Time Travels

The "Ranger's" Rights

It has to be one of the strangest cases I've seen in all of my military days.  A new group of soldiers had arrived as replacements to our unit in "The Contingency Zone."  The NUGs (new ugly guys) were outsiders and it took them a while to work their way into the circle.  Our rules were different than most units and it seemed to them they were being picked on.

But one stood out.  He wore the Ranger Scroll on his right shoulder and a Ranger tab on his left.  That's the kind of experience a unit loves to gain: a trained Ranger who has fought with one of the best units in the military.  But there were questions.  How did he not know basic information about the M240B?  Why did he need more information on counter-ambush tactics?  And why was he not still the SSG he claimed to have once been?  Above all, why did he balk at proving his right to wear the Tab and Scroll?

Oh yeah, his records were classified "Top Secret," and his only copies were back in the states.  Can you say RED FLAG!  It took a week or so, but when he was sat down to access his records, prove his claims, or shut up, he admitted his lies.  He wasn't a Ranger, had never been a Ranger, and probably hadn't even seen a Ranger.  The most danger he had ever been in was the chance he'd tell a real Ranger of his life of danger.  Had he been caught in civilian life, the max punishment would have been a year and prison and a $10,000 fine.  He was recommended for UCMJ and got 14 days extra duty.  WTF!?!!?

The members of the unit were ordered not to harass the liar, but eventually an NCO inquired as to how things were going, in light of his patently idiotic manner of introductions.  He claimed there was a gag order on his punishment, on talking about his misdeeds, and that he felt persecuted because some thought he should be more highly punished for his "mistake."  Liars have a hard time not lying, but somehow the strange case was true.  Within hours he had reported the NCO for harassing him.  Within 24 hours, the NCO was being counseled for his insensitive behavior.

Ironically, at about the same time the poor liar was complaining of being persecuted for his "simple mistake," a fellow Soldier was adding people to his facebook page, including the young liar, who maintained a picture of  himself wearing tabs, infantry cords, and all manner of bravado on the social network.  Within hours of the NCO being counseled for insensitivity, the screen shots of the liar were arriving in the leadership's email box.

In the curious case of the Ranger impostor, he was confronted by the command of his repeated lies, of his continued lie, of the fact that this was more than a simple mistake, but a long term life of deceit.  And it "crushed him."  He went straight to the Chaplain, then to the Shrink, because there's one sure way out of the "Contingency Zone:" Suicidal Tendencies!

He wasn't suicidal because he had committed a grievous act of Stolen Valor.  It wasn't that he had claimed to be a hard-charging Airborne Ranger Infantryman rather than a Water Purification tech.  It wasn't that the NCO had told him he should be proud of whatever his role in life had been even though it wasn't one of bravado, Bangalore, and booms. 

He was suicidal because he had gotten caught, because it "wasn't right" that he might lose some rank.  He was "being picked on" because despite the fact that no one was saying anything to him about his lies, by order of the Command, they still knew and they were completely correct in believing he should be in the hospital recovering from the book that should have smacked him from across the Commanders desk.

He was suicidal because despite the punishment being complete for the first offense of wearing a Tab and Scroll he had not earned, the Facebook picture was a completely new offense which he could be prosecuted for, even if the Commander did not yet realize it.  He wanted out of the Commander's Jurisdiction as quickly as he could, before the command realized he could get his just deserves, despite their previous leniency.

Unlawful Search & Seizure

If you ever decide to put up a masterpiece announcing your unit on a military base, you best chain it down and dedicate a camera to it.  In reality, you are providing a great temptation to close nit small units to commit harmless pranks in order to kill the time.

It was early morning when the first whiffs of a crime had been noticed.  A senior NCO had threatened the oppressed that their departure from REMF land in the Fobbit Universe was contingent on the return of a mystical sign.  It was all rumor, conjecture and myth that such a sign existed, that it was missing, or that the REMFs had the ability to restrain the mischievous doorkickers by means of the minions of his kingdom of 10,000 Fobbits.

