Walk for Warriors

Walk for Warriors, Epilogue

2010-07-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

Still dressed in my walking gear and drenched with sweat, I climbed aboard the old truck and floored it so that I could reach Vicksburg by 2000 hrs. Piece a cake.

I have become very fond of the all that is the South. I love the smell of the rain hitting hard upon her fertile ground; the trees, heavy laden with the moss of wisdom and pain; her second gear tempo and the thick and savory gravy that awaited me whenever I sat down for supper. Her voice, soft and measured, serenaded me with rounded tones of, “’Yes sir,’ ‘No Ma’am,’ and ‘God bless you.’” No one paid any attention to the color of my license plate and I felt welcomed under her heavy bow, on the banks of her streams that ran cool and slow with unsweetened tea.

I crossed the Chattahoochee in my dream state and pointed myself in the direction of Montgomery. A surprise to me, Alabama was so clean and well run. Even the ubiquitous forests that filled up all the empty space in the state were well defined and squared. In between the forests of uniform height and density there were towns and factories and examples of disciplined human activity. I passed by a Mercedes factory, a Hyundai factory, paper mills, and a steel mill all of which struck me for some reason as incongruous.

My eight days in southern Alabama were pleasant and provided me with some time at beaches and flat ground upon which to gain mileage. My hang-outs of Perdido, Pensacola and Gulf Shores had inviting coastlines of fine white sand and warm gulf water. Then of course there was the oil spill and the workers toiling in the hot sun and their bosses who looked upon my questions with disdain and antipathy. Globs of red-brown goo floated ashore and mixed with the normally clear, blue-green waters to produce an opaque liquid that no longer resembled something worth diving into.

Once, back in Mississippi I felt comfortable, more at home. Driving past Toomsuba I thought of the local Baptist Church, all pink and clean, and the red earth under my feet. I wondered if the platoon of horse flies with the bad eyes knew I was coming. Driving through Meridian so fast made me wonder if I had fallen down on a previous promise made to her. The counter man at the gas station on the outskirts of town said, “Oh, Meridian is okay but if you want a real city, Jackson is the place.” I was too tired to argue the point. I knew what I wanted from a place.

By the time I entered Vicksburg the sun had dipped below the Mississippi and my eyelids wanted desperately to join it. I took the first motel I could find and stumbled into the room knowing I had to finish my final post entry summarizing the day at Fort Benning. I started typing as a hard knock on the door announced the arrival of a grotesquely over-sized Dominoes pizza and a twenty-ounce Coke was handed to me. I kept thinking as I wrote, “Now where did I put that Alka-Seltzer?”

Crossing the mighty Mississippi always held a mythical ring to it. My crossing was done as the morning gray still covered the land. I drove slowly over the bridge between Mississippi and Louisiana without regard for anything beyond looking down over the railing to see the giant swirls of current and a barge stuffed to great height with the refuse of historic Vicksburg. The thought came into my mind of how I would use those powerful currents to save my life if I should fall into her vastness. That thought was quickly replaced by the utter enjoyment of seeing the neat furrows of Louisiana farmland again.

On my way to Rustin I stopped in at a Love’s gas station and convenience store. As I paid my tab for gas and a small bag of hickory flavored jerky a soldier walked in with a 10th Mountain Division patch on his shoulder. I approached the Sergeant and asked, “Good morning Sergeant, are you in the 10th Mountain?”

“I was sir but now I’m done with all that. I am a recruiter here.”

“Congratulations,” I said to him for having survived multiple tours in Afghanistan.

“My son is in the 10th,” I said as he stretched out his and to shake mine.

“Well, tell him, thank you for his service.”

“Thank you and best of luck to you, Sergeant.”

As I have said, I prefer having the sun at my back while walking or driving or doing just about anything. The light is always best when it shines from behind. Louisiana allowed me my preference as I drove by signs that read Lake Bistineau, Lake D’Arbonne, and Claiborne Lake State Park. I was pleased to say goodbye to these forests and lakes that had allowed me such solitude and mileage under their parasols of green. I remembered details of swarms of dragon flies and seeing big fish in shaded waters. I was transported once again to the antebellum barber shop in Homer and enjoyed hearing the gossip about people I would never meet.

Soon I was gliding over the Red River at Shreveport which meant that Texas was no more than a stone’s throw way. Texas loomed as the great expanse over which I had to steam both coming and going. I broke it up into sections in my mind so as to not fret about how many miles I would have to travel. First there was Marshall, then Tyler, then Dallas. I figured if I made Dallas by noon I would be in El Paso by ten o’clock.

I only know one strand of Texas that includes Lamesa, Abilene, and the great greens of East Texas, but I know enough to say that I really love Texas and Texans. Meandering through and around the parks on the eastern shore of Wright-Patman Lake provided me with a great sense of solitude and quiet. The lake drew me in to where I could watch the birds on the water and the fish crashing the surface in chase of bait fish. My daily conversations with Park Rangers, policemen, farmers, pipe fitters, waitresses and laborers with muddy boots kept me in touch with the Texas universe.

I will never forget being stopped by two octogenarians who leaned against the fence on CR 96 to tell me their stories which included accounts of friends and relatives who had endured the Bataan Death March. I was walking in the middle of nowhere and found two friends who wanted to talk a spell even as a thunderstorm readied itself to cry a river.

Everywhere I went I became a strange conduit to a military story: A World War II enlistment, a brother who lost a limb in Iraq, a pilot’s tale of training in Coronado’s North Island in the run up to the Korean conflict. This was not something I experienced exclusively in Texas. On the contrary, every place I landed I encountered some story of personal sacrifice during a time of war. I was in the heartland of America where joining the Armed Forces was something you just do.

The drive from Abilene to El Paso had me skirting floods and thunderstorms for hours. Every once in a while a black sky would appear for thirty minutes and dump its charge right over me, making me slow down to a crawling twenty miles an hour. Sometimes I couldn’t see ten feet in front of the truck. I listened to local radio and found out that it had flooded up in Lubbock and was threatening to do the same in my old haunts of Seminole and Lamesa.

I was in the rolling hills and escarpments of that region for a couple hundred miles. Sometimes the sun would burst through the black and startle me. The scenery was a mix of roaming cattle and oil wells with those rocking horse pumps going at it non-stop. I heard a radio show out of Lamesa talking about how the county comptroller was fixin’ to spend two million dollars for a new jail. It was a lively debate that kept my interest until I slipped in a CD of the “Working Man’s Dead”. I cranked up the volume when a live version of “Easy Wind” played.

Night had fallen and I knew that El Paso was just around the bend. Big rolling eighteen wheelers blew by me like I was standing still. What did I care? I knew I would arrive at the time I was meant to go to sleep. El Paso lay before me as some wonderful Norteno music blared on the AM radio. Shimmering lights blurred before me as my energy had been drawn down to sleepy time. I took the first hotel room I could and asked the night clerk to please wake me at 0345. “No problem, Senor. I will be glad to call you.” Somehow I knew he wouldn’t call. No matter, at exactly 3:40 AM my internal alarm went off and I was out on the road at exactly 4:00 AM.

As I drove by the exit to Picacho Road in Las Cruces I waved to my friends Phil and Nellie. I had thought of stopping by to say hello, but they might not have appreciated a visitor at such an early hour. I recalled listening to Phil and his pal J.J. talking about all those bombing runs over meaningless targets in North Vietnam during their war. All in all, I could tell that with everything that happened to them and their comrades, they had the time of their lives flying fast and tempting fate.

From the first moment that I decided to make the journey across the country for wounded warriors and their families, I kept the singular goal in mind: make it all the way to Fort Benning. Each day was about the walk. Anything else was secondary. My banner was the yellow Team Fisher House jersey that I wore whenever I felt a special need to share my purpose.

My morning routine of brewing the coffee and stirring my oatmeal was an important ritual that set the tone for the walk and the rest of the day. I didn’t want to let any distractions upset that routine. Sometimes I had to improvise and that worked out when absolutely needed but I couldn’t wait to get right back out there, starting with my coffee and a bowl of mush.

And my goal of raising awareness about the wounded and their families remained on my mind always. I felt that the funds for Fisher House would come but the main focus was the families of the wounded. Without that motivation I am not sure I would have had the energy to walk for ninety-eight days straight, sleep in my truck, and take the brunt of exposure to ungodly quantities of gravy. Most of all I tried to stay psyched up for action every day.

I made it home in record time and I have been sleeping for much of the time since. Looking back on the hundreds of people I have met along the way has brought me great joy. I can still hear their voices and the myriad stories, often about a loved one who came home from war disabled, or they themselves had lost an arm, or someone they loved didn’t come home at all. I was fortunate to laugh a lot more than I cried.

I want to thank the legions of people who contacted me throughout my journey encouraging me to keep going. Some of these were old friends, family members, relatives, strangers and strangers who became friends. To all of you – Thank You, From The Bottom of My heart!

It is my greatest hope that you will remember the wounded and their families as their numbers steadily increase over time. Be assured that without our involvement in their care many will be left outside of society’s hold. Let’s join together in supporting those who fight so bravely for us in foreign lands who often come home in need of a helping hand.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 98, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-08T03:52:00.000-07:00

I slept very little last night. Images of my walking through the gates at Fort Benning rolled around in my brain with slight variations all night long. During the daily walks through Lordsburg, Abilene, Toomsuba, and Gulf shores, I rarely allowed myself a chance to imagine the end of this journey. I walked through Columbus as one of those invisible characters in a fictional tale.

Once in it, the routine of the day became my sustenance. I relied upon the order of rising at 4:30AM, setting up my cooking apparatus, brewing the coffee, and stirring oatmeal with honey and raisins. Although there were occasional variations upon that theme, this was an important part of moving toward the first step of each morning. Today was not so different but the bridled anticipation of ninety-seven days was about to be liberated and with it, me.

As was my habit whenever confronted with walking in a city or larger town, I ended up in the poorest, most desperate part of town. No matter, I found a new energy with which to enjoy the sights and sounds that accompanied me through the neighborhoods of overflowing trash bins and nervous canines. Time was suspended and in the quiet of the morning I could still hear the mockingbird’s aria.

I found a stream as I stood over a bridge with a narrow pedestrian walk-way. A scruffy man on a bicycle loaded with bags of groceries needed to pass so I pressed myself against the concrete rail to give him room. “Thanks, man. What you lookin’ at?” He asked.

“I’m looking for fish.” I said, reminded of how many times I had uttered those words.

“Yeah? Well I can tell ya they in there,” he said with reassuring confidence.

Three hours into my walk I realized that the smile on my face had become permanent. I thought, “Smiles lasting longer than four hours might be a symptom of a more serious medical issue….” A policeman drove slowly by inspecting a strange man laughing alone between a ditch filled with trash and an uneven sidewalk. Thankfully, he lost interest and sped away to a more pressing scene or the donut he had neglected at the start of his shift.

I received calls from family and friends who had obviously stretched their routines to include a call to me at o’dark thirty, local time. The last call came from the reporter for Fort Benning Television. Susanna was raring to go and wanted to rendezvous with me at a corner where a big old barbershop and Fort Benning Road intersected. The addition of another person into the stream of my walks was usually something I tried to avoid but today was different and I looked forward to having Susanna along.

We met twenty minutes later at the appointed site and she gave me the outline of what how she wanted to proceed for the next three miles. She drove ahead of me, parked beside the road into the base and took long strands of video of me walking. “Eyes forward, please. Just walk naturally. I’m a perfectionist so I will need yards and yards of you walking,” she explained. I complied happily.

I could see that she was working really hard to get the right shots and we were both sweating in volume by that time. After several hours of walking I usually emitted an aroma akin to that of a barnyard hog, and I apologized a couple of times for it. She said, “I thought it was me. Besides, I interview sweaty soldiers for a living.”

