of course)

One way I am honoring our military this Memorial Day weekend is with something that is an honor. Last year about this time I went with one of my closest friends, butterbar, to watch his younger brother (definitely NOT “little” brother) in a lumberjack competition. Butterbar is deployed this year to a particularly hot place some people paying attention to the news might have heard about. I’m headed back up to take pictures, videos, and provide any and all support I can for the younger brother this year.

I’m not much of a substitute for the real big brother, but I’m glad to be along for the ride.

Back in a bit.

Some people leave positive impressions on almost everyone they meet. I think it comes down to the energy, the life they bring to the moment. Everyone’s friend this weekend seemed to be Chuck Ziegenfuss, but few were prepared for just how incredible his wife was as well, I think. They make a great team. Chuck is witty in spite of his traumatic brain injury. His wife likes to point out he had a traumatic brain BEFORE the injury. Her name tag had the subtitle of “Chuck’s Better Half,” but after a while it became clear there were a few other applicable epithets such as “Just about the only good thing going for Chuck” and “Chuck’s Reality Check.” Her smile was infectious, her sarcasm and humor even more so.

Chuck did not hold back in conversations nor in his talks about what he went through. He spoke with brutal honesty and (brutal) humor about the positive and negative, the dark moments and those things others did which meant so much, including just being there for him.

One of the most intense moments of the conference for me wasn’t among the emotional talks, and there were plenty of those. For about 10 minutes during the cocktail reception, Chuck explained to another person and I about his injurred hand, the sensations, the numbness, the pain when warmed. I watched with both medical and personal fascination as he ran his hand along the high-top pub table around which we stood. The A&P course I have been taking rushed into my head as he talked about the process of nerve regeneration, the four remaining fingers of his hand outstretched and moving across the white tablecloth, a blister-like shape on the underside of his wrist. And yet he had a way of putting people at ease under such circumstances. However, he doesn’t seem to try to make everyone happy and like him. He appears to have an attitude of “Take me as I am. If that’s not good enough for you, that’s your problem. Go away.” With this crowd, that works fine.

The other newly met milblogger to leave a mark on myself, as well as many others, was SGT Hook. (I want to write SGM since it’s more appropriate, but he’s not changing his website just for that.) When I linked him on the side here, the rollover comment I placed was “The Soldier you hope your son or daughter grows into…” I based that on reading him as well as knowing the work he did for getting shoes to Afghan children. I stand by that assessment.

Like so many others I was even more impressed by meeting the man in person. Warm but analyzing eyes set the tone as he walked up the stairs to the reception, heading over to the table of name tags, adding a note of “Hook” to his before pinning it on. It was a pleasure to talk with him multiple times about some things and nothing in particular. The energy he brings is quiet, calm, powerful. I even managed to secure his first of the hotel’s VERY overpriced beers, though something tells me it was as much a prop as a refreshing beverage. As much as I wanted to keep talking with him, to really get to some questions I had for him, I did not want to dominate his time. He’s someone I’d like to have in my supply of friends.

During a panel discussion, he had one of the signature quotes of the event. When asked about what he would say to the peace activists: “I don’t want to come home until we win.” While some people might overanalyze and criticize that statement, those of us there knew exactly what he meant in terms of duty to his country and his family while missing them both.

After the event we gathered back down at the bar, and he and I were able to finally get a good bartender to pay some attention to us and supply us before he headed off to spend some time with relatives in the DC area. Again, I didn’t want to dominate his time, but I knew this was a man I respected and liked.

Finally, one moment to share, without analysis, just this descriptor: Robert Stokely remembering his son who was killed in action in Iraq. He was the quiet dignity of the conference. I spoke to the man in person for a while, came by as he was talking with Army Wife, Toddler Mom. Those words will stay with me until I pass on as well.

(more tomorrow)

I went a little crazy. Sorry.

Times have been particularly stressful lately, as if anyone reading the last few posts hadn’t noticed. What should be a period of happiness for me is turning into a headache of massive proportions, but it is the way in which a person handles the difficult times that provide the true measure. I hope to measure up positively in the end, having come to decisions that are only reinforced by more recent events, but that’s not a story for here.

Thursday night I reached out to a friend in-the-know. She made some calls on my behalf and secured a place for me at the Milblogger’s Conference. Friday, I took off from work, calling my “assistant” to have him handle a few things for me while I was out. Unfortunately, I had forgotten I had given him the day off, but with a couple more calls, I had several things handled for the day thanks to coworkers in my division, though not my department.