The King of the Fobbits may have had overwhelming power over his land of REMFs but the small team of outsiders were trained in the ways of slipping in and out of the forward lines of the battlefield without detection.  In such a land of complacent wonder as FobbitLand with its Taco Smells, Booger Kings, and Mess Halls of Endless Ice Cream and Cakes, this team knew life was easy so long as they avoided the eclipse of the sun by passing Fobbits and maintained vigilance that a local might sit on them, accidently.

Still, there was the case of the missing monument that just happened to coincide with the official visit of these lean, mean, and jovial outsiders.  The King didn't believe in coincidences and he was smart enough to know his whole land of Fobbits would not likely be able to contain them if they decided to make a break for it.  He wanted the monument back and knew he must act before their party was fully alert from their slumber.

The King alerted his Colonial Officer and the best forces he could muster at such an early hour or any hour for that matter, his Policial Militants.  While the visitors slept protected by a sole guard, he swarmed their vehicles with the MP's and sent in the Nottingham Marshal of Provost to catch them in their slumber.  It was a risky move for the Marshal to go into their temporary territory, but he was chosen for fact of his previous life.  He had once been one of them.  He knew how they operated and would disarm them with charms of similar tales as their own while luring them into the trap.

The Marshal knew his MPs were no match for his prey in their lair, even in their sleepy state, but that the objective of his mission was likely hidden in their MRAPs.  He positioned his best, bewildered troops in the open, blocking access and egress of their rides while holding in reserves thousands around corners and in doorways, to pounce should this dirty dozen attempt to break out of the encirclement. 

He had ready snippers in overwatch, perched in tall buildings, with spotting scopes, cameras and pens prepared to document any insurrection.  They were qualified to 25 meters with their long guns and 300 miles with their papercuts.  They fought with lost records and threat of lost pay.  Their rolls of red tape could be deployed with more speed and constraint than any web Spiderman could conceive.  They had all earned Combat Action Badges when they read the report of an IED in the other Contingency Zone.  The snippers were ready.

The Marshal of Nottingham, having caught his prey individually and half-awake, forced the opening of the MRAPs, without so much as a warrant, one by one, until the monument was found.  It had been slipped in during the night to frame the doorkickers.  And like a scene from the days of prohibition his photographers and historians snapped pictures with his prey, his trophy, and his shocktroops.  The knuckledraggers may have lost their prize in this round, but the forces used to watch them whenever they were near the kingdom would wear down the King of Fobbits and allow their allies to steal him blind.

Meeting at The Blue Moon

It all started at 0700.   We didn't have to be started til 0800, but Taz and Brady had other duties and needed as much down time as possible.  I wanted our vehicle to be first in line for the wash, operator inspections, and mechanics inspection.  It was a long process, particularly for the type of truck we have.  SGT Lazy had somehow convinced Brady that he and Taz had to do his truck too.  I was getting hot but the boss wasn't around for me to find out if he had told SGT Lazy that Brady, Taz, and Babyface had to do the other truck.  They already had it done before the boss got there. 

 

I had to be somewhere else at 8.  We were meeting some miscreants at The Blue Moon, but they had given us the address of the Brown Cow and they had wanted to stop at the Red Dragon, which wasn't on our maps.  I had to get it straightened out.

 

The Miscreant in Chief, who later I found out had never went to the Blue Moon or the Red Dragon, but had been sending the Miscreant Minions there for years, assured me, it didn't matter what address they had listed.  They would be at the Blue Moon "all day."  "Well, if they're going to be there all day, perhaps I can go meet them earlier?"  "Well sure, they may be there an hour earlier than we asked you to meet them there."  In the meantime, I had found a footnote that said "The Red Dragon is also known as the Blue Dragon."

Loss of Control

He was the worst example of an NCO I had seen in my entire military career.  I didn't realize that initially because I figured with his level of experience he had a plan.  I had been thrown in the middle of his unit, or so I had thought.  I knew none of those I worked with but we would forge a bond of the oppressed even as he attempted to pit one against another.

Prone to tirades, it was little things that would set him off and while some things were predictable, most were not.  It came as a surprise to no one that he was having marital problems.  The surprise was that he had a woman in his life at all.

When confronted with a small issue that had gone against him, wall lockers, doors, and other inanimate objects would take a beating.  There was never a right answer with him.  No matter the answer, it was the "WRONG ANSWER."  Later, the right answer might be the one first given to him and abandoned in pursuit of one that would quiet him.

