Iraq Drawdown

I have a lot of mixed feelings and questions about the Iraq drawdown. Over at War Retreat they have a post that shows information regarding Veterans who have served in Iraq, their families, and their lives now. There are even pie graphs for those who like pictures. Just remember, these are not just numbers, THESE ARE PEOPLE. People who have served multiple deployments, have PTSD, have lost a loved one to war, or a family that's lost a loved one to suicide. Check it out. Our Veterans and Active Duty need us, don't let them down.

http://warretreat.org/2011/12/16/iraq-drawdown-infographic-the-work-has-just-begun/

Veterans History Project

I love history, and not just the kind in the books. I love "his-story." Whenever I am around someone's grandparents I love to get them talking about their younger years. I have heard many stories about The Great Depression, World War I, World War II, and I treasure each one.  The stories of Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan are more difficult to get Veterans to share, for many reasons.  Pain, shame, and time frame being a few.  Some of the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans haven't processed their own experiences, so how can they tell them? And do they want to?
I believe personal stories are a much bigger learning tool than any book. When you have someone who experienced a time first hand they give a unique story tailored to their circumstances.
Recently I had one of the most wonderful ladies in my life die. She would have been 85 in October. Almost five years ago in November there were two weeks this wonderful lady stayed with me as we waited for the birth of my second child.  During that time she shared stories with me of her childhood. Stories I will always cherish.  Speaking with her friends and family I heard more stories, not just of her life, but of her husband's life, (a man I missed the privilege of meeting) and their life together. It was then I realized their "his-stories" and the lessons in them live on in us, the people they loved.
History is important.  It is important to write it down so it may be shared with current and future generations with accuracy.  Which is why I think the Veterans History Project is important.
The Veterans History Project has been funded by Congress to collect first hand stories, correspondence, and documentation about World War I, World War II, Vietnam, Korea, The Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, and Iraq. There is even a program for High School students to use the Veterans History Project as a Senior project before they graduate.
I think the Veterans History Project is important to us as a Nation. It can help inform the masses with first hand knowledge about what a our Veterans experienced. It can bring younger generations closer, helping to dissolve the disconnect between themselves and Veterans around them. It can be a living monument to those who came home, and those who made the ultimate sacrifice. It can help ensure that no one is forgotten. 
To those family members who have their parents and grandparents war memorabilia and don't know what to do with it, look into this project.
To you Veteran's out there, I encourage you to look into this project so you may tell your "his-story" your way, instead of letting someone else tell it for you. Being a Veteran automatically makes you a part of history.
Tell your story.

To learn more about the Veterans History Project please click here.

If you are interested in this project and want help, contact me. I will gladly help anyone.

Companion to Honor

Doc was singing when I first met him, if I remember correctly. He was always singing. I'd just arrived in my new unit's office and was removing the porn I'd found on the government computer. I'd been in the Marines for about 3.5 years, and Doc had been in the Navy for about the same. He came crashing in singing some unknown R&B piece, tossed down his backpack, and looked around at the new faces.

“Who the hell are you guys?”

We were the new instructors sent to the unit, we explained, and introduced ourselves. He shook our hands briefly and cordially, welcomed us, and returned to rummaging in his pack. A moment later, he had wandered off. I learned later that he was always like this; he never sat still.

Part of it was a continual desire to improve himself. When he wasn't buried in a medical text for his job, he was studying for college classes, which he took online and at a local college. In fact, he'd nearly finished his Bachelor's degree before he came off of active duty. While some might describe him as a flake, it's more accurate to say that he was involved in a myriad of occupational, academic, and social activities and he had to organize his time carefully. His cellphone voicemail greeting even indicated this:

“This is Doc. Leave a clear, concise, grammatically correct message at the tone.” If you didn't, he wouldn't call you back. He might not have called you back anyway. He was busy.

Despite being constantly stretched thin, Doc never allowed it to diminish his attitude. Without exception, he was cheerful, 100% present, and ready at a moment's notice to throw in a humorous remark that would send us all into gales of laughter. At times, he seemed too funny to know his job, but it was a misassuption.

When he taught his medical classes, it was evident that he not only knew his profession, but knew more than most anybody of his rank or position, and excelled at explaining it to others. After seeing him instruct, we never doubted his medical knowledge again. But even his teaching was hilarious to watch. Flamboyant, to say the least.