We repeated that sequence of Susanna driving ahead, filming my stride, driving ahead filming my stride, until we reached the official check point at the intersection of Fort Benning Road and Custer Drive (honest). It was my symbolic and genuine crossing the finish line of a two thousand two hundred mile walk across the country and I was elated. The guards allowed her to film me as I crossed into the base and we stopped under some kind of security structure so that Susanna could explain what she would like to do next.

We talked briefly and I recounted the story of someone I had met along the way who had inspired and touched me. I think I was talking about Nurse L. and the loss of her nephew in Afghanistan. Susanna shuttered and said, “I’ve got goose bumps.” I could sense her close connection to the story. I know her husband is a Ranger. Rangers are in the thick of any combat theater so she had to have been touched by many stories like Nurse L.’s.

She drove ahead to the parking lot of the gas station on Custer. She didn’t want to infringe on the other reporter’s time slot so we got going with our video interview upon my arrival at the gas station. As we spoke it dawned on me that my journey had come to an end. I thought for sure I would come off as an ecstatic nut, but I didn’t hold back. She asked me many questions and put me at ease so that I would not ruin the sheer spontaneity of the moment. Her passion and genuine humanity allowed me to enjoy the interview under a blazing sun.

Cheryl R., the reporter for the Fort Benning Bayonet arrived. Susanna and she had a brief and genial confab as to how everyone wanted to proceed. Both women were gracious and an accord was quickly reached to allow us to finish the video interview. Susanna wrapped up the interview. Before she left she told me that her husband would be leaving the Army soon and that his status will be as a disabled vet. The full circle of the Walk for Warriors had been closed.

I thanked Susanna heartily for her effort. I now wish thank Ranger Lynch for his service to his country.

*Support Our Troops

*Honor Their Service

*Never Forget Their Sacrifice and the Sacrifice Made by the Military Family

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 97, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-06T17:22:00.000-07:00

The Liberty Song, 1768 The American Colonies

Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,
And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,
Or stain with dishonor America's name.

Chorus
In Freedom we're born and in Freedom we'll live.
Our purses are ready. Steady, friends, steady;
Not as slaves, but as Freemen our money we'll give.
Our worthy forefathers, let's give them a cheer,
To climates unknown did courageously steer;
Thro' oceans to deserts for Freedom they came,
And dying, bequeath'd us their freedom and fame.

Chorus
The tree their own hands had to Liberty rear'd,
They lived to behold growing strong and revered;
With transport they cried, Now our wishes we gain,
For our children shall gather the fruits of our pain.

Chorus
Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,
By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall;
In so righteous a cause let us hope to succeed,
For heaven approves of each generous deed.

“Today Columbus, tomorrow Fort Benning,” I said to myself as I toured the disheveled neighborhood near my dive for the last time. I pounded out a tour of the downtrodden, east of the tracks, east of everything section of Albany under the cloak of dawn. It wasn’t to be a complete walk, just enough to sweat like hell and to propel me to the finish line of tomorrow.

As I went by the take-out Chinese Delight it took everything I had in me to keep from sliding into a funk. It’s not good sink into a depression that early in the morning so I shook my head, literally and figuratively, and thought about what lay ahead. The nearby do-it-yourself carwash had intrigued me since I had seen it ten times and never saw a soul ever wash a car there. Like the rest of that part of town it had fallen down a hole of neglect.

I checked out the stalls from a walker’s perspective, up close and personal. Most of the hoses had been ripped from the walls, and the coin boxes were simply gone. I wanted to wash my car if the occasion presented itself. I wasn’t in a hurry to do so but I would have liked to clean the old truck up for the finale at Fort Benning. After seeing the vandalism at close range I thought, “Maybe I’ll wash her down in Abilene.”

The motel I stayed in had a sign on the inside of the door that read, “For your own safety, we recommend latching and locking your door at all times while in your room.” It was a seedy place with all sorts of shady activity going on at all times of the night and day. But my room was clean and comfortable and it had the essentials for a decent post-walk recovery: a shower, a T.V., and a computer desk with passable Wi-Fi reception. In a pinch, the freeway on-ramp was only one hundred yards away.

I left Albany for Columbus early and was glad to bid goodbye to the wrong side of nowhere. After plenty of coffee and a fast food biscuit I drove the tranquil seventy mile stretch to Columbus on Highway 27 with a renewed sense of vigor. I had something to look forward to and a great deal to look back upon. There was only one thing on my mind as I drifted into Columbus and that was to get ready for the final day’s walk.

After figuring out an alternative to walking on the interstate I returned to the Holiday Inn Express for an afternoon of laundry, reading, and rest. I hydrated all afternoon in preparation for the walk to Fort Benning tomorrow as the Heat Index was slated to be 103 degrees. The plan, as it so often was, is to rise at 4:00AM and get fed and ready to go by 5:30AM. I chose a path that obviated the need to race shoulder to shoulder with cars racing to and from the base and selected a side road that curved within the town in sections not requiring a concealed carry permit.

My thoughts about tomorrow had been vague for most of the walk. I had not let myself dwell to closely on what it might look and feel like. “One day at a time,” I told myself from the outset. There was too much ground to cover and too many places to move through before getting down to the concrete reality of the walk’s completion.

All personal taboos had been lifted as there was nothing left to protect. I stood in the window of my hotel room and looked out over the pine trees of Columbus with a tired smile, in the realization that the end of the long journey was at hand.

This next story originates from my neck of the woods and beyond. A boy sneaked into the country with a frightened mother and family years ago. Wanting to give back to his adopted country and in an effort to become a citizen, Carlos Gomez-Perez fought as a United States Marine Corps Lance Cpl. and earned a Silver Star for bravery on a day when it was really needed.

Camp Pendleton Marine receives Silver Star

By MICHAEL CORONADO
The Orange County Register

On day he receives medal, former Marine speaks of fallen comrade.

CAMP PENDLETON - The armor-piercing round ripped through the right shoulder of then-Lance Cpl. Carlos Gomez-Perez, leaving a fist-sized hole.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, but the stocky, young Marine felt no pain during the

April 2004 firefight.

Cpl. Carlos Gomez-Perez today was presented the Sliver Star by Marine Maj. Gen. Richard F. Natonski, commanding general of the 1st Marine Division at Camp Pendleton. Gomez-Perez received the award for bravery during heavy enemy fire while serving as a fire-team leader in Fallujah, Iraq. Natonski said Perez was not in uniform because he was medically discharged after the wounds he received.
YGNACIO NANETTI, THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

The Silver Star

The Silver Star is the third-highest medal awarded for gallantry in action against enemy forces, behind the Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Service Cross (Army) and the Navy Cross (Navy and Marines). The Silver Star was enacted into law in 1942.
One floor below him, as Iraqi insurgents fired relentlessly, Gomez-Perez could hear his fellow Marines shouting.

The El Cajon resident propped up his M-16 and pulled the trigger despite his bloodied chest, his thick, wide frame keeping his shoulder intact. He lobbed a grenade with his good arm.

Beside him, Marine Lance Cpl. Aaron Austin, 21, wounded by gunfire, was losing his fight for life. Below him, the shouting continued.

"All I heard was screaming and screaming," Gomez-Perez said.

Gomez-Perez decided he would die before he would be taken prisoner and made a bold move to lead his fellow Marines, several wounded, against their attackers.
His actions that day would earn him the Silver Star for heroism in battle, awarded at a ceremony Wednesday.

Gomez-Perez was challenged in life at an early age.

When he was 9, he ran across the I-805 Freeway in San Diego County with his mother and two sisters in tow, crossing illegally into the country - a journey that started in Mexico City. By 12 he started working to earn money for the family.

His mother, Blanca Gomez, a custodian, said that on their journey north the family waded across a channel filled with water using plastic trash bags to stay dry.
"That was a very sad day because we were uncertain of what would happen," she said.
That was 15 years ago.

On Wednesday, Gomez watched a formation of Marines pay honor to her son, a fire team leader for Company E with the 2nd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, and listened to a general describe how a country is thankful for her boy.

"We have a true hero here," Maj. Gen. Richard Natonski told Blanca Gomez - now a legal resident - and the rest of his family. Gomez-Perez became a U.S. citizen in 2004.

Now, discharged from the Marines, he says his shoulder still hurts and finding work is difficult.

At the ceremony Wednesday at the seaside base, Gomez-Perez wore a Texas flag in his coat pocket, a tribute to Austin, who died that day from his wounds despite being revived twice, Gomez-Perez said.

"It runs through my head every day," said Gomez-Perez, who is indifferent about receiving the award. "I really don't know what it means."
Instead, he remembers the day, the fighting, the wounded and his actions.

"What could I have done differently?" he said he asks himself. "Austin - he's the one who died because I couldn't save him."

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 96, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-05T18:11:00.000-07:00

Every coin has two sides. Today I ran over a trestle and then a bridge to reach the west bank of the Flint River and was happy I did. Running across the bridge and the trestle was a necessity because I realized there was no margin on either side of the structures. I had been walking on the east side of the river and that seemed to be a line of demarcation.

The aged downtown of Albany had its charms not the least of which was a public area that had been delightfully improved for the use of pedestrians who fancied a clear look at their river.

Children frolicked in an enclosed area where water spouted high into the air as they danced on smooth concrete and parents snapped pictures under a throbbing sun. Unfortunately, the Riverquarium was closed for the holiday but the walk through and around the town of Albany was pleasant and stimulating. I walked down to the river to see what action I could find.

A young boy and his sister ran up to me holding a Styrofoam cup. “Look mister, I caught a fish and it’s swimming around in my cup,” the boy said gleefully, his younger sister in tow. He stretched out his hand to show me the hapless fish in his possession. “That’s a minnow all right,” I told him. “What are you going to do with it?”

Just then his grandmother called for him and his sister to join her on the walk up to the lawn. I snapped some photos of the old bridge and a Cyprus with budging roots. The river looked clean and portended a healthy fishery. I saw a fisherman standing in a Johnboat upstream; a sure way to take a swim. Riffles formed at two sections in my view of the river where I thought a cast would yield promising results. I climbed up the bank and met up with the grandmother and her two charges.

I peered into the cup over the shoulder of the boy and said, “You know that fish would be pretty happy if you let her go back where she belongs.” Grandmother chimed in, “The man is right. We have nowhere to put it. It’s just going to die at my house.”

The boy thought about the situation for a moment and then asked, “Grandma, will you come down with us to let it go?”

“Of course, honey.”

I walked up Pine Street toward the heart of town. Once past the urban renewal, the buildings in that part of town were dilapidated and abandoned. The next block was much improved. Some clever architect had kept the aged structure of a hundred year old brick building and added to it reinforced concrete sections at the east and west ends. To that bit of engineering he or she made sure that bas reliefs placed on the front of the building were added to enhance its sense of rebirth. All that thought went happily into the Water and Power Utility building of Dougherty County.

Other surprises included the Arts Council Building. That turn of the century building used to be the county library. It had Antebellum pillars in front and at doors to the sides of the building and its exterior had been restored to look as if had been built last year. I spoke to two neighbors who sat in wheelchairs talking to each other and enjoying a late afternoon sun. “How are you today?” I asked them.

“Just fine, just fine,” they said in unison.

“Excuse me but is that building the Public Library? It is really stately.”

The older man answered with authority, “No sir, that is the Arts Building. It used to be the library.” The woman added pointing to a much larger structure kitty-corner to our position, “That is the library now.” I thanked the couple and wished them a good evening.

Their building was a three story retirement home in an ancient hotel. As I reached the corner I could see that a great veranda stretched from the corner, one hundred feet along the street, where several older folks sat in rocking chairs or comfortable looking couches from which to enjoy the sight of a busy world. One octogenarian returned my wave and uttered a faint hello, squinting to see if she had greeted a friend’s grandchild.