Unlike the other blogger “conferences” I have attended, this one had a purpose beyond the usual camaraderie and swapping of stories between drinks. They discussed issues related to the military and online journals, especially in light of recently released Army regulations.

Truly I felt out of place, out of my league being treated somewhat like a peer among these fine people. I am a blogger, and I blog on my experiences with the military at times. It should be clear I love my soldiers, the young ones I encounter every day, the elites in all their quiet, confident competence, in the senior officers with whom I work and occasionally earn their trust. But I am not of the same caliber as these men and women who serve or whose spouses serve, even those who were there, dodging the press in order to preserve some of their anonymity. And, of course, please do not forget that while many servicemembers have spouses, they ALL have parents. Meeting Some Soldier’s Mom was a fine experience and she reminded us all of this. With her close cropped hair and her brook-no-nonsense demeanor, it was easy to see why her children turn out to be such upstanding individuals.

The place was overloaded with Angels; real-life Angels from Soldiers’ Angels who do so much work. I never wanted to put them through the expense of sending me a coin, since I wanted all my donation money to go to their projects, so it was nice being able to pick one up along with a pin. These people devote their time and efforts to so many. If we could harness the karmic output generated by the amount of good they do, we’d all be flying to the distant stars by tomorrow. These are ordinary people doing extraordinary things because they want to. You donate, they make it happen. So donate. Even better, also donate to their group Project Valour-IT. It means something to me in particular, especially since I was able to look the fine team in the eyes and thank them personally for so quickly helping one of my own young ones who was in need of a laptop to help with college now that he only has one hand to use for typing.

Matt of Blackfive continued his usual presence in this arena, leading the way to a degree. He’s the guy everyone knows and wants to talk with, considering he has the book, he is on the news and his website is off and running on its own with the occasional comment from him on military matters. I was pretty impressed that he remembered my name even without my nametag after a couple of years. A good, quiet man. (heh… I’ll keep the real intel on him secret… for now.)

Then there was someone I know through all the pictures on his blog and feel a certain familiarity with: Sean Dustman and his cute wife. He’s a medic, like me (though more advanced), he’s a reader-geek, like me, but he has more skills in many areas, and he has a quality of relaxed comfort. I also enjoyed chatting with his wife for a bit. She seemed a little shy, a little overwhelmed by the noise of the crowd at first, but was quickly into the conversations around her. I’m very glad they had the time to explore DC in addition to attending this strange gathering.

One of the great things about places like this is seeing friends who become familiar over the years. And, yes, it is odd noting that I have known some of these people for years though spent very little time with them in person. They also provided a safety net for when I felt completely out of place and not ready to introduce myself to even more people who would have no idea who I was. “It’s When the Smoke Clears,” I’d say reluctantly to slightly raised eyebrows with a slight “oh” and it was clear they would have no idea. “I’m extremely popular with moms,” I’d explain, “It’s cool.” (Well that’s not how it always went. One person from the DoD knew exactly who I was. Apparently I was linked to in a daily brief that went out to the Army once. I don’t know all the details yet, but that might explain why the site has been getting so many unique hits but not many commenters.)

So at those uncomfortable times, I’d fall back on some people I have considered true friends for a while: Tammi, who is, of course, too tall for someone of my fragile ego, but is fun to be around nonetheless. When we leave a thumbprint on someone’s soul, we know we have done something good, and in Tammi’s world, I did introduce her to Yuengling back around the New Years. She is now addicted. And a big congratulations to her on her good news. She was a good dinner companion as well as a lighthouse in a sea of the unfamiliar.

Then there was Teresa. I only had a brief breakfast time to talk with her the last time I saw her up in Tennessee, but we had a lot more time to chat this go around. We shared drinks, we swapped a few stories and I was glad to see she made it all the way out to DC for this fun. Again, another great dinner companion. I also thank her for indulging me as I reflected on “my kids” while flipping through their pictures on my laptop after a particularly potent Mojito.

Next up was my good friend and confidant Army Wife, Toddler Mom. Talk about someone who has left an impression, but she does that on anyone she meets. That’s why she’s one of the best both online and in person. Her husband is certainly a good man to have earned the lifetime of love this lady feels for him. She was busy as one of the centers of attention, but every time she looked my way I had to smile. I didn’t even mind being her little purse-carrying bitch at times.