While extremely intelligent and articulate, Doc tended to stutter; both in private conversation and in front of an audience. You could tell that he knew exactly what he was trying to say, but that his mouth had a hard time articulating the words. He'd stumble over a phrase, stutter a couple times, get visibly irritated, then spit it out with force. He grew even more annoyed when we all buried our faces in our hands and tried not to laugh (unsuccessfully). He never let it slow him down, and he would invariably get us back somehow. My “punishment” one day was driving several miles around Camp Lejeune, North Carolina with a rainbow-colored “Gay Pride” vanity license plate taped to my back bumper. When I found it, I pulled it off in horror.

In 2007, Doc was on a small team of dozen Marines and Sailors sent to Iraq to train Iraqi soldiers, police, and army recruits. It was his second tour doing this, so many of us looked up to him for guidance, advice on working with a radically-different culture, and the subtle nuances of instruction. He stuttered in those classrooms, too. Regardless, the Iraqi students always listened with rapt attention. They even liked it when he sang, which seemed to be a baseline activity whenever he wasn't speaking.

On the firing ranges, surrounded by hundreds of recruits who spoke not a word of English, Doc commanded their attention, their respect, and their friendship, working with them individually to perfect their marksmanship, congratulating them when they shot superbly, and providing encouragement when they needed to improve. He had a knack for getting along with people. Whereas most of us focus on differences and disagreements, Doc searched for reasons to like them. Aside from the stuttering, he'd have made a fine spokesman for any organization.

With our team being as small as it was in Iraq, it was easy for work responsibilities and even chores to totally overwhelm us. Doc, however, always pitched in where he could. While technically just our senior medical guy, he routinely instructed in infantry tactics (which he knew thoroughly), foreign weapons, marksmanship, and a host of other classes that were presumably far outside his area of expertise. If some of us had projects that kept us working late, he never turned down our requests for assistance. For a time, he even awoke early to go running with me – in the cold, in the dark, with the shrieks of hyenas occasionally disrupting the quiet. He'd still go work out later, too. Frankly, the only time he stopped moving was to eat, which for us was always an event.

Marines usually grab some sort of slop, pretend it's food, swallow it, and go back to work (or sleep). Our team, however, “broke bread.” It was the only period of the day when we were all in one location and not consumed with responsibilities. Doc was always the life of the party. Knowing that I disliked people who chewed with their mouths open, he'd sit right across from me and do just that. Then somebody would slap him in the head with a hotdog and he'd start yelling. Then our laughter would drown out the yelling. More than once we were nearly kicked out of chow halls. Only our commanding officer's senior rank prevented it happening.

Our commander said this about Doc's personality: “He was always ready to speak confidently on matters which, in his own mind, he had resolved in full.”

Far more than a coworker, Doc was a son to those older than him, and a brother to his peers. Each of us, on multiple occasions, confided in him, sought his advice, or even vented. Despite being on the move constantly, he would stop, give you his undivided attention, and help you. If people were his calling, loving them was his gift. He was the glue that bound us all together.

During that tour in 2007, insurgents detonated a carbomb directly outside of our base, with disastrous results. The wounded and dead were immediately evacuated onto base where Doc was among the first responders to begin medical treatment. Surrounded by dozens of wounded, screaming Iraqis, including children, women and the elderly, he moved swiftly to help those he could, assigned others to assist him, and created order in an absolutely devastating situation. More than 40 were killed that day and perhaps 60 others injured. I am firmly convinced that many of the injured survived entirely because of Doc's skilled, methodical care. Barking orders, speaking through interpreters, and moving patients, he never stuttered. There was work to be done.

Doc finished his service to his brothers and his country in 2008, but maintained contact with nearly all of us. We weren't professional responsibilities in his mind, but friends – our relationships cemented in a single oath, tragedy, and key involvement in an historic war.

Whenever I was in his area, he'd offer me a free place to sleep, feed me, and introduce me to his neighbors and friends. Whatever he had, he offered freely. I know many others kept in contact with him, too. Occasionally he'd drive long hours to visit some of us. Yet even then, he was constantly busy.

Soon after leaving the Navy, Doc finished his degree and began not only working full time, but also studying for a graduate degree. When that was done, he began studying to become a Physician's Assistant (PA). He not only enjoyed medicine, but he had a genuine desire to help people. His whole attitude was one of giving.