I meandered through town some more and then strolled through the virtually abandoned campus of Albany State University on my way to the motel. It was an attractive campus with arbors and well kept brick buildings set tightly on its two-hundred acre site. Local people are very proud of their college which was created by an African-American man at the turn of the century.

The few times I had driven and now walked to the western side of town I had gone by a busy chicken shack called Maryland Chicken. After seeing the Albany State I walked across the street to order some chicken to eat back at the motel. I ordered the 3 piece chicken dinner with fried okra and a side of baked beans. Naturally, the idea of chowing down on all that good stuff hurried my pace. I was not disappointed in my selection of meals. If I hadn’t given the Maryland Chicken a try I would have regretted it all the way to Columbus.

These two wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have produced more survivable traumatic amputations than in any other wars in history. This is due to the advent of the enemy’s use of improvised explosive devices, and from our side, improved medical attention given to wounded troops in the field of combat. This article by Peter Pollack tells the remarkable story of soldiers returning to fight after losing a limb.

Back to the front lines: Amputees keep fighting
By Peter Pollack

Study looks at factors contributing to soldiers’ return

Damage-control orthopaedic treatment of wounded military personnel often begins on the front line. Military surgeons débride and irrigate open wounds, apply external fixation, and perform fasciotomy and revascularization. As a result, injured patients receive an average of two procedures before arriving at a military hospital in the United States—often within 96 hours of injury.

Cpt. David M. Rozelle stands on a third-floor balcony of Al-Faw Palace, Camp Victory, Iraq, April 1, 2005. Rozelle returned to Iraq after losing his lower right leg during the initial stages of Operation Iraq Freedom. Rozelle is the first amputee to return to a combat zone after suffering such an injury. Courtesy of Multi-National Corps Iraq Public Affairs

Such advances in combat casualty care are not only saving more lives, they are enabling more soldiers to return to active duty. In particular, the percentage of amputees who return to active duty in the U.S. armed forces is higher now than ever before, according to LTC Kevin L. Kirk, DO, who presented his paper, “Return to Duty Rate of Amputee Soldiers in the Current Conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq,” at the annual meeting of the American Orthopaedic Foot & Ankle Society.

The research team, which included CPT Daniel J. Stinner, MD; CPT Travis C. Burns, MD; and COL James R. Ficke, MD, attempted to identify factors that increase likelihood of return to duty.
Return rates improve over time

According to the U.S. Military, personnel are considered to be unfit for service if they have had a major limb amputation. However, military personnel may petition to remain on active duty if they can obtain recommendations from two medical officers and demonstrate a high level of function with prostheses.

“Overall, 82 percent of casualties in the current conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq have sustained extremity injuries,” said Dr. Kirk, “with traumatic amputations accounting for 2.3 percent of all battle injuries and 7.4 percent of major limb injuries.”

Dr. Kirk and his colleagues reviewed the cases of all U.S. military personnel who had combat-related amputations from Oct. 1, 2001, through June 1, 2006, as well as the records of personnel who appeared before the Physical Evaluation Board (PEB) during that same time period at a minimum of 2 years post-amputation.
Of the 395 major limb amputees who appeared before the PEB, 65 (16.5 percent) returned to active duty.

A previous, similar study conducted in the 1980s provided the research team an opportunity to compare return rates. In the earlier study, 469 soldiers appeared before the PEB for an amputation sustained while on active duty between 1980 and 1988, but only 11 (2.3 percent) returned to active duty.

According to Dr. Kirk, one reason for the lower return rate in the earlier study may be a lack of designated amputee centers for U.S. personnel during the 1980s and 1990s.

“In addition to state-of-the-art rehabilitation found at these centers, it appears that informal group therapy among amputees may play a beneficial role,” he said.
Officers, elders most likely to return

Those with multiple extremity amputations had the lowest return-to-duty rate (3 percent). The overall return-to-duty rate for single extremity amputees was 20 percent (p<0.0001).

The 130 transtibial amputees comprised the largest single group in the study (32.9 percent). At 22 percent, they also presented one of the highest return-to-duty rates. Hand amputees also returned at a 22 percent rate. Foot amputees, at 25 percent, were most likely to return overall.

In breaking down the demographics of returning warriors, the researchers found that officers (35.3 percent) and senior enlisted personnel (25.5 percent) had a higher return rate than junior enlisted personnel (7.0 percent, p<0.0001). They also learned that older personnel were more likely to return than younger personnel—the average age of returning personnel was 31.4 years; the average age of separating personnel was 27.2 years (p<0.0001).

Gender did not appear to play a role in return to duty, with 63 of 384 male amputees (16.4 percent) returning and 2 of 11 female amputees (18.2 percent) returning.

Although the results were not statistically significant, amputees in combat units trended toward a higher return rate than amputees from support units such as military intelligence, medical, and transportation.

The authors report no relevant conflicts, but state that the opinions or assertions contained in the study are the private views of the authors and are not to be construed as official or as reflecting the views of the Department of the Army or the Department of Defense.

Peter Pollack is a staff writer for AAOS Now. He can be reached at ppollack@aaos.org

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Day 95, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-04T16:07:00.000-07:00

The Star Spangled Banner Lyrics
By Francis Scott Key 1814 ( Excerpt)

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?...

Fourth of July in Albany, Georgia.

At 5:00AM I sat down at the counter at the local Waffle House. It was a sleepy place with tired waitresses from the night shift. A policeman sat at the counter with me and a guy who loudly proclaimed that he owned a carpet cleaning operation. My waitress was Kelleigh who was a gentle girl who needed a day’s rest but instead stood in front of me trying to crack a smile with her last drop of energy.

As I waited for my waffle, cups of coffee and a side of bacon, the cop looked through me and asked the carpet cleaner, “What are you doing now, Archie?”

Looking straight ahead and chewing on some sausage, the carpet cleaner replied, “Working good and clean, man. Got a small company, now. No bosses, just me and a couple of hard working guys, you know.” Then, as a waitress named Marsha sauntered by on her way to bus a table, Carpet Man said in a loud voice, “Miss Marsha, un huh.” The woman ignored the man.

The policeman got up to pay his bill and leaned across the counter and whispered to Kelleigh, “You get off at seven?” Kelleigh nodded in the affirmative without looking up. “I’ll be back at seven then.” She made no motion nor gave any response.

“Kelleigh, did you hear me?” the policeman asked. In a muted voice, Kelleigh said, “I heard you. I will be here at seven.” Her eyes never met his but rather stayed on the plate she was washing at the counter’s edge.

The policeman left and as he did the Carpet Man began to talk in a loud voice again to his would be employee: a skinny kid who sat next to him to hear the pitch. “These guys don’t even know you alive, mutha $%$%#@. Answer that. Well do they?”

The kid obliged the bully with, “I know that, man.”

“Well, you bet your ass. They all mutha %^&%%$$#. You think about comin’ with me. A thousan’ dollahs a week. No credit card messin’ around, no thievin’, I’m tellin’ you. Jus good clean money. Unhuh.”

I thought, "Am I still asleep?"

The cook attempting to make my waffle had great difficulty. On two different occasions he tried to peel away the unevenly cooked dough from the iron without success. Finally, I asked Kelleigh to help him out so that I didn’t have to stay and listen to the jerk sitting next to me. Despite the come-ons and the loud disruptions from the patrons, the worn out waitresses smiled and gave me excellent attention. Dining at this Waffle House was very much like eating in the cafeteria at the mad house.

My walk was on the commercial side of things today. I stayed on Highway 82 for several miles in the early light. Later I came back and made my way to the Marine Corps Logistics Base. My only contact with human kind outside of the breakfast at the Waffle House was a wave from one of the guards at the base, who didn’t have much to do on a Sunday, on the Fourth of July, in sultry Albany, Georgia.

But mostly I blanked out my external surroundings by singing Grateful Dead songs and belting out a rousing version of the Star Spangled Banner near the Piggly Wiggly. It felt really good to turn the volume up.

Before the British Naval Fleet lined up their ships in preparations for their attack on Baltimore, local sea merchants made the decision to scuttle their ships in the mouth of the harbor so that nothing could pass. The decision meant that those merchants would lose their livelihoods or at the very least, a large portion of their net worth. They did it anyway because their country needed them and they acted. In so doing, the Americans were able to keep the superior British Naval Fleet at bay and out of Baltimore.

I ask myself whether average Americans today would sacrifice their livelihoods to keep an approaching enemy from the gates.

For a Republic to be sustained, all of its citizens must serve it in some way. We came very close to losing our independence on September 13, 1814. Here is a brief account of that day in Baltimore, Maryland:

War of 1812, September 13, 1814

On June 18, 1812, the United States declared war on England, then the greatest power on earth, to preserve "Free Trade and Sailors' Rights." The British, while at war with France, had interfered with U.S. trade and had boarded American ships to force sailors into service on their ships.

It was not until 1814, after England had defeated Napoleon, that the British would test a stubborn, determined people in Baltimore, an anti-British hotbed. To attack the city successfully, the British would first have to seize Fort McHenry, the key to the city's defense.

Late summer 1814 was a critical time for the United States during the War of 1812. A British blockade was taking effect and trade was critically diminished.

Some segments of the country, particularly New England, proposed striking a separate peace accord with the British, who were looking for opportunities to inflict a major morale blow to the Americans. That would bring a speedy end to the war in England's favor.

Baltimore, Maryland appeared to be the most likely target. The city had openly proclaimed its anti-British stance days after war was declared. An angry mob destroyed the building where a Federalist newspaper criticized America for going to war.

Baltimoreans also struck at the British directly. Swiftly sailing schooners seized British merchant ships and transported limited cargoes to foreign ports.

Other cities followed the practice; however, Baltimore alone accounted for about 30 percent of all British merchant ships captured by the U.S. during the war. From this, Baltimore earned the nickname "nest of pirates."

The blockade resulted in stockpiles of goods along the city's wharves. Shipbuilders avoided bankruptcy by building blockade runners and vessels for the U.S. Navy. The potential to strike a decisive morale blow, capture goods, a frigate, and settle a score, may have influenced the British decision to attack Baltimore.

The city fathers foresaw a possible attack on the harbor, so preparations were made as early as 1813. A committee of public supply was established to raise funds for various construction projects.

Citizens began to dig a huge entrenchment along the outskirts of the city, facing east. Large gun barges were constructed to defend the harbor. The city militia was called on for periodic drills.

The regular army also assisted. Colonel Joseph G. Swift dispatched Captain Samuel Babcock to supervise improvements at Fort McHenry. Improvements included mounting a battery of 32-pound cannons along the water's edge, construction of hot shot furnaces, fortifications at Lazaretto Point, and additional gun batteries along the Patapsco River.

On the morning of September 12, 1814, the British landed more than 3,000 troops at North Point. They marched north and west to attack the city.

That night, after the Battle of North Point, they reached Hampstead Hill, where 12,000 Americans blocked their path. The British troops waited for the navy to subdue Fort McHenry and sail into the harbor to shell the city.

At first light on September 13, British ships of war began to fire bombs, rockets, and cannon balls at Fort McHenry. The hope was the Americans would panic, evacuate the fort and leave Baltimore defenseless.

For 25 hours, as lightning flashed and rain fell, the British bombarded the fort, firing between 1,500 and 1,800 rounds, but causing only four deaths and leaving 24 wounded. Major George Armistead and the 1,000 patriot defenders fired back with their cannons when the British ships sailed within range.

Realizing the attack had failed, the British sailed downriver to North Point to retrieve their retreating soldiers. The Battle of Baltimore was over. It was the most dangerous period following the War for Independence as patriots faced and defeated a vengeful foreign power on American shores.

The War of 1812 has been called the "second War of Independence," because it forged national character and demonstrated that Americans would unite not only to win liberty, but to keep it.