Most simply sought refuge, a place as far from him as could be found.  He sought to be as far into Joe's space as he could get.  Joe doesn't have much space, so that meant somewhere above the colon, and you could smell that on his breath.  It could be where he got his lunch and attitude.

With most humans, I can find a manner and method to deal with.  He was not human.  He tried on occasion to demonstrate he was, but it was a farce.  His behavior was routinely, what I refused to accept from subordinates.  He acted different around superiors, but not so much that they could plead ignorance.  He lived to put the knife in the back of his peers and did so as often as possible.

The first step for any leader in a new organization is observation.  Observe, assess, decide, act.  With him I'd never been able to decide on a best course, and had remained stoically observant.  Through tirade and rare attempt at humanity, I maintained a poker face.  Many times, I had stood at parade rest awaiting need for response to the red-faced tyrant, "Roger."

"Roger" is a greater Army word.  "I understand what you said."  Generally, it is perceived to also mean that the message will be carried out.  It doesn't and we all know what assuming does.  It carried me through many tirades and butt chewings for things over the minute, the absurd, and the exaggerated.

I know what Police Department he works at when he's not trying to play drill sergeant to seasoned combat veterans.  I'll avoid that town.  Clearly their standards of investigation, their standards of professional conduct, their standards of personnel are abysmal insanities.

And then one day, he had an epiphany and I knew I had won.  "My threats don't do anything to you and a counseling statement is worthless."  Yep, he was finally getting it.  I had been reminding myself for months that so long as I knew I had done nothing, it didn't  matter what was on my NCOER.  It didn't matter if I was demoted.  It didn't matter if I got no accolades or awards, so long as my conscience was clean, so long as I knew my men were treated as fairly by me, as I could treat  them.

Culture of Apathy

When a dog (or person) gets beat on a regular basis, they come to expect the beatings as a regular part of their day.  When those beatings are expected for infractions no matter how small, the incentives to prevent infractions that cause the beatings diminishes.  As the situation develops, the beaten become apathetic to the desires of the abuser, because the beaten realize the beating will be the same whether the crime is a small perception or a big reality.

Such had been the case with the unit for long enough that so long as the abuser reigned in tyranny, none would truly care what his orders were.  The only way to remove the apathy would be to remove the abuser and the signs were becoming difficult to ignore, even if not properly read.

Two Joes had some issues.  Whether their personalities or their cultures clashed was of little consequence, when you live in close quarters, 24/7, there are going to be some disagreements, people will get under your skin.  We'll call Joe #1 Jose.  He didn't like "Bob."

Now, Jose had found himself some alcohol and since things were as they were, he was enjoying himself with it.  The way things were was that the command and the leadership had already conceded that they knew that a particular Joe, "Billy," had been drinking on at least two occasions.  They had done nothing. 

"Josef" (as in Stalin), the Senior NCO had a habit of threatening the apocolypse, fire, damnation, UCMJ and counseling statements for uniform infractions.  His wrath was known.  His threats were wild and his punishment uneven.  Josef consorted with his snitch because few wanted to see him even from a distance requiring a high powered scope.  Rarely does a snitch or his liege respect each other but they're drawn to each other as a prostitute and a politician. 

Josef's whore was "Willy" and everyone knew.  Willy had been paid with a couple stripes for his services.  Spies usually sell out their colleagues for much less than the information is worth and Willy was no exception.  Willy was bucking for another stripe but it was an illusory carrot he'd not likely see any time soon.  Josef and Willy's relationship could at best be described as fraternization, but certainly as unhealthy for the unit. 

Josef had already removed the impediments of one of his favored children to get promoted, which meant setting two unfavored up for demotion.  It was never clear whether it was that he just didn't like the two or just liked the others better. A third was in the way of some of his plans, but he hadn't been able to justify his desires.  His purges were not complete but he was not as all-powerful as he wanted all his dependents to believe. 