And prime among my older friends there, Princess Kat. Not only was this fine lady helping me by both getting me in to the conference (using her connection with ever-busy Andi) and providing me a crash pad in her new and very nice house, even guiding me to where I needed to go, she was also on the planning and execution of this whole shin-dig. Talk about someone with class and style. HOWEVER, I noted she and one other lady present both had “Princess” on their name tags and yet they were not wearing tiaras while a few other ladies were. I was SO hoping they’d go pull rank on those princess wannabes. After all, corporals don’t go around with captain’s bars on. Princesses need to protect their street cred. I really cannot say enough nice things about the Kat. She’s fun, she’s funny, and she even gave me a place to stay.

And Kat managed to introduce me to Buckethead who immediately became someone with whom I enjoy hanging around and talking. He used to be a DC rat, but has taken on the quiet life of the small town in the country. Boy can I relate. Granted I don’t have a wife and kids at home but we definitely had a few things in common in spite of his Midwest/Yankee self. Okay, I’ll admit I also wish I had the opportunity to drink more with him and the rest, but the initial 11 hour drive the first night sent me back to sleep before they crashed at… what? 4am? The second night, I bailed out early and went to bed again, while everyone else stayed out and partied like rockstars. I didn’t have it in me this time to keep up. I value my sleep time, especially when I am feeling down as I have been lately.

More to come in a moment…

I hopped in the car and headed out, 10 hour drive, to the capital.

Talk about a way to refresh the soul and gain perspective.

Lately I’ve been leaving the gym and more often heading over to the “Chow Hall” for breakfast rather than away to the office or somewhere else to eat. It’s a good feeling to be rushed by all these offers of places to sit as I stumble through with a tray piled high of fresh fruit, eggs and other good stuff.

But I’m being surrounded by friends lately. Last night, another visit from the Viking Medic. He just needed a place to get away. We talked for a few minutes, then I left him alone for the evening. He had things to study, stuff to work on, details to sort out in his head, and I fell right to sleep. Knowing he feels comfortable here is enough for me.

Later tonight, the Wildebeest arrives. I can’t stay up like a rock star anymore so it’s going to be hard to entertain. Hopefully he’ll crash here and I can take most of tomorrow off to drag him around… but I also need to do yardwork. Maybe he can help.

Then I was asked to accompany another young soldier on Saturday for a long hike he has to accomplish. Pleasant walk in the woods for a number of hours? I’m up for that.

And then Easter Sunday beckons. While normally I would enjoy some church time and some quiet time at the cabin, this year I was asked by another soldier to join his family. The soldier in question is one of the most impressive I have met considering where he came from. He wants me along as his friend this Easter. It will be the first time he has really seen his mother since Child Services placed him under custody 7 or so years ago, partly at his own request. I think I’m just there for backup.

The weekend isn’t even here yet and I’m already tired.

They say I’m getting my own Humvee and driver this weekend. Too bad I’ll spend most of my time rucking it on foot. With any luck I’ll get to pick my junior medics. There’s one I want to teach, another I need to teach a lesson to, and perhaps getting him away from the others where I can talk to him, guide him and hopefully not have to snap on him will do that.

Be good to each other. I really feel the need to get away.

Vince is a giant of a man, emphasized even more so in a picture someone snapped of the two of us together, the top of my head aligned with the bottom of his neck. Being next to him is like being around a jolly Viking that is full of smiles and fun but you know could crush you at any moment. He is also a decorated medic with skills. He likes to help people. I’ve known him for over 3 years now, stayed in touch during his deployment to Iraq, and now he’s back. We would occasionally chat online when he was available. He has seen a great deal of carnage and destruction, earned his combat medic badge many times over, and now is pursuing the rest of his education.

Joking around with our friends he decided that I was his “little man” and no one had better mess with me. “I need to get some sweet tea,” he told the table as I was standing nearby. “There’s some in that pitcher,” someone else said. He responded, “Yeah, well, when I say ‘Sweet Tea,’ that’s what I call my RSM,” and of course everyone whooped and whistled it up from there.

As the dinner came to a close, the colonel was saying thanks to a number of people and said a few nice things about me. There was some applause and as it died down I heard from the back of the room “That’s my Sweet Tea!” I blushed. I was proud, of course, but I blushed anyway. What the heck, women think it’s adorable and that usually gets me hugs and kisses.