After the battle, the young flag, with 15 stars and broad stripes, waved in defiance. The courage Francis Scott Key witnessed inspired him to write the words sung today as the National Anthem.

Fort McHenry, home of the "Star-Spangled Banner," still flies the 15-star flag every hour of every day, above its ramparts.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 94, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

Requiem for a Soldier

You never lived to see
What you gave to me
One shining dream of hope and love
Life and liberty

With a host of brave unknown soldiers
For your company, you will live forever
Here in our memory

In fields of sacrifice
Heroes paid the price
Young men who died for old men's wars
Gone to paradise

We are all one great band of brothers
And one day you'll see we can live together
When all the world is free

I wish you'd lived to see
All you gave to me
Your shining dream of hope and love
Life and liberty

We are all one great band of brothers
And one day you'll see - we can live together
When all the world is free

Some days the morning comes quickly as if by surprise. Bainbridge’s morning was still and cool, with a bluish haze lying upon it making it appear to me as an ancient world of stray dogs and ruin. I walked quietly among houses and shops until I reached a country road that soon lost its pavement. The light vanished except for a background of rising, pallid grayness.

I startled a flock of crows who had gathered to spend the night in a gnarled oak tree on the rim of the town. They sounded and looked like a band of marauders waiting to attack at day break. They spoke to me in brash tones as if to say, “Get out of here, stranger. You are not wanted.” I have never quite ignored the crows of my walks. Their presence seemed to me a necessary element of any experience out in the world on foot. I accepted their haranguing as I would the flawed tones of a relative who would always be with me no matter how much I complained.

Back on my red earth I felt at home and marched with the purpose of one who knew his journey would soon end. There was barely enough light to measure my steps but I went on as the spears of the sun began their relentless advance on the pine forest to my east.

A filthy gray terrier scrambled out of the pine forest with a look of utter terror on her face. She ran up to me as if to warn me that monsters were on her heels, and that I should run for cover. She made brief eye contact with me. The morning light made her eyes glow. The terrified animal disappeared into the forest on the other side of the road; another apparition, vanishing before I could grasp it’s meaning.

The first of a series of tanker trucks rushed by me enveloping me in waves of red dust that rose and fell with each passing. I had not tasted the earth until they joined me. The insects seemed to like what they saw because they started up again with a thumping din until they tired. I reached a knoll that was covered with a thin garden of pines. I drank a bottle of water as I leaned against a skinny tree. I touched its rough bark as a woodpecker began her tap, tapping above me.

The checkered flag must have been waved deep in the woods because the caravan of tanker trucks raced by me in succession. I thought it might be time to walk back toward Shotwell Road before I got rolled up under an eighteen wheeler with a deadline. I headed for the river at double-time pace.

After walking back through town I stalled on the trestle over the railroad tracks. A train with sixty box cars rumbled by next to the river with a steady bump, ump, bump, ump, bump, ump. I remembered putting a nickel on the tracks somewhere near Stockton, California in the summer of 1963. Maybe the rising heat of the morning or the sound of the creaking train enlivened an atrophied synapse in my brain, but the memory of dashing away from the crime scene reappeared as clear as can be.

I wanted one more dose of downtown Bainbridge before I retired the walk. I liked standing in front of a flagging building, one rotted or leaning in fatigue. I tried to imagine who visited it and why. The sunlight had slithered through the eastward structures and began to heat the back of my neck. I moved two steps to the left to find momentary shade as I peered into the opaque window of an abandoned Town Hall.

Walking back to the seedy motel at the intersection of two state arteries, I passed a fish restaurant with a sign that read, “Fried Shrimp and Gravy Special”. McDonald’s was busy with workers loading up on breakfast and hot coffee. I ordered a large coffee to go. The counter girl was happy and offered me a hearty, “Good morning, sir.” I countered right back with a, “I’m just fine, darlin’. How you?” When in Bainbridge...

CPL Jonathan Ayers' Family To Accept His Silver Star Posthumously in Ceremony Celebrating His Life
Mar 26, 2009 at 10:43 AM

CPL Jonathan Ayers

"I want this ceremony to be a celebration," said the corporal's father, Bill Ayers. "He was military. He liked spit-and-polish type things and would fuss at us if our shoes weren't cleaned just right. Pride in his country was paramount."

From Newsblaze.com
Published: March 26,2009

Atlanta-Area Soldier Will Be Honored Posthumously Sunday
Amid a formal gathering of family, friends, Soldiers, civic and public officials, Brig. Gen. Joseph Schroedel (commander of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, South Atlantic Division) will present a posthumous Silver Star medal to Bill and Suzanne Ayers, the parents of Army Cpl. Jonathan R. Ayers, at Shiloh High School in Snellville, Ga., March 29.

Ayers, 24, of Snellville was killed in action July 13, 2008, while as a machine gunner, he defended his unit against a vicious enemy attack.
His unit, the 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team from Vicenza, Italy, came under the deadliest attack since the beginning of the war in Afghanistan when the outpost was attacked by small-arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades in the Kunar Province.

After graduating from Snellville's Shiloh High School, Ayers enlisted in the Army in April 2006 and went straight from basic and advanced individual training at Fort Benning, Ga., to the 173rd.

"I want this ceremony to be a celebration," said the corporal's father, Bill Ayers. "He was military. He liked spit-and-polish type things and would fuss at us if our shoes weren't cleaned just right. Pride in his country was paramount."

Also, the mayor of Snellville, Jerry Oberholtzer, has proclaimed March 29 as "Corporal Jonathan R. Ayers Day" in the City of Snellville.
Oberholtzer said he and the residents are honoring Ayers "not only as a community hero but as a true American hero."

When Bill and Suzanne Ayers receive the Silver Star on behalf of their son March 29, they will be receiving the third highest military decoration that can be awarded to a member of any branch of the United States Armed Forces. It is, also, the third highest award given for valor in the face of the enemy.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 93, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

Beloved, Let Us Once More Praise The Rain
by Conrad Aiken (Excerpt)

Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done. ..

A gentle rain accompanied my early stroll through the neighborhoods of sleepy Bainbridge, Georgia this morning. There were stately old homes that stood on moist ground, whose brick sub-structures bore the green skirts left by decades of afternoon downpours. One block off Shotwell Road revealed smaller, modest homes with dogs in the yards and a mattress or a couch waiting for disposal. Bainbridge seemed to be hanging on through a steady decline toward oblivion.

The County Library stood as a bastion of something more positive. It is a single story building probably built in the late seventies, with large spaces and plenty of books and an inviting computer area, the cubicles of which were populated with interested people of all ages. Like so many rural libraries I have visited over the last nine-five days, there was a significant area dedicated to the enrichment of children. This development is exciting and bodes well for the future education of children in these many small towns across the span from Arizona to Georgia.

The two main commercial routes within the town were studded with fast cash houses, pawn shops and fast food restaurants. Behind the CVS Pharmacy is the town’s only laundromat. It is a rundown shack with tables stacked against the windows and an interior that would rival a scene from one of the Hoarder shows on television. I decided to wait to wash my clothes in an adjoining town; a favorable ambiance of a laundromat has become an important requirement for me.

On the far west side of town is Earl May Lake. It is a municipal lake that seems to serve the public well. There is a large grassy area at the east end of which is a well constructed Performance Arts Theater. The citizens of Bainbridge come there frequently to listen to outdoor concerts and to watch dramas put on by college and high school students. With the backdrop of the lake I can imagine how families will be drawn to the park for a very pleasant Independence Day celebration.

I saw a grandfather and his grandson sitting next to the lake waiting for the fish to bite. “Hey, how’s the fishing today?”

“Jus fine. Jus fine. Little Chandray hea done brought in a blue cat already.”

“Good job, Chandray. Did it give you a good fight?”
The skinny eight-year old hid beneath his Atlanta Braves cap and muttered, “Ah guess so.”

“Chandy, the man talkin’ to you. He a little shy. We gonna catch a bunch a fish today, ain’t we Chandy?”

“We always do, Grampa Billy.”

“What else you think you might catch on a day like today?” I asked as a gentle wind disturbed the former glassy conditions on the lake.

“Oh, we gonna catch some fine crappie fo shor. I hope Chandray brings in another cat. He’s a pro at that,” he said laughing a contagious laugh.

“I’ll bet he is. You gentleman enjoy a great day of fishing and have a happy Fourth of July.”

“Well thank ya, sir. And you er uh, do the same. Y’all oughta bring a pole down hea and sit yoself down. That’s my recommendation for y’all.”

“I could think of nothing better. I’ll be seeing you,” I said waving goodbye to the happy pair of fishermen.

I wandered off into the trail system of the park that covered a total of four miles before a rain became steadier and less pleasant. I made it back to the motel for a hot shower and settled in with a good book; a recent biography of Earl Warren.

Despite Bainbridge’s drift into decay, I enjoyed walking its streets and sliding onto the small college campus of Bainbridge University on the outskirts of town. The branches of the moss covered oaks drooped sleepily over the streets; a permanent garment defining the place. The downtown sector of perhaps four square blocks is the reminder of a more prominent past. Some of the buildings were built one hundred years ago when the cotton and timber industries still thrived in a world that had little regard for the concept of a living wage. Now they sit in repose waiting for a resurrection that will not easily come.

Each Presidential Administration appoints a Secretary of Veterans Affairs who says, “I will do my best to repair the broken V.A. Health Care System.” Although progress is being made, there is a thousand miles to cover before we provide our service members with the quality of ongoing health care they deserve. Gen. Erik Shinseki (Ret.) promises to change the V.A. Health Care System for the better.

Shinseki pledges to fix broken veterans' system

Posted 2/22/2010 11:12 AM |

By Bob Bird, AP

Veterans Affairs Secretary Eric Shinseki, center, is greeted by veterans at the Charleston Vet Center in Charleston, W.Va., on Feb. 17, 2010.

CHILLICOTHE, Ohio (AP) — Veterans Affairs Secretary Eric Shinseki said he's making it a top priority this year to tackle the backlog of disability claims that has American veterans waiting months — even years — to get financial compensation for their injuries.

Among those waiting for relief are sick Vietnam and Gulf War veterans to whom the former Army commander feels an allegiance and who have long felt ignored.

"I'm a kid out of the Vietnam era, I just have enough firsthand knowledge of folks walking around with lots of issues. If there's a generation of veterans that have had a tough row to hoe, it's the Vietnam generation," said Shinseki, 67, in an exclusive interview with The Associated Press as he traveled through snowcapped mountains in Ohio and West Virginia between meetings with veterans.

Shinseki, a former Army chief of staff who had part of a foot blown off when he was a young officer in Vietnam, was unapologetic about a decision he made in October to make it easier for potentially 200,000 sick Vietnam veterans who were exposed to the Agent Orange herbicide to receive service-connected compensation.
CAREGIVING: Families of severely injured vets are strained

He said it was the right thing to do, even though the claims volume will grow and it will likely take about two years to get the average claim-processing wait time back to where it is today, about five months.

There's a chance Shinseki could also extend similar benefits to veterans from the 1991 Gulf War. A task force he appointed to look at their health is expected to release a report this week, which could eventually lead to thousands of additional sick Gulf war veterans receiving health care and compensation.

Shinseki said he's often questioned why 40 years after the Vietnam war and nearly two decades after the Gulf War his agency is still trying to resolve issues related to those veterans' illnesses.

Vietnam veterans with B-cell leukemias, Parkinson's diseases and ischemic heart disease no longer have to prove their illness are the result of their military service. Shinseki determined after reviewing a study by the Institute of Medicine that the illnesses should be presumed to have come from the veteran's war service, making it easier for them to receive financial compensation.

The VA currently presumes that twelve other illnesses are linked to Agent Orange exposure.
Shinseki said he's looking ahead to make sure Iraq and Afghanistan veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injuries don't have similar problems getting financial compensation.