His power was through induced perceptions combined with realities of rank. Those below him were cut off from those not below him.  Every necessity must be requested through him.  But no one in the military is without a Senior Authority and his knew one basic fact: the men were getting the job done.  Josef schmoozed higher.  Josef told tales of incompetency of any he suspected of not falling in line with his dictates.  Because Josef ordered no one to talk about anything of pertinence to anyone not subject to his dictates, he was the sole means for the Command to know the happenings of the unit.

Josef knew his perch was precarious.  Should his abused children ever unite against his tyranny, his house of cards would come crashing down.  To preclude this, he played one against another.  If he saw unity, he accused one of reporting or undermining the other.  No one had to like him, so long as they didn't trust each other enough to unify.  The Command would not believe one disaffected Joe since Josef ensured the Command knew all his were flawed.  Reporting others flaws was the only thing that brought him happiness and his own flaws were "only the stress of knowing his wife was enjoying her freedom" in ways no one could stop while he was gone.

In this culture of mistrust, suspicion, and threats, Jose took a drink.  Jose took a few more.  Billy had been caught twice and nothing had happened.  And as Jose drank more, he remembered he didn't like Bob.  And Jose needed to piss.  Why not piss these drinks on Bob's porch? 

But there was a miscalculation or three in the reduced thought processes of Jose's mind.  It wasn't Bob's hooch.  Unlike Bob, "Brutus" was home and up.  And Brutus wasn't too happy when he found Jose exacting secret revenge on his porch.  It wasn't a fair fight.  It never can be when the sober is going after the one who has reduced his capacity, voluntarily and has his stuff out flapping in the breeze.  And that is where it should have been over.  Jose pissed on the wrong porch and got his butt beat, fairly.

Real or imagined, it didn't end there.  Soldiers are required to maintain their sensitive items, particularly their having weapons on them and Jose had his.  In all reality, this is not a matter of being ready for a battle, but in an officer's fear that Joe will lose an expensive and deadly piece of equipment.  Since Joe isn't trusted, Joe is not allowed to have ammunition loaded, but to pretend it's about more than that, he must have some present.  And when you treat Joe like a kid, he will act like a kid.  Treat him like you expect him to act like a 4 year old and he will act like one.  Treat him like you expect he'll act like an adult and he'll act like an adult.  The Army treats Joe like a kid, generally and Josef treated them like 4 year olds, and readily stated he expected them to act like 4 year olds.  He was not disappointed.

In this pissing contest, Jose had his weapon and Brutus ended up with it.  Allegations were that it had been pointed at the other, which now made this a very serious incident.  Evidence points to it being used as a blunt weapon, which now meant Jose needed medical attention.  It was nothing life threating, except the part of the allegations later to be made, but it was no longer just a butt beat for good reason.

At some point, well after the fact, an officer saw the results of the situation and instructed Billy to take Jose down to get some professional medical attention.  This was no longer something that could be covered up.  By morning, Josef was getting his butt chewed for not letting the Command know what had happened.  Of course no one had told Josef.  No one wanted to see Josef, much less talk to him, much less tell him bad news, much less tell him bad news that would result in others getting their butt in a sling and getting the messenger a long rant as well.  But this situation, like anything negative that happened in the unit "was not Josef's fault."

And since it rolls downhill, Josef's problem became his unit's problem.  Josef explained this very well: Everyone would be punished because everyone was at fault (except him) for not reporting the problem (to him), for not fixing the problem, for not conforming to his every demand.  And because it was their fault, they had caused their own punishment.  This logic may have satisfied his mind, but everyone else knew he knew that Billy had been drinking on a regular basis.  Everyone below him knew Josef was the problem and everyone believed that those above him thought Josef was their only chance of redemption.

Jose's problems had become much worse.  Everyone figured he deserved to get his butt beat by Brutus.  The Command needed to punish someone and Jose's weapon infraction seemed the right thing  to punish.  Jose had been the victim of a misidentified porch pissing but he really didn't want the official attention and saw only one way out: share the wealth of blame.  Jose began telling tales of many drunks to demonstrate that it was common and accepted to release tension.

What few friends Jose had, found they didn't have a friend at all, no matter how much alcohol they had shared.  Jose had pulled what allies he had into his pit of despair and now they couldn't and wouldn't help him out.  Jose's enemies found an easy target in the beaten snitch story.  Josef had an easy scapegoat.