Standing outside after dinner I saw Vince off to the side smoking in the bright moonlight. Designated drivers started up vehicles all over the parking lot, getting ready to take their more partied-out friends home.

Before I could even say “hi” he said, “I know I know, but I’m down to just two a day now. I was smoking a pack a day in Iraq.”

“Come on, I’m not about to fault you.”

“It’s better than drinking.”

“Debatable, but we’ll go with that for right now.”

“Yeah, I haven’t been the best person to be around when we’re drinking lately… sometimes I have to go off to be by myself.”

I shut up and just stood there beside him, letting him know by my presence I was listening, even if I wasn’t making uncomfortable eye-contact. He continued, “I guess… I don’t know… Sometimes I just kinda break down. No one understands. Everyone looks to me to be the strong one, so I go away so no one can see me. I’ve got all this training, all this knowledge in my hands and sometimes it just wasn’t enough. There was nothing I could do, no matter how much I tried.”

“I think I can relate.”

“It’s just… I don’t know… it sometimes comes back to me… and… I can’t explain it even to people who were over there.”

I looked up at him, “It’s that helpless feeling, knowing you are doing all you can, but there isn’t… enough… whatever it is you need… it’s not enough, and then there were those times when there were too many patients, and you had to make that decision, which one do I work on… which one is about to die but has the better chance of living… and then working on him, listening to the other one dying, the one you made the decision that you couldn’t get to and save either one. And you question whether you really couldn’t help them both, and those questions keep coming up at the oddest times, you see what was left their faces at the oddest times. And you hate yourself for a moment for not knowing enough to help them both because… for a moment… you think if you just had enough knowledge…” and I let it hang in the air.

His eyes started to show both shock and recognition and he slightly nodded.

“I don’t know exactly what you went through, but I might have been through some similar things. How about you call me or come over next time you start getting that feeling again?”

His head nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah I think so.”

These are my heroes.

With the heavy rain traffic was worse than normal as could be expected, the inconsiderately brave causing the overly cautious to force the streets into a slowly shifting sand dune. I thought to myself “Did I really used to live like this? Could I do it again if I had to? I could make a lot more money if I agreed to work in this area again.”

I’m really not sure. Changes are coming, I can feel it, but I don’t know if it is the rain or the realization that is making me melancholy. The crowds of people pressing in together yet forcing themselves apart, deliberately self-absorbed, and, I’m sorry, but so many seem so dishonest.

When I wander through the streets of my little town, or I go into the stores, yes, I hear those thick Appalachian accents and snippets of conversations as people talk about what Hank is up to, or how someone got cheated at the Daytona 500, and I smile. I like hearing them. They are my neighbors, even those who might be strangers, and if we make eye contact, they often will try to pull me into their friendly conversation.

In the city, someone doing that makes me nervous.

Perhaps there are other contrasts. Yesterday was so beautiful and two soldiers took me to lunch where we ran into a number of other soldiers who saw me out and about and came over to say hi and talk for a few minutes, even though they didn’t know the two I was with. It was natural, it was casual. Today, drenched from the rain, I caught lunch between meetings, a pre-prepared sandwich that was sitting in a case, pulled out and put on a grill. At least I was in a bookstore, but I sat alone, trying to feel warmth for the people around me. I also notice that all those “support the troops” and yellow ribbon magnets are gone from the cars in the city. There’s a reason and I don’t think it has to do with my rant against them. Fickle… disingenuous… disgusting… and entirely expected.

But back home, things feel better. It’s time for a little more exercise. 0600 is for the gym. 2000 is for the Yoga mat. Both places feel comfortable. Perhaps if I have to go back to the city, I can find a peaceful place on the mat.

Driving home I was feeling uninspired to keep working tonight. Out at the dark green mailbox up the road was a sampling of cheap flyers for small chain stores nearby, but mixed in was a small padded envelope with a green customs tag on the back, simple block handwriting on the front and a cancellation stamp of the Military Postal Service.

One of my best friends, Butterbar (technically now Blackbar) sent another disc of pictures from Iraq. They don’t come often but they mean a lot. I know the names of almost every man and woman in his unit; I recognize them in the pictures. And yet in that sea of digital camo, I can always spot him, no matter how many are in the picture or how far away it was taken. The zoom feature always proves me right.

He’s my big brother and my little brother at the same time. And I miss him.

Each day I say a short prayer in the morning and evening for him, his 1SG, and his troops. I’d rather be there with them than here, but it couldn’t be worked out.