"I'm also asking the question, how do we ensure that 20 years from now, that future secretary isn't answering questions about PTSD or TBI, sort of the signature injuries of this war in the same way that I'm having to look back and try to address these issues," he said.

In recent years, resources have been poured into clearing the backlog, but problems persist. Besides the time it takes to process a claim, there are frequent complaints about lost paperwork and inconsistency in how claims are processed.

To start looking for solutions, Shinseki's agency instigated pilot projects that he says he's watching closely. His plan is to reduce the backlog by 2015, which means a veteran wouldn't wait more than four months for a claim to be processed.
The VA and Pentagon are also working together to create a universal electronic system with the goal of solving many of the claims challenges. Some of the collaboration is expected to be rolled out in 2012, although it could take years before the system is fully in place.

Shinseki, who became the Army's chief of staff in 1999, is no stranger to change. In that role he sought to modernize and better prepare the Army for urban combat. In his current position, he's highlighted the challenges veterans face, such as unemployment, suicide and homelessness.

In small gatherings in Chillicothe and Charleston, West Virginia, he listened to complaints about the red tape veterans face and explained the work he's doing to fix the claims backlog.

"We're going to fine-tune each of the pieces and then put that engine back together again and look for better processing by the end of the year," Shinseki said during a morning meeting with employees at the VA hospital in Chillicothe.

The employees listened quietly, not touching the pastries and juice put out for them, as he told them matter-of-factly that he knew the Agent Orange decision was going to add new claims.

"This backlog I just told you I'm going to knock down, I added to it, I know that," he said.

©
2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 92, Walk for Warriors

2010-07-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

There was just enough light for me this morning to watch a mother mocking bird teaching her pair of fledglings under an oak tree near my truck. The mother paid no attention to me as she nabbed a moth for her two offspring to share. There was some unmistakable teaching going on as well. She lay the moth down on the ground where the insect writhed. She then picked it up in her mouth and shoved it down one mouth and then the other without letting it go. Finally, she allowed the fledglings to swallow the prey item.

As mother mocking bird flew to the top of a transformer and was followed by the larger offspring, the smaller bird stood next to the oak as if she had no idea what should come next. Mother spotted another moth near a fluorescent lamp and started the ritual all over. I began my coffee preparation immediately after the show.

Although I could see stars and a portion of the moon through clouds, a gentle rain fell throughout my morning preparations. I took one last look at the map and drove east on Highway 90. I stayed on that road for too long and eventually began to ad lib the directions. That was a fun way to travel but after some period of time I realized I had driven perilously close to Montgomery, Alabama; nowhere near my destination of Bainbridge, Georgia.

I consulted the map again and found just the remedy. I made a slight adjustment and found CR 10 east until I arrived at the charming town of Abbeville, Alabama. As I prepared to enter the town I passed a sign that gave a brief history of Rosa Parks.

The sign marked where Ms. Parks had lived. That was a special site worth stopping for. I did not see the house, if the house that was nearby was even the house she had lived in. It was enough for me to stop, take a picture of the monument and remember the courage of that diminutive woman who faced down an institution by holding her seat in the front of a bus not so long ago.

Abbeville was well worth the stop for gas and a Reuben sandwich with a bowl of Hopping Joe soup. When I bought my gas a man came out to ask me a few questions. I was wearing flip-flops, baggy pants and a long sleeve black shirt which identified me as a stranger. Old Norman walked up to me, “How are you doing today, sir?”

“Hi. I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

“Dandy. What brings you to Abbeville?

I was tempted to say, “I came for the waters,” but I didn’t. I told him what I was doing and he thought that was bully.

“That restaurant looks like it might be pretty good,” I said pointing across the street. The whole Main Street looked like it had been completely redone to great effect. It was tree lined, with ample parking, and each facade had undergone a top notch facelift.

“You ask for whatever you want and they’ll make it for you. The Yellow Wood Man paid for the whole town to look like this. He owns the restaurant too.”

He explained that the Yellow Wood Man was a local businessman who had built the country’s largest wood products company right there in Abbeville. It was his idea and his money that remade Main Street into an attraction with a look and feel similar to Main Street at Disneyland. Huggin Molly’s was the name of the restaurant. I sat at the counter and ordered a delicious vanilla malt, a half a Reuben and a cup of Hoppin' Joe soup that had come highly recommended.

There was a life size cut out of the town’s benefactor, a man dressed in yellow with a yellow cowboy hat. I wanted to ask the genial waitress why they hadn’t stuffed the man instead. She was quite proud of having the man’s likeness amid the hubbub of the restaurant. She pointed to a lady greeting local businessmen who filed in at 11:30 AM for a luncheon; it was the Yellow Wood Man’s daughter.

The waitress was very attentive. She leaned over the counter and asked, “How is that malt? Is it real good?”

With a mouth full of the delicious mix I garbled a, “Mmmm, is it ever!” To my great surprise the place became deluged with customers. This restaurant is in a town of less than two thousand inhabitants but the presence of money has transformed it into a happening micropolis in the middle of a corn field.

I asked the waitress, “What’s going on here? There can’t be this many people living here...”

“I know, isn’t it great? I used to live in Eufala, you know, and I would pass right through here without opening my eyes. But I moved here four years ago with my fiancée and I wouldn’t ever leave now. How do ya like the soup?”

“It’s excellent.”

“We make a really good Reuben. How do ya like that?”

“I couldn’t be happier.” As I said this two men on work clothes sat next to me. They knew the waitress well. One of the men whispered to her, “Cammy’s been talkin’ again.”

The waitress looked peeved, “Oh yeah, and I am supposed to care?”

“She’s been bad mouthin’ you somthin’ awful.”

“Listen Bobby, I don’t care. Okay? Just keep that sheeit to yourself. Besides, the owner is here so…”

“I’m just sayin’, I thought you should know.”

“You gonna order something or you and Tubby here to take up space?”

“Two burgers and lots of fries and a couple a cokes,” he demanded stupidly. The owner glided by to greet some friends at the front door. The waitress went into professional mode again.

“Right away, sir.”

By the time I arrived in sleepy old Bainbridge it was raining steadily but the temperature had dropped to 88 degrees. I jammed in a walk around a lake and up to the entrance of a small college before retiring. The rain gear is going to get a workout for the next several days, and maybe the boots too. “Whatever it takes to get the job done”, someone once said.

I may have mentioned the extraordinary actions of Air Force PJ Jason Cunningham before. I have known about his actions in the early days of the Afghanistan War since 2003. His story illustrates how reluctant the Bush Administration was and the current Pentagon is to award the Medal of Honor in Iraq and Afghanistan.

My son introduced me to Jason's story after he read, The Hunt for Bin Laden. I have thought of Jason and his wife many times in the past few years. He was one of those men whose job description is, "So that others may live."

Jason Dean Cunningham
Senior Airman, United States Air Force
Book details war heroism of airman
Military medic was awarded the Air Force Cross posthumously
October 3, 2005

Airman Jason Cunningham, a military medic with ties to Ventura County, moved his wounded comrades to safety three times while exposing himself to enemy fire that eventually cut him down, according to a new book about his death on a snowy mountainside in Afghanistan.

Cunningham was married to Rio Mesa High School graduate Theresa de Castro, a resident of Camarillo, while both were in the Navy. The 26-year-old Air Force pararescueman, or medic, was killed in combat on March 2, 2002.

His funeral was in Camarillo, and he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

"I talked to one guy, a surgeon who was waiting for him to come in," said author Malcom MacPherson, whose book is among a small number that give detailed accounts of Afghanistan combat. "He told me Jason was the spiritual center of the whole medical team out there."

MacPherson based his book, "Roberts Ridge," on the words of those who were there, including Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, medics, combat air controller and pilots. It provides hour-by-hour details on the events leading up to the death of Cunningham and six other Americans during a battle with Taliban and al-Qaida guerrillas.

The men fought a 17-hour battle that began as an attempt to rescue Neil Roberts, a SEAL who earlier had been thrown from a helicopter shredded by Taliban and al-Qaida fire. The helicopter limped to safety in a valley, but Roberts was stranded high on the 10,240-foot mountain called Takur Ghar.

By the time two rescue helicopters carrying combat personnel and medics arrived on the scene, Roberts was dead. The choppers were quickly disabled by guerrilla fire and the long battle began.

Cunningham was killed while protecting and giving medical treatment to wounded men. Three times he moved them from the line of fire, each time exposing himself to enemy fire.

He and Army medic Cory Lamereaux picked up weapons and fought off a counterattack for 40 minutes before both were shot.

According to MacPherson, Lamereaux was hit in the belly. He suffered intense pain but survived.

Cunningham was shot once through the small of his back to the right of his spine through his pelvis. The bullet shattered his liver. Despite his pain, he checked his body, did not see blood and yelled to Lamereaux, "I think I'm OK."

MacPherson said another medic, Matt LaFrenz, a premed graduate of Vanderbilt University, rushed to the men. He examined Cunningham and believed the airman was bleeding internally.

Cunningham was lucid, surprised and angry: "This is bull. ... Cannot believe they shot me," he told LaFrenz.

The medic knew Cunningham had to get to a surgical team right away. Army Capt. Nate Self, commander of the rescue attempt, kept calling the main base, asking for -- and then demanding -- a medivac helicopter.

But it was daytime, and the two wounded helicopter pilots on the mountain knew no helicopter would be sent in until five or six hours later, after dark when it was safer.

The medics did everything to try to keep Cunningham alive. They cut down padding from the walls of a crippled helicopter and tucked it inside his sleeping bag for warmth.

They talked to him to keep him alert, injected him with morphine for pain.
But nothing could keep him from slipping away. The former sailor, who had become an Air Force pararescueman because he wanted to help others, died at 6 p.m.
The medivac arrived 90 minutes later.

Last week, neither Theresa Cunningham nor Jason Cunningham's parents had read MacPherson's book. They said they might not read it.

For his extraordinary heroism, Jason Cunningham posthumously received the Air Force Cross, an award second only to the nation's highest award, the Medal of Honor.

"I think he got ripped off," said his mother, Jackie Cunningham of Farmington, N.M. "I will never understand why he didn't get the Medal of Honor.

"There's not an hour that goes by that I don't think of him. Because of what my son did, those other wounded men are living with their families."

"I am so proud that they are still honoring him," said Cunningham's widow, now Air Force 1st Lt. Theresa Cunningham, a flight controller at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Wash.

"A compound at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan has been named Camp Cunningham and, in 2007, a portion of the basic training facility at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio will be named in honor of Jason," said Cunningham, a 1989 graduate of Rio Mesa High School.

Currently, her hopes are to make the Air Force a career while raising her and Jason's daughters Kyla, 8, and Hannah, 5.

"The military has a lot of respect for its history, and people here try to help us out," she said.

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Day 91, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-30T19:54:00.000-07:00

Black skies and hot water greeted me this morning at Perdido Beach. The rain started almost immediately after I stopped to take a picture for the bus driver of the oil spill clean-up crew. She lamented the fact that her day lasted twelve hours. “I can’t even leave this spot for the whole day,” she said with a look of dejection.

As I lifted my ruck to my shoulder I said, “I hope you have a good book.”

No one was exercising this morning but me. Oh, there were a couple of diehards who lasted until the first big rain began to fall but after that I was on my own. For the first time in many weeks I was bathed in a temperature of less than ninety degrees by 7:00 AM. I was also bathed in a rain that felt bathtub warm. It was not a torrential downpour but rather a steady and continuous shower of soft rain drops. Nevertheless, I found the sensation akin to walking in loose sand. There was a constant resistance against my advance.

Several people stopped their cars or trucks at my side and yelled, “Can we give you a ride, sir?” I replied to each, “No Thanks. I appreciate the offer.” One man and his wife drove along side me for quite a ways trying to get me to fold. “Are you sure? It’s going to rain all day.”