The Command was concerned but the problem had to be that the Joe's had too much time.  No one had ever demonstrated anything other than positive results for Josef's "leadership," because only Josef was asked what his leadership was.  No one else was allowed to talk about what happened in Josef's unit.  Josef made clear all reports would end up in his hands and that retribution would be made if any dared "lie" about him, if any dared say he wasn't the sole competent leader.  And while Willy was his known snitch, Josef openly stated he had more.  No one could be trusted and no one could tell the Command how things really were, because the Command knew Josef was the only chance they had, to "whip the unit back in shape."  It had only fallen apart because he had relaxed his iron grip.

Josef admitted his only mistake had been "to trust others to do the right thing."

Real Combat Life

In a real world, all war stories would be true.  Such is the goal of Patrick Nelson's site: "Real Combat Life."  An excerpt from one of the true stories there from a Special Force's Soldier who was there in the Invasion:

"Within that context my Special Forces team was making its way from the location of our company headquarters or AOB in Taq Taq, Northern Iraq towards the village of Klaw Kut. Accompanying us were about 30-40 Kurdish Pershmerga fighters, we all had the intent of setting up a patrol base from which to harass the Iraqi Army. We really had no idea what to expect in Klaw Kut, we had literally picked it off a map. It was far enough back from the Green Line to provide protection from artillery fire and looked large enough and we hoped friendly enough to sustain ourselves and our Kurdish compadres."

Whether you're a veteran looking for a place to tell real stories or a voracious reader of what combat is really like, drop in and see what Patrick has to offer.  He's also on Twitter as @realcombatlife

Weaver's Wayward Ways

Weaver was a near genius just one class short of a couple of bachelor degrees and quite street wise with a penchant for poetry and other matters of culture.  He was fairly well rounded in life, but had a habit of getting himself into trouble.  I hadn't known him more than a few months when he was signing an Article 15 under the duress of misstatements and false implications.

It wasn't that he hadn't been caught red handed doing the things he was charged with, but that there was no written policy nor lawful orders prohibiting some of those things.  He knew that but he believed the part that his punishment would begin before an appeal would be heard and that it would allow the higher command to set a higher punishment with longer term records of it.

Weaver and his roommate, Clint, had a natural ability to attain a following.  Weaver also happened to be over 21 and the pair had the party room of the barracks.  The Company SOP was that any Soldier over 21 could have a 6 pack of beer in the room and no more.  It also had other rules like not using the big trashcan in the floor restroom (latrine) for personal trash, not leaving trash (beerbottles) in the hallway, and not having a member of the opposite sex in a closed room.

In those days, the Army regularly conducted "Health and Welfare Inspections" at wee hours of the morning.  It was often detrimental to the health of the Soldiers, particularly if they were jumping out of 2nd floor windows, after drinking, in order to escape getting caught for being in the room of a member of the opposite sex, or attempting to hang on to the ledge long enough for the inspecting senior  NCO's to leave the room.

Joe usually had a few "secret" hiding spots in the room to keep his contraband and having been a Joe that had hiding spots for contraband in their younger days, the cadre generally knew them all.  Since the cadre also knew that contraband was often tossed out windows when the knock on the door was heard, they usually posted someone outside to record where the beer bottles and jumpers came out.

Such was the case on that particular night.  It was about 4AM when the raid occured.  Bailey went to sick call the next day for an ankle "sprained playing basketball."  He had escaped the window monitor outside.   Binkley could not explain the red panties under his bed, nor why they still contained a female.  Playing dumb nor pretending they were a figment of the imagination of the inspector did nothing to prev

And Weaver's room inspection took the longest.  When Top asked: "Who is that in your bed?" Weaver looked, knowing that the well endowed Sailor from the street had a habit of finding the first unlocked door and crawling into bed with someone.  She wasn't there.  That night she crawled in bed with Clint.  Strike 1 and 7 days extra duty for Clint. 

Seven beer in the fridge.  Strike one and 7 days extra duty for Weaver. 

Then came the trashcan.  It was 3 foot tall and full.  Full of empty beer cans.  They stopped counting at 77 empty cans and there were plenty more.  Strike 2 and another 7 days for something that wasn't against the rules at all.