I visited Doc a few months back, staying at his place for free, as usual. Another friend, between jobs and apartments, was also visiting long-term. Doc, always benevolent, had seen the need and simply taken him in. Since he was getting ready to start in PA school, Doc had moved to a smaller apartment, taken steps to save his money, and prepare for the financial strain of his additional schooling. But he'd figured it all out. He remained enthusiastic about his studies, confident he could manage the money, and looked forward to starting in the fall.

Three weeks ago, under circumstances that none of us will ever fully grasp, Doc took his own life. A man who had invested his life in giving to others, who would drop anything to come to the aid of hundreds of friends and brothers, refused to let us help him – something we would have done without hesitation. His death leaves a void in all of our lives.

His memorial service – one of at at least three – was this past weekend. Marines, Soldiers and Sailors, some active, some former and some retired, men accustomed to burying friends, wept as we honored yet another who fell too young. He was supposed to grow old and do great things. We often forget that while national service brings the highest of honor, its close companion is immeasurable grief.

The roughly 5,500 combat dead of Iraq and Afghanistan frequently and rightfully command national attention, extensive news coverage and hometown memorials, but we ignore the more than 20,000 who have fallen to inner wars with demons the likes of which the living cannot comprehend.

I have a mental image of the ranks with whom I've served since 2003. There are now more holes than I can count. Some 46 dead and more than 200 wounded one tour alone, six dead and a dozen wounded another, a dozen more since I left the Marines, and still another dozen dead from self-inflicted wounds in the past three years alone. They have been replaced with little marble crosses in cemeteries around the country, or urns, or inconspicuous granite markers and weathered miniature flags. Their memorials are wholly insufficient.

Nearly 600,000 men and women have given their lives for this country, and an untold number more have taken their own lives soon after serving (at a rate of 17-20 a day). To lower a flag to half mast on Memorial Day morning (til noon) seems almost a mockery of all that they have offered and all that has been taken from them. But I don't know what else to do, besides grieve for an untold number of companions. Will you have a barbeque this weekend and celebrate the beginning of summer, or will you remember the journey of sacrifice, honor and grief that brought us where we are?

Godspeed, Doc, and may we see you in the morning.

Copyright © 2010, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved

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Put yourself in his dad’s shoes « BurnPit

A loving father, grieving for his Marine son who was killed in Iraq is ordered to pay court cost for the lawyers who protested his son's funeral. Wow.  I have so many responses, I am dizzy just trying to think of one to put in print. In the end I will just encourage you to read the story for yourself and make up your own mind, then let me know how it makes you feel and what you think of it all.

I send my best wishes to the brave Father, and am so grateful for organizations like The American Legion who help our Veteran's and their Families in so many ways, this just being one of them.

Put yourself in his dad’s shoes « BurnPit

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Army Strong

I have had the pleasure of meeting a ton of new people which have quickly turned into very valuable friendships by starting Words For Warriors.  Today I received a package from my friends, Team Nemesis who are in Bagdad.  I have several pictures that they have sent me, but will not post them because I have not asked for permission and don't know if I would endanger them by doing so.  After all... this is the internet.  However, I will post some pictures of me and my boys showing off a few items that were in the package.  Not only are these great guys, but to know they took the time to put something special together for me and my boys overwhelms me.  I know they have difficult jobs and are in danger frequently, and yet still thought of us.  So it is with ALL my heart I say THANK YOU TEAM NEMESIS.

Mrs. Ethridge's Class

Mrs. Ethridge teaches the 4th and 5th grade combo class at Janesville Union School.  I had the privilege of being her substitute in the month of January.   I say it was a privilege because that's exactly what it was. Anyone who has a child in her class can be very proud on several levels.  First, it is an extraordinarily well behaved class.  I don't even think I had to ask them to quiet down once, which is completely unheard of for a substitute.  Secondly, I saw these children express more caring, empathy, and understanding for each other and the soldiers than I have ever seen in a classroom.
When I first explained that whenever they finished with an assignment early they could read a book quietly at their desk, or draw pictures, and write to the soldiers they were immediately excited.  In the instant to follow I heard students talking to other students about what not to say, because they didn't want to draw or write anything that would make the soldiers sad.  The students goal was clearly to make every soldier who was lucky enough to receive their letters, smile.  After looking at the pictures and reading the notes I think it is a safe bet they will illicit several smiles.  Especially the two boys who chose to write jokes.
I can't hardly wait for the letters to reach the USO in Al Basra Iraq where they can be properly enjoyed.