But the table on which I am working is the table he had his brother make for me. The guest bedroom where the fan was humming is the place where he hung a couple of items before he left and has stuff in the big closet to mark it as his own, several shirts ready for his girlfriend to take to him when they meet up in Germany while he is on leave.

I’m only on the periphery of his life. I can’t imagine how spouses and immediate family deal with this regularly. Maybe it’s why I don’t have a close family yet other than mom. I feel safer keeping some distance, but still, always outside looking in to the lives of people who matter so much.

Add to that, another guest blogger here, Rifle, was recently notified SUDDENLY he was going to the Sandbox. When I say suddenly I mean he had schools lined up, many months before he would be possibly on a rotation through the country, and was given 48 hours notice he would be on his way. His new bride is trying to adjust. She’s a smart, strong, beautiful woman. She is already reaching out for support while finding a way to support others around her. I was in their wedding. I owe her my time and will be there to help her do whatever she needs the moment I know she needs something.

Be safe tonight, all. You’re in my thoughts as always.

I think the fresh air did me some good. It was too late for them to get other medics and their commanders and planners prefered dealing with me anyway, so I toughed it out, and it was very much worth it, every bit of it; even the frustration calls from work wondering where I was and why I couldn’t just stop by to check on something and why my office machine and email said I was out. “Because I’m not there?”

Over the weekend I met and talked with a number of new soldiers I hadn’t really known before. Every single one of them, even the one who clearly had no business being out, didn’t fit in, couldn’t perform the skills, etc. was interesting and I made some new friends, but I’ll write about those another time.

Sure, I had my usual calls of “would you check my feet? I think I’m getting a blister. Maybe I shouldn’t be ruck-marching?” Nice try. I’d carefully examine feet, yep, red spot there, little moleskin and change socks and this time pull them all the way up and you’re good to go.

Besides, their commanders and sergeants had given me the word: Distinguish between pain and disability. If continuing meant they would probably hurt for more than 5 days afterwards, then consider pulling them out. Otherwise, let them toughen up.

In things medical I was the final arbitration for the soldiers. For a number I said, “It’s gonna hurt. Deal with the pain now and get callused up or deal with it again when you are out in the field for 4 weeks over the summer and CAN’T stop. And start adding your ruck to some of your PT. Your feet might be used the new boots, but they aren’t used to the new boots with an extra 50 lbs. of weight.”

Next to me was my favorite First Sergeant in the Army. A crusty, coarse Alabama man I’ve mentioned before. A Sapper, for those of you who know what that means, with combat experience in multiple venues. He stuck with me almost the entire weekend. “Hey, buddy, come on… let’s go do a field check…” he’d call out to me, which was his excuse for us to get away from the headquarters area so he could smoke.

I don’t begrudge him one bit. He’s out running around making extremely cutting remarks and corrections right alongside these kids, while still giving himself his Interferon shots of chemotherapy for his lymphatic cancer. At this point, if he feels he wants a cigarette, fine.

Earlier in the week we were on post at the Clothing and Sales. I saw him twitching. In spite of his apparent lack of certain formalities, I caught what was bothering him… whole units of soldiers assigned to the post with multiple mismatched uniform pieces, digital camo uniforms with woodland camo jackets and black neck gaiters or woodland camo BDUs with desert boots rather than black. The sergeant does demand certain things are done right.

He’d also push my buttons on occasion just for the fun of it. “Hey, buddy, Captain done sent me back to get you up and moving. I didn’t realize you was already in the field. He figured you’d prolly still be in your sleeping bag.”

“He said that?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘He’s a civilian, you cain’t force him to do nothing’.”

I tried to look angry but smiled as I started to rail on him and calling over the radio for the captain. “Still in the sack? STILL IN THE SACK? By 0430 I had ALREADY taken down my tent, packed away ALL my gear, loaded it up for the transition to the next range, done my personal hygiene AND conducted a sick call and treated 9 soldiers before you were halfway done with your first Mountain Dew and the Captain was trying to figure out how to get his coffee hotter after you both crawled out from sleeping in the VANS, and I was already back out there before first formation!”

“Well he said it. Besides, there’s a better way to tie your bootlaces off.”

“Well how am I supposed to learn that if you two are too busy guarding the rear while I do the real soldiering work around here? and don’t give me that ‘I got cancer’ crap, there, buddy. Besides, none of y’all will sleep near me.” (Apparently they seem to have given in to the rumor that I somehow might possibly snore slightly louder than a few other people. Rumors only. You can’t REALLY hear me over the generator.)