It's hard to know for certain if the Captain were really ignorant of the regulations or if he were just bullying Weaver and Clint, but he convinced  them that if they appealed it, they'd get up to  45/45 and loss of 2/3rds months pay.  The Colonel wouldn't address it for at least 3 to 5 days and they'd already be serving time until he made a decision.

The Army has a habit of lying to Joe.  If a Soldier appeals UCMJ, the higher authority can reduce but not increase the punishment and it does not begin until after he decides.

Normally that kind of thing begins with a "counseling statement," which is another tool misused by multiple "leaders" in the military.  Weaver would become very familiar with that form and would use it against those that attempted to use it for future punishment.  But those are other stories.

Every Former Marine is Force Recon....

... and an unusually high number of people were on Top Secret Air Force Green Beret, Seal Teams whose records were sealed and classified by the President himself.  But few people know about the Coast Guard Triple Black Ops teams.  That's because the very mention of the real name is classified above the Presidential level.  Only the Pope while wearing a tin foil hat and special decoder glasses is allowed to read the name of the location where the application is filled out.  And after he has finished approving the newest applications, he has to have his memory erased.

It's an invitation only application and I'm risking my life even mentioning that.  The only reason I have any chance of not already being whacked by a stealthy Ninja team that walks through walls and teleports through universes is because I used a microscope and microscapels to dig out the transmitters from my fingertips.

Aside from that, I was the Chief Ninja Instructor and I never taught anyone everything I know.  Last week I had to take out a dozen of my former students with a style I still can't talk about due to its classification.  I wouldn't be talking about it at all, but I know I can trust you, because if you repeat any of it, I'll have to kill you.

Those that are approved for pre-selection testing have to kill everyone they've met in their entire lives, from memory, with a butter knife.  Then their records are erased and they're given a new identity.  That's when the selection testing begins. 

You've got to be a strong swimmer with a good sense of direction because the first test is  to be blindfolded and parachuted into the antarctic ocean with nothing but a piece of 100 mph tape 3" long.  The instructor will have written an encoded message in invisible ink somewhere on your body and it will tell you where you have to go to pass the test.  If you don't make it within 15 seconds of the time it tells you to be there, not 16 seconds early nor 16 seconds late, you fail and failure means they take you out.

Along the way, you have to find the instructions and make an MP-17 super sub compact machine gun pistol in 6.32 mm, as well as make the gun powder and bullets for it.  Once you get to the 2nd site along the path, a range is set up and you have to get 3 headshots within 5 seconds on moving targets at 2.4 miles while running uphill in a ghillie suit.

Assuming you make it that far, you have to make a bungie cord 1200 feet long out of materials in the desert.  If you make it right, you'll use that to enter the subterranean training center for the final test.  That's when they'll teach you how to drive the 2 man submarines that also pass through earthen underground and later how to pilot helicopters that work in space.

But I really can't tell you any more about it than that.  This stuff is classified so high that my DD-214 had to be altered to show that I was kicked out of basic training as a cook and only the Pope himself ever knew about the 46 medals I was awarded.  Even he doesn't know now because he had his memory erased after he approved them and the only copies of the certificates were shredded in a secret room of the Vatican before being burnt.

"My black ops is blacker than your black ops!"

If you think you can tell a bigger whopper than this one, drop us a line and we'll let the readers decide.  The winner will get a free copy of a book about Afghanistan.  And oh yeah, this whopper doesn't count for the competition!

Lies, More Lies, & Damn Lies

Few things in life are more entertaining than reality and the most convincing lies are contained in a 95% truth.  In this newest section, we myriad of authors, don't attempt to differentiate fact from fiction, nor shall I.

It was a sand-blown day in a dune strewn desert represented on the map as white (no vegetation) with gridlines and five black squares within 50 clicks (kilometers for the civilians out there).  The map showed no contour lines since the only change in elevation changed daily with the winds. (Sand dunes for the uninitiated.)

It was about 1500 (3pm for the civilians) and Top was as buttoned up as his GP Small tent allowed in 50 mph winds and 130 degree heat.  Blasted by hot sand, the tent only made it worse as it flapped loudly preventing the ability to ignore it.