“Thank you so much but I am absolutely sure.” They finally gave up shaking their heads. I understand these peoples’ concern and their humanitarian effort. It was nice to think that someone out there wanted to spare me getting soaked. There was no time to explain. It was my job, although, if I had detected a threat from lightning, I would have gladly accepted a ride in a nice warm, dry Tahoe.

This was my last day walking along the coastal stretch between Gulf Shores Beach and Pensacola Beach. Nothing was going to deter me from my appointed rounds. I couldn’t wait to reach the bridge over the mouth of the bay just east of Gulf Shores Beach. A sand bar had formed inside the mouth of the bay and three longboarders were taking full advantage, surfing on crisp two foot waves in shallow water. They were not expert surfers but they were enthusiastic and that counted for something.

I made my way down to the beach and faced the powerful wind coming off the Gulf from the southeast. There sheets of wind hit my face like minute pellets. I was there alone to lean against the coming storm. I turned around with my back to the water and saw the lights of the restaurants and hotels blurring into one global yellow blur. No need for sunglasses; there was no sun and the water on the lenses obscured the details of even the closest objects.

Even though the water falling upon me was warm I knew that staying in it for hours could lead to hypothermia. I began to run again to shorten my time away from the truck. I was back in a pair of running shoes so I didn’t have the bulk of the hiking boots to contend with, but my shoes had grown heavy and my path became one big puddle. A policeman slowed his vehicle alongside me as I jogged. I think he wanted know if I was in trouble or just a dedicated nut. I couldn’t make out his face through the sheets of rain but I could tell that he had waved to me before speeding off.

Feeling more tired than usual and somewhat hypoglycemic I stopped in at a Tom Thumb convenience store and gas station. I ate two Crispy Cream donuts and drank a quart of chocolate milk to get me through the next four miles. I would have preferred a banana but I was thinking sugar. I had the energy I needed for the final push. I asked the man at the counter, “Do you have a chair I could sit on for a couple of minutes.”

“I am so sorry, sir. We have no chairs for you.”

I don’t know why I asked that question. I didn’t want to sit down at all. However, I did start to feel cold and I did not want to get a chill or cool down too much. I needed to haul myself back to the truck as fast as I could to avoid anymore undue exposure to the elements. I jogged for another couple of miles and as I came within sight of the blue and green portable toilets at the public parking lot a big pickup pulled next to me. A woman opened the door. “Get in.” I did.

“I just have another one hundred yards to go but I appreciate the lift.”

“I saw you back at the store talking to my clerk. I’m sorry it took me this long,” The woman said as we entered the parking lot. I thanked her for her kindness and that of the clerk who had obviously told her about my situation. We waved goodbye. I looked over at the bus across from my car but all I could make out were the bare feet of the driver resting on the back of a seat.

Back at the KOA I had noticed a manager giving orders to her staff and busying herself with various projects. The workers seemed to be wary of the woman. She was of sturdy build and tired blond hair. Occasionally I would see her husband hug her or touch her arm. The woman never smiled and seemed preoccupied and rushed beyond the demands of the business tempo.

I was in the office after my walk as I needed more quarters and I wanted a pineapple-orange drink. As I approached the counter the owner received a phone call. She answered, never making eye contact with me as I stood in front of her. She answered the call in a monotone, “It’s a great day at KOA. How can I help you?” A pause ensued as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “Is it because of the spill?” Pause. “Oh, you’re in the oil drilling business.” I stood there as she listened, her eyes facing the floor as she fingered her hair.

“Well, no, that doesn’t bother me. I have dealt with the recession, my son was murdered in January and now this,” she said without a display of emotion but I could hear a pleading in her voice. She listened to the voice again. She answered with, “You either deal with it or you kill yourself, that’s how. I got no other choice.”

I didn’t know whether to step away and come back after she left the office. But I stood there and listened some more. The woman continued, “So, you are coming after all? How many nights?” Her darkness had weighed her down. I paid for the drink and she changed a couple of bucks for quarters but she never looked up for her eyes to meet mine. I understood.

Many weeks ago I included an article on how the Army was using soldiers, who were farmers back home, to educate Afghan farmers in the finer lessons of rudimentary agriculture. They have stepped up the pace and instituted a program they hope will take hold without breaking the bank. Here is that updated story:

The American Legion Magazine
The Seeds of a New Afghanistan Part II: Small Dollars, Big Impact
An Indiana National Guard team of farmer-soldiers opts for a long view of development in Afghanistan.
By Douglas Wissing - June 1, 2010

Col. Cindra Chastain, ADT deputy commander, talks with Shobo Khel village elders in a meeting conducted under a shade tree at the edge of the mud-brick hamlet. Douglas Wissing

It’s a dry, dusty November day in eastern Afghanistan. The Indiana National Guard’s 1-19th Agribusiness Development Team rolls through insurgency-infested Khost province to quality-check a dam project in the Tani district. An elite team of 64 soldier-farmers, the ADT is working to improve agriculture in this wild Pashtun tribal region that has been targeted as a primary strategic objective of the Taliban. Team members are alert as the convoy of armored Mine Resistant and Ambush Protected vehicles (MRAPs) moves along, wary of homemade bombs buried in the road, even under freshly paved highway. A driver calls out a massive crater near a bridge over a snaking brown river. “Fresh one,” he says. “Glad we missed that.”

In earlier years of the war, proponents of road paving in Afghanistan would say, “The insurgency begins where the road ends.” But the reality on the ground quashed that adage. The Taliban quickly learned to hide improvised explosive devices under culverts and bridges, sometimes using the Afghan equivalent of heavy equipment – farm tractors – to plant bombs beneath the surface of the pavement.

After the ADT arrived in Khost to start development projects, some major routes became so spiked with IEDs that authorities had to declare them “black” – off-limits to military traffic. Then the policy required convoys to include road-clearing teams to probe for mines and extra security to guard culverts. Soon it took 20 heavily armored vehicles, with air cover hovering overhead, to travel to a development site, making for ponderous quality control.

But the ADT persists with its rigorous oversight program, part of the U.S. change strategy to improve the quality assurance of development projects that were often ill supervised in years past. And today, the team is happy to be traveling on a relatively permissive road, where it only takes seven $1.5 million MRAPs and dozens of security soldiers to move.

They are monitoring a series of check dams being built by Afghan farmers with ADT funding and technical support. The team hydrologists designed the 87 small, piled-rock dams to slow a river that seasonally rushes down a steep mountain ravine, providing two villages with improved irrigation and reduced soil erosion. And as part of the U.S.-led coalition’s counterinsurgency strategy, the project hires military-age males, theoretically outbidding the Taliban for their services during the warm-weather fighting season. But like most development in Afghanistan, it’s a long and complicated process.

The Vision and the Reality. The project began in early summer when the ADT used satellite imagery to determine that the Tani district’s seasonal streambed, or wadi, would be ideal for one of its sustainable-development projects. The team first sold the idea to the district subgovernor in a KLE, a key leader engagement, conducted in the Tani District Center, a fortified Afghan-government redoubt protected by high Hesco barriers and endless coils of shining razor wire.

While the ADT force-protection soldiers formed a security perimeter around the small compound, hydrologist Sgt. Richard Joyce explained the project to the Afghan official, telling him the “picture from the sky” identified the site near the village of Shobo Khel.

With the subgovernor’s approval, the team moved on to Shobo Khel, where they met with village elders in a shura (meeting). The villagers were enthusiastic, particularly about the potential for jobs. The wage of six dollars a day was magnificent pay in a country where the per-capita income is about $400 a year. The daily rate offered was roughly triple what a farm laborer typically makes.

The Afghan groundwork laid, the ADT commenced the laborious funding and contracting process. The dam project utilized funds from CERP, the Commander’s Emergency Response Program, which initially focused on small-scale, fast-impact development, such as wells, village schools and government facilities. Originating with seized Ba’athist Party assets in Iraq, CERP funds for both Iraq and Afghanistan are now congressionally appropriated.

In past years, individual CERP projects ballooned up to multimillion-dollar levels, but the directives of Gen. Stanley McChrystal, commander of the U.S. forces in Afghanistan, has reined budgets back into their earlier parameters. A limit of $200,000 was placed on easily accessed funds, projects exceeding that figure needing higher-level approvals.

Not surprisingly for farmer-soldiers, the ADT takes a long view of development in Afghanistan. The first of five teams that the Indiana National Guard has pledged to send to Khost province, members of the 1-19th often say they won’t see the fruits of their labor. Their attitude fits well with the historic reality of counterinsurgency.

A RAND Corp. study of 90 post-World War II insurgencies concluded that the average length of a successful counterinsurgency is 14 years.
Using U.S. dam-construction information, the ADT estimated the project would cost less than $150,000. But when 75 proposals came in from Afghan contractors, the team was surprised to see bids triple that amount.

After throwing out most of the proposals for failing to meet minimum requirements, the project managers told the remaining contractors they needed to cut costs. Faced with the ADT’s fiscal determination, one of the Afghan contractors, the Taranom National Construction Co. (TNCC), decided to do the project for under the CERP limit, the final budget skidding in just below $200,000.

The ADT is focused on a “small dollars, big impact” philosophy, recognizing that unfettered development spending in earlier years has contributed to inflation, fueled corruption and perhaps helped finance the Taliban.

ADT commander Col. Brian Copes talked about the changes in policy and attitude: “A few years ago, the $450,000 probably would have flown.” Copes mimicked a development official: “‘$450,000, great! Gets money flowing in the country!’” Wryly, he concluded, “We taught ’em, we just didn’t know what we were teaching ’em.”

As part of their bid package, TNCC provided professional engineering drawings showing crisp keystoned check dams marching down the wadi, erosion-prone banks protected by riprap. It was easy to envision happy villagers working in their well-irrigated wheat fields, their precious arable land protected from the soil-devouring spring rampage of the undammed river.

But the trouble was just beginning. The team learned of a major land dispute between two feuding villages, Shobo Khel and Zenda Khel, both claiming rights to the wadi.

Land disputes are a problem in Afghanistan, where three decades of war and ruptured rule of law have left a legacy of tangled property rights. Each piece of property can have three or more competing titles, often resolved only through judicial bribes or the terror of lex talionis (eye for an eye). It took numerous meetings and the intercession of the now-angry subgovernor to arrive at a shaky Solomonic compromise: each village would contribute half the workers and get half the development cornucopia.

The team found construction on the TNCC project to be problematic, far worse than two other check-dam contracts they were administering in Khost. The four-month-old TNCC was one of the thousands of Afghan contracting companies formed to sop up the torrent of development money flooding into Afghanistan.

Though the firm came with recommendations from earlier work with U.S. forces, the Tani project’s glitches necessitated repeated missions to the wadi to be sure TNCC had it right. “I don’t need to ever see Shobo Khel again,” ADT deputy commander Col. Cindra Chastain said in exasperation. “I must have been there 20 times. Well, 10, anyway.”

In trying to mitigate corruption and the attendant skimming of development dollars, the ADT then ran smack into another grave problem: security. To prevent the contractor from absconding with the workers’ wages or using the funds for payoffs, the ADT hauled tens of thousands of dollars in Afghan currency to the job site to pay the villagers directly. But the hundreds of Afghan farmers handled the transactions on central-Asian time, taking six hours to complete the process.

The team was almost finished when a giant boom reverberated through the mountains. The soldiers spun around to see a cloud of smoke over the road out of the village. An unfortunate Afghan motorcyclist had inadvertently tripped an IED set to catch the soldiers returning from their humanitarian mission. “They tried to blow us up,” Sgt. Brendan Wilczynski says succinctly.