Later on a fairly fresh lieutenant showed up to our headquarters on the training range in his vehicle. The sergeant marched right over to him. Even the majors and captains started walking away sensing what was coming.

“Lieutenant… right over here a second. Now look at that car tag, what does that say?”

The LT was stunned for a moment at the tone but then answered as asked: “US Government.”

“And that one?”

“US Government”

“Aaaaand THAT one?”

“US Government, Sergeant.”

“And what does YOURS say?”

“Missouri.”

“Now you see where I’m headed, so how’s about you get your damned car out of here. You know for a FACT your POV (privately-owned vehicle) is not allowed out on this range so if you want to be out here just to say hi to some friend, how’s about you head on back to Range Control, park there and hike it back out here. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” and immediately the LT left.

Of course, when someone really is in trouble or can’t learn a skill, he knows exactly when to lay off the sarcasm or edge and take them aside for a talk, and within an hour or so, they can complete the skill.

That’s the power of a quality NCO.

I did experience more of that power, though, later on. After a couple of days a number of the soldiers had been training extra hard and gone well beyond their perceived limits and were excelling at leading each other in addition to mastering their own tasks. By request of the Major and Captain, I took one back to the main part of post to a barbecue vendor booth to buy up some food for the evening. (another reason for sending me was that I was more familiar with the base than anyone with the unit.) At the window we gave our order, which was pretty large, and a line started forming behind us.

Then I sensed it, almost like how the woods suddenly go silent when a predator is about. The soldiers around me grew tense. The one with me was especially tense.

A heavy laugh came from behind with a booming, authoritative voice. “That’s a big order for two, there.” I turned. Two textbook, prime examples of Drill Instructors stood behind us, ramrod straight, everything in their appearance perfect, dark black skin contrasting with the bright day, “smokey” hats perfectly centered on their heads. The soldier with me gave a barely perceptible nod. I smiled, “Yes, Sergeant, you got that right. I’ve got a few out on one of the ranges that have been working extra hard well beyond any expectations we had. I’m going to make sure they eat well tonight after everything is done and final inspection.” Sure, my manner was relaxed, but I felt my own tension rising under their scrutinizing eyes.

Suddenly the second one turned away and started yelling across the parking lot. “Hey… SOLDIER! Army of One is OVER! You’d best be running off to get your buddy not just trying to sneak by me, otherwise I’m going to come right over there and stick to you as your buddy for the rest of this fine day and see if you can remember never to leave your battle buddy!” His head snapped back at me. I wondered about my own uniform, devoid of any identification or “hooah” patches other than my name. A quick mental check: shaved this morning, hair clipped 3 days ago, boots a little dusty on top… damn… but clearly recent and a bright shine elsewhere, fresh uniform this morning still starched and rigid. My friends, especially the First Sergeant, said my uniform meant that I was either the BIGGEST screw up, 30-something private in the Army, or someone no one wanted to tempt fate and mess with. He said my bearing and presence would make almost everyone assume the latter.

“So they’re doing right by you?” the first one asked.

“They’re doing right for no other reason than that’s what they really want to do for themselves.”

“Then you let them know, and they’ll keep right on working for you that way. Hot dang, that’s good to hear. They are gonna eat gooooood.”

“Don’t I know it. I started eating Chef Red’s stuff long before he was ever here on base,” and a brief conversation ensued about some of the town barbecue from 10 years ago and places we had both been.

We paid and gathered our boxes. “Thanks, sergeant. Frankly, I’m honored to be able to work with them.”

Off to the side the second D.I. applied a little more corrective therapy to some officer cadets leaving the PX looking far from soldierly.

The first D.I. looked me in the eyes again. Inside, okay, I was a bit intimidated which almost never happens. I understand the feeling they inspire, I admit it. But I think I hid the fear pretty well. He said, “Wish you could send me some of your soldiers. I’d like a few I didn’t have to work on all the time.”

“I can understand that, sergeant, but let me keep them for a while longer. You have a good day and a great weekend off if you get one.”

He paused, a little smile on his face. I don’t know if he had fully figured me out, but I suspect he had at that point, just a poser civilian medic. “Thank you. Appreciate it. Hope to see you again some time soon, sir.”

I nodded in assent and headed back to our van with the goodies.