It felt like being in something that has not been invented: a hot air sandblaster.  I don't know when they'll invent one or what they'll use it for, but when they're ready to perfect the technology, Southwest Asia has the natural phenomenon.

We had been there for weeks and the sandstorms had relented not for a minute in 4 days.  The flapping of the tent prevented sleep as much as did the blazing heat, but I had found that if I moved my cot outside, I could escape the hot sandblaster and noise by crawling inside the arctic cold style sleeping bag.  It was full of sand and soon sweat but it was the better than being pelted with sand, sweating, and constant flapping.

Weaver had been my best friend for most of my enlistment but we hadn't talked for months.  Neither of us could remember why we hated each other, but he had grown up in the crime-ridden streets of DC and learned to fight out of basic survival necessity.  He was a smart a** with a penchant for Freud, Jazz, Blues, Philosophy, and Chemistry.  He liked to cook and made a mean grilled cheese that he served with whichever wine he had decided to teach us uncultured knuckledraggers about that day.

I had grown up in an area of Detroit known for its southern culture at a time that it was being overtaken by gangs.  I knew nothing of Freud, jazz, blues, wine, or chemistry, except for the culture Weaver had forced upon me.  Weaver was convinced that I lacked any type of family, upbringing, or education and it was his job to correct the problem.  I still know nothing much of Freud or chemistry and my philosophies are untainted by anything to do with the "wise" men of old.

As the wind finally abated, we emerged from our various holes agitated and today was the day it'd be settled.  Detroit is the place where the weak are killed and eaten but DC was always in competition for the title.  Weaver drew a line in the sand.  And he kept drawing all the way around into a circle.  He hadn't had a grilled cheese nor a glass of wine in months but now was the time that he was going to finalize whatever the problem between us was.  It was time to duke it out and I was not about to shrink from his challenge.

He was a brawler that rarely lost and the rules were agreed on:  Whoever left the circle or cried uncle lost.  He came in low and took me to the ground but within minutes I had thrown a reverse and had him pinned.  There were no timeouts.  There were no bells to ring ending the round.  And surprisingly, neither of us threw a punch.  It had gone to straight wrestling, as we each silently decided we didn't really hate the other enough to actually cause significant pain, only submission. 

All bets had been on the DC Brawler to win, including my own.  But a Detroit Demon had upset the odds and forever changed the equilibrium.  Now Weaver proclaimed it was the months on end without the possibility of PT or perhaps these days he'd claim I used a dirty sock to  unfair advantage or perhaps even that he had "let me" win, but Weaver was known for exaggeration.

It was the most important fight of my life.  Ever since the day he tapped out, Weaver and I have again been best friends.  And it was only after we had dusted the sand off, shook hands and sat down on the cot to talk it out that I told him that I'd taken a year of wrestling in high school.  He still didn't know if I even had a mother, but he figured if I'd been in high school, I must have been educated at least to the degree of learning to read.  And since he had taught me an appreciation for the blues and enough about wine to fake the women into thinking I knew, he figured I might be able to learn enough to be entertaining anyway.

It's either that or he wanted a goon on his side, in case he got into a fight with the odd man that could beat him in a fight.  But he'd taken on 4 Marines and won, on a stair case, with  2 above and 2 below.  He'd taken out the biggest bully of a military town, on another occasion, with just one punch.  And on that sand strewn day, the Detroit Demon had merely gotten lucky.

Still, it's taken him 2 decades to buy the Harley to ride across the country, as the blood oath says.  And that scar is still on my arm.

War Stories

One of the Founding Fathers said that Newspapers should be divided into 4 sections: Fact, Opinions, Half-truths, and Outright Lies.  He pointed out that the Fact section would be the smallest and the lies section would be the thickest.  This section of War On Terror News is not the facts section, so I'm going with it being Benjamin Franklin.

Typepad considers this to be a separate site, associated with but not included in War On Terror News.  I consider it to be a place for Warriors to tell their stories, in their own words, without fact-checking of events, without attribution, without possibility of backlash.  The authors will be afforded full anonymity, hidden behind the Identity of the "Editor" identity, hidden behind a psuedonym, or hidden in  plain site behind their own name.