The Mission Continues. But the Tani project needs to continue. And despite the danger, it’s essential that the ADT continue its oversight. It began with an early briefing, where Sgt. Joseph Carter of the Force Protection Platoon intoned the litany of security threats: seven IEDs were found in Khost the previous day. It’s clear there is a big nest of Taliban the next village over from Shobo Khel, three kilometers away. Security just found a cache of IED material and weapons there. An informant says weapons are buried in the nearby cemetery. “It’s as bad as it can be,” Carter says.

“Keep your eyes open.” With the Quality Control/Quality Assurance team climbing two or three miles up the wadi, and the security force spread over several miles, it’s important everyone know the plan. He repeats the security arrangements: who backs up whom, and where to go in an attack. “If we’re up in the hills, the machine guns aren’t going to help us,” he reminds soldiers headed to the wadi, telling them to race back to the trucks if they encounter a threat.

“If you see all the workers running one way, look for something the other way.”

It’s a tense two-and-a-half hours to cover the 12 miles to the wadi. Careful with security, the convoy arrives unannounced. The team is wary while approaching the village, unsure of its reception after the previous mission’s IED. There is a collective sigh of relief as the ADT sees a pack of village boys waiting with smiles, and the turbaned elders making their way down the paths.

“Oh, good – there are people here,” one grunt says. Even in the lower reaches of the wadi, workers are stacking rocks. But when the hydrology team begins climbing the steep, dry streambed, they find a built reality distinctly different from the contractor’s neat engineering drawings.

In place of the taut rock check dams with keystones, there are piles of rambling rubble, some with deep notches for donkeys to use as passages. One of the security force soldiers, Spc. Malcolm Modisett, stands scowling beside one of the worst dams. “Man, you and I walking over them a couple more times are going to do ’em in,” he says.

Most dramatically, rather than low riprap to protect the exposed banks and slow the current, there are now high, extraordinarily well-crafted rock walls lining the banks for almost a mile. Instead of slowing the water down with riprap, the stone walls will accelerate the flow, negating the purpose of the project.

In violation of Afghan law, there’s not even an engineer on site to explain what’s happened. A local schoolmaster serves as the de-facto volunteer foreman. He says villagers fear the check dams will flood their fields beside the stream, so they built the walls instead. Without an on-site engineer, the villagers proceeded apace. After venting about the corrupt and inept contractor, the schoolmaster asks when villagers will be paid.

The ADT has a dilemma: not paying the villagers for their work would be a detriment to counterinsurgency efforts in these villages, clearly wavering between the Taliban and the Afghan government. But if the project is not done correctly, it will serve as another example of development work gone wrong. Standing on the mountainside, sweating from the climb with 75 pounds of gear, team leaders huddle.

First, they assure the schoolmaster that villagers will be paid for their work on the walls, though the rock check dams are designed to be somewhat porous so the water won’t flood their fields. Then they pledge to contact the contractor and get an engineer on site. And they go through the remediations that will need to happen for the next installment to be paid. And, in deference to the villagers’ fears of flooding and the mile of laboriously constructed stone walls, the ADT leaders decide to leave them.

The team leaders figure that once the dams are strengthened and some of the more egregious problems repaired, the river will be slowed somewhat. There will be improved irrigation and erosion control. And maybe the villagers will feel more connected to the government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, rather than the Taliban.

“Baby steps,” they tell one another.

Douglas Wissing has written for The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, National Geographic Traveler, American Life, Forbes Life and Gray’s Sporting Journal.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote'
All Rights Reserved

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Day 90, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

There's a Good Time Coming

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
A good time coming;
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray.
Of the good time coming.
Cannon balls may aid the truth,
But thought's a weapon stronger;
Well win our battle by its aid;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
A good time coming;

1st stanza, Stephen Foster's, There's A Good Time Coming

Black clouds followed me all morning like so many stray dogs looking for action. I shed the running shoes again in favor of the sturdy, water resistant hiking boots. The trade-off had always been a tough decision for me because the darn things feel like vice grips on my feet after the third hour of a fast march. No matter, I tied them on and set out for Gulf Shores Beach under a veil of mist.

The beach crew stood around in a tight group waiting for the supervisor to call it quits as thunder crashed above the parking lot. It was a difficult decision for the woman because the conditions were changing every moment: rain, heavy wind, no wind, black skies, and the cracking whip of lightning in the peripheral vision of the crew. I walked past several crews this morning as they huddled against the elements. Maybe they were waiting for an impromptu visit from the Vice President. We knew he was headed our way.

In the end, after visiting New Orleans, Vice President Biden did reportedly visit the beach at Pensacola. I haven’t heard any sound bytes yet. I wonder if he talked to any of the Joes working the shovels and nets, or whether he did one of those – white-sleeves-rolled-up-photo-opportunities that is supposed to make us think he did some work today. Politicians like that photo. It never has fooled me much. I hope he really saw something he can take back home.

During the walk I ran into a couple from Mississippi. The husband started right into a mid-stream conversation with me. I could tell his wife was used to that sort of thing so she stood aside smiling as her husband, a fishing boat captain, started a comedic riff right there on the roadside.

His report took on the voice of Vice President Biden and went something like this: “Hey, did you guys know there’s oil on the beach in Pensacola?” Rahm would giggle and then Mr. Vice President would stop him with a pithy, “Shut up, Rahm! At least I went all the way down there.” Axelrod would calm the snickering table. Mr. Vice President would add, “Any you fellas ever been to Florida? It’s nice…Some guy from B.P. said he would take me tarpon fishing next time.” The fisherman handled all the voices. I stared in amazement.

Every day’s walk has been different from the one before. I was wondering what today might bring as the sky roiled around and above me. This wasn’t a sky like an afternoon thunder cloud filled sky. Our position was definitely in the path of Tropical Storm Alex. Sometimes the wind would ramp up to forty miles an hour, then in an instant it would cease. There were several episodes today where the white sand from parking lots on the bay side of the road would tumble toward me at high speed, until I found myself being sprayed with tiny grains of vicious limestone particles.

A third grader on her way to viola lessons saw me and said, “Mommy, there’s that funny man again. I think he’s doing the pee-pee dance.” The mother who was driving a black Suburban put down her I-Pad and covered her daughter’s eyes with one hand. “Don’t look at him, baby girl, he’s probably from California.”

About at the half way point the rain started coming down hard. I chose to run for about thirty minutes hoping to make up some ground toward the truck just in case it really started to pour. When I realized the rain was steady as she goes I slowed my pace back to a normal speed and enjoyed the walk immensely.

I could see a young couple walking in the rain. They held hands and acted goofy. They crossed the coastal road at least three times before intersecting with me near an empty beach hotel. We said our hellos as I walked quickly around them. That must have aroused their competitive juices because shortly thereafter they sprinted past me laughing their heads off. It was raining so hard by then that they kept running until they reached the door of the hotel lobby. As they entered the hotel the couple turned and waved to me as if we had just spent a day at the beach together.

Back at the KOA office, Miss C. was unrolling some quarters for me to use in the washing machines out back. I asked her, “Do you know if there are any Mom and Pop catfish houses around?”

“My husband and I used to see ‘em out in the country. You know we would zoom by and say to each other, ‘Ooh, that looked good.’ But we rarely stopped. No, I can’t say as I could tell you where you could go.”

“I ate at a few of those great old places thirty years ago where you sat down at a long table with strangers and made a fool out of yourself taking that, “All You Can Eat”, thing seriously.”

“Yeah, I miss those.”

Just then the phone rang. Miss C. picked it up, “I’m sorry to hear that. You were spending five nights with us. “Personal reasons?”. Okay, Hun, that’s fine. I’ll put down “Personal Reasons”. Can I ask you if the oil spill had anything to do with your decision?” Okay, I’ll stick with the personal reason. We hope you’ll think about staying with us next year. Thank you. Bye.”

I asked her, “Is that happening a lot?”

“You know someone plans to spend five days at our white sandy beaches. They planned a year ago then this thing happens. You can’t blame ‘em.”

“No, I guess you can’t. Thanks for the quarters.”

“You bet, Sugar.”

Good intelligence for the battlefield has always been important. Many have thought that our military intelligence provided to the commanders on the ground in Afghanistan was sorely lacking until a new report came out in January of this year.

In an unprecedented move, Major General Michael Flynn published a scathing Pentagon report in a publicly disseminated digest. Gates didn’t like that part but he really approved of its content. The report was prepared and delivered while Gen. McChrystal was still in charge of course.

Gates Endorses Critique of Military Intelligence in Afghanistan

U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates has endorsed a stinging critique of military intelligence efforts in Afghanistan written by the top U.S. and NATO military intelligence officer in the country. In a paper published this week, Major General Michael Flynn orders major changes to the way his operation works.
Al Pessin | The Pentagon 07 January 2010

The 26-page publication called Fixing Intel: A Blueprint for Making Intelligence Relevant in Afghanistan says military intelligence efforts in the country over the past eight years have been "token and ineffectual," and have not provided commanders or senior leaders the information they need. It says the current intelligence gathering and analysis processes "fail to advance the war strategy and, as a result, expose more troops to danger over the long run."

The paper's authors, led by Major General Michael Flynn, the chief of U.S. and NATO military intelligence in Afghanistan, say it should be considered a directive to his subordinates on how they should reform their operations. Among the orders - send more analysts into the field and gather more information about the Afghan people, rather than focusing almost exclusively on insurgent groups. The paper says until now, many military intelligence units have been "deaf" to the population-centered approach the new Afghanistan commander, General Stanley McChrystal, has ordered.

It was a surprise to many in Washington for a senior military intelligence officer to write such an extensive critique and directive for public consumption, and to have it published by a private organization, the Center for a New American Security. One Pentagon official called the move "unusual," "irregular" and "a bit peculiar."

Pentagon Press Secretary Geoff Morrell says Defense Secretary Robert Gates, who saw the report only after it was made public, "has real reservations" about the decision to have it published by a private group. But, Morrell says Gates "found the analysis 'brilliant' and the findings 'spot on.'"

"The report itself is exactly the type of candid, critical self-assessment that the secretary believes is a sign of a strong and healthy organization," he said.

Morrell says General Flynn was asking and answering an important question.

"How do you deploy intelligence assets to achieve your objectives?" He asked. "He obviously has some very strong opinions about it. He is someone, I know, who has the respect of the secretary and the senior military command within this building. And I think he is dealing with something that is clearly critical to our success in Afghanistan," Morrell added.

Analysts say making his views and plans public could enable General Flynn to influence not only his subordinates in the field, but also troops in training, their teachers and the broader community of experts and analysts.

And James Phillips at the Heritage Foundation says the report is both timely and correct.

"I think it was a valid criticism and I think it's a long-overdue effort to reform intelligence gathering and set things right," said Phillips.

Experts note that fighting an insurgency is more about protecting the people and earning their support than about killing enemy fighters. In such a fight, James Phillips says, military commanders need to understand local power structures and relationships, and also the culture and economics of an area.

"It's like developing new kinds of antenna to feel out local conditions," he explained. "Whereas in the past military intelligence was mostly concerned with the location of enemy units. Now, it's also interested in gathering information on local civilian populations that are threatened by those enemy units," he said.

President Barack Obama says his central goal in Afghanistan is to defeat the Al-Qaida terrorist network, the Taliban and related groups. But Michael O'Hanlon of the Brookings Institution says the president's new strategy also recognizes the need for the type of approach Generals Flynn and McChrystal are pursuing.

"He has recognized that to accomplish that goal you actually need to take a broader strategic approach on the ground, you need to work with the Afghan government to build up its ability to control its own territory," he said. "And that leads you down the path of building up the army and police, but also now doing what General Flynn needs to emphasize, which is understanding better and from the ground up the nature of the entire population," O'Hanlon said.

General Flynn and the paper's other two authors, a lower-ranking military officer and a senior Pentagon civilian intelligence official - both also in Afghanistan, did not respond to requests for interviews for this report. Their paper describes the intelligence community as the brains behind the might of a military force. They say it must build a system to deliver solid, broad-based, useful information all the way from the corners of Afghanistan to the power centers of Washington.

If it doesn't, they warn, the United States risks expending its energy fighting the wrong fight the wrong way, and perhaps losing a to an enemy it could "outsmart" if key leaders had the right information.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 89, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-28T12:45:00.000-07:00

I sat in the truck waiting for the sturm und drang to go away when someone tapped on my window. It was trucker-surfer, Ken. I rolled down the window, rain pouring in. “Hey man, how you doing?” I said to the man who stood at the door soaking wet in his bathing suit.

“I wanted to let you know I rejoined my American Legion Post yesterday. Your walk inspired me. “

“Good man. I’m really glad.”

“It was neat, there was a question about what I was interested in and I put supporting families of our wounded vets.”

“You’re going into action now. That’s all it takes.”

He went out to the water and flopped into the murky surf; another baptism gone well.

My walk was broken into two parts today per force of the rain and lightening that turned me back twice to the truck. There were few people exercising along the shore because the elements had taken control with a blackened sky and thunderous rumbling from above. The radio meteorologist said yesterday that seven people had been killed so far this year from lightening strikes so I played it safe.

There was plenty of lightening and rain to fill anyone’s excitement index for the day. It was a matter of taking breaks and waiting for the right moment to rush out to a sustained walk. I finally fulfilled my duty in the afternoon. For an hour, in between sets, I had the pleasure of listening to my neighbor at the KOA, Phil J., a Navy Vet, tell me his story.

Phil and his wife were quiet when I passed them each time before today. We nodded politely and said hello in muted voices but there hadn’t been any dialogue between us yet. When I came back from the beach Phil and his wife were sitting under their awning which was attached to their twenty foot trailer. Phil spoke first. “How was your walk today?”

“It was exciting but I had to cut it short.”

Phil’s wife excused herself saying that she had some packing to do as they were preparing to leave for North Carolina in the morning. Phil sat in a chair with his legs spread apart and his eyes facing the dirt under his feet. He told me that he and his wife live in Alpine, Texas where the Sheriff knew everyone in town. He got to talking about immigration and said, “I’m all for legal immigration. My mother came from Mexico and she took her classes and became a U.S. citizen in 1952. She really hated to hear about anyone who didn’t go through the process like she had.”

“I can see how that might have bothered her.”

“She was an incredible woman. Her family were Rancheros in Chihuahua. She was a Chavez. They owned the second largest Rancho in all of northern Mexico when she was a little girl.”

“Wow. That had to be one big ranch.”

“Hundreds of thousands of hectarias,” he answered in a mix of Spanish and English, using the metric measure of land.

“How about your father? How did they meet?”

“My father was an orphan who happened to be very smart. He graduated from university at nineteen with a degree in engineering. Dad met my mother at the University of New Mexico in the early nineteen twenties. They eloped.”

“That’s nice.”

He paused as he contemplated how much detail to launch into. He let it rip. “My mother’s mother married a German Jewish immigrant who came to Mexico at the turn of the century. He was a Wiesbrun. The rest of them were all killed in the Holocaust.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The last Wiesbrun girl actually escaped into Switzerland near the end of the war but the Swiss gave her up to the S.S. for a small sum.”

“So much for neutrality.”

Phil closed his eyes and continued his dissertation as I now sat across from him on a very uncomfortable picnic bench. “Grandfather was very successful and ended up owning the Bank of Chihuahua among other things. My grandmother hadn’t finished sixth grade but she demanded that all of her children learn French, English and one native Mexican language, Nahuatl. She lived to be one hundred and fourteen. I remember her as they would roll her out on a bed to talk to the grand kids.”

“I can see the picture. I love that she made everyone learn Nahuatl.”

“My father couldn’t find work as an engineer during the depression so he worked in a candy factory. Then grandma visited my mom and dad and started some of her mischief.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she was a woman of action and she had plenty of means. She asked my dad, “What does it take in this country to get a job as an engineer?” she asked him earnest.

“You have to have a Master’s Degree from either M.I.T. or Caltech.”

“Then that’s what you’ll do. Go to Caltech and tell them you want to get a Master’s Degree and I’ll pay for it. This candy business is foolishness,” she said.

Phil could have talked for hours and I would have let him but I had to get back to my walk or else. He continued anyway as I walked to the truck to get a drink or a handful of peanuts. At times I would get up from the hard bench to stretch and Phil kept on tickin’ like a Timex. Gnats whirred around his head and occasionally he would swat them but he never lost his train of thought.

Thunder and lightning crashed all around us and darkened the skies at least three different times during the monologue but I was transfixed and he was in a kind of family historical orbit that kept pulling old stories out of the thick, storm wrecked air.

Finally, Phil told me the story of how Pancho Villa had harassed the Hacendados of Chihuahua; his ancestors. This was a story with which I had some familiarity, but not this part. “My great uncle Roberto Chavez was actually shot by a firing squad when he was discovered on a train by Villa. His general wanted my great uncle’s uniform so they lined him up and shot him and five others that day.”

“Pancho was one bad hombre,” I said squeezing in a response.

He continued of course. “An old Indian woman scavenged through the bodies looking for anything left behind by Villa’s men and she found Roberto alive. He lived his whole life with a bullet lodged in his neck and died in his eighties.”

“Incredible.”

Gathering himself for a finale of sorts, Phil began to tie the bow of the story. “Some years later, Roberto’s son organized a group of men to help him assassinate Villa at Parral. They had their intelligence and they waited for Villa to come into town driving his Ford Roadster which he drove with the top down.”

I sat there wondering why I hadn’t brought a tape recorder with me on the trip. Phil had set the hook, now he was about to reel me in.

“Gabriel stood in the window of the bank as his men waited across the bridge over the creek at the end of town. Villa drove into town as predicted with the top down. He gave the sign and the men across the bridge opened fire on Pancho Villa, riddling him with fifty caliber bullets. Gabriel, it is said, hopped onto the running board, put his 1911 Colt to the top of Villa’s head and let off a final shot.”

Generally my sentiments run with the campesinos especially where Mexico is concerned but Phil told his story with such genuine family pride that I could listen to it with great relish.

Army Surgeons have been doing incredible work near the battle field since the War in Afghanistan began. This featured doctor is a stud who went to Afghanistan to do top quality surgery where it is needed most. Dr. Richard Slusher and his partner, Dr. Kenneth Azarow are the first to see their patients after a field medic. You can only imagine what comes next.

Originally Published: 4/18/2007 3:07:00 PM
Army Doctors Saving Lives in Afghanistan
From Football Field to the Battlefield: Army Surgeons Now Saving Lives in Afghanistan
________________________________________
By DENIS D. GRAY Associated Press Writer
The Associated Press

QALAT, Afghanistan -

U.S. Capt. Richard M. Slusher of 541st Forward Surgical Team, operates on a wounded Afghan soldier at a U.S. military field hospital in Lagman, southeastern Afghanistan, Wednesday, April 11, 2007. It was a dream job for a sports medicine specialist

It was a dream job for a sports medicine specialist: repairing the battered knees and shoulders of the Cincinnati Bengals and other athletes. Major trauma was defined as missing a season to injury. Two years later in Afghanistan, Capt. Richard M. Slusher doesn't get to practice his much-loved specialty. The trauma he confronts now carries the gravity of life or death. One recent morning, Slusher could do nothing to save an 8-year-old boy, carried in after his brain was shattered by a bomb unexploded ordnance litters the landscape here.

Hours earlier, Slusher and a fellow surgeon, Col. Kenneth Azarow, amputated the legs of an Afghan policeman scythed down by a roadside bomb. Four others lay nearby, riddled with shrapnel. A sixth was dead.

It's a long way from small incision, computer-guided arthroscopic surgery on a linebacker's knee to "blood, tissue, bones, everything blowing up in your face."

"I'm not used to people dying on me," the 37-year-old orthopedic surgeon said. "I'm seeing things I've never seen in my career. I've done more amputations in six months here than in my whole five years of residency," Slusher said.

And things aren't likely to ease up during the second half of his yearlong tour with the U.S. Army's 541st Forward Surgical Team.

"I expect this will be a very busy spring and summer. We're getting ready," said Azarow, echoing warnings that Taliban insurgents soon will intensify ambushes, raids and bombings in Zabul province and other areas.

The 10-man unit is half the size of a standard Army surgical team. It treats U.S., coalition and Afghan military personnel as well as civilians. "Anyone who needs our help," Azarow said.

A U.S. soldier seriously wounded at one of Zabul's remote bases can be flown by helicopter to the team at Qalat, the provincial capital, and within an hour undergo surgery and be airlifted out, first to the coalition air base at Kandahar and then to a major military hospital in Germany. All within 24 hours.

"We don't have the capability to support a critically injured patient for more than a couple of hours," Azarow said. "Here, we do life and limb-sparing surgery stop bleeding, control contamination, stabilize the patient."

As a comment on the medical situation in the dirt-poor province, Azarow said his understaffed unit, housed in two small rooms, is the most sophisticated facility in Zabul.

The 47-year-old from Tacoma, Wash., says the biggest fear after losing a patient is that the unit will be overwhelmed by casualties. That's nearly happened several times.

In February, nine seriously injured soldiers were rushed in from the crash in Zabul of a U.S. Chinook helicopter in which eight troops died. Within eight hours, all nine, including ones with severed spinal cords and severe trauma, were evacuated and survived.

More recently, 17 Afghan soldiers, caught in a deadly Taliban ambush, swamped the facility. Then the only surgeon, Azarow rapidly operated on three of the critically wounded while outsiders at the base helicopter fuelers, Dutch communication specialists, Romanian medics reinforced his overtaxed men.

"If you don't work as a team you are truly lost," said Azarow, one of only two pediatric surgeons among the roughly 4,200 physicians on active U.S. Army duty. Twenty-six doctors are serving in Afghanistan.

Almost everyone on the team comes from an airborne unit, carrying some of the esprit and style of elite paratroopers, whom Slusher doctored at Fort Bragg, N.C., on his last assignment. ("An 18,000-man football team, they're crazy," he said.)

Prior to that, the regular U.S. Army officer had his year in the field of dreams a break from normal Army duty for a sports medicine fellowship with the NFL football team and others in Cincinnati. Slusher loved it so much that after 17 years in the service he is planning to retire and go into a private sports medicine practice.

"I assisted in many of the surgeries that got some of the players back on the field. That was a very satisfying experience for me to see a person get back to doing what they enjoy doing," he said. "The experience of getting a soldier back on the battlefield is also the same. Seeing a child injured and getting him or her back to their family is more gratifying."

Slusher doesn't regret the year in Afghanistan, although he and Azarow say recruitment and retention of doctors has become harder because of the long deployments to overseas war zones.

"Most folks are fine with their initial deployment, it is the second and third that become extremely difficult for a variety of reasons, some personal and some professional," Azarow said.

To ensure it has enough medical personnel, the Army is offering bonuses and helps pay off student loans in exchange for commitments. For example, the National Guard is offering health care professionals $30,000 in bonuses for three-year commitments.

To ease tensions, "we goof off, we play around. But we do the job," Slusher said, donning a Goofy hat his 5-year-old son gave him on a trip to Disney World while he was on leave two weeks earlier. Wearing the hat, the burly, athletic doctor bounces into the ward to prepare for the incoming wounded policemen.

Slusher unwraps the bandaged legs of the most severely wounded. Both are a mash of shredded flesh, tendons and exposed bones. A foot dangles on the end of the victim's left leg, and Slusher cuts if off with a scalpel, placing it in a blue plastic wash bowl.

"Come Sail with Me," "American Woman" and 1970s rock pulsates from speakers connected to an iPod. Male nurses and assistants mix brisk efficiency and banter.

Then a grinding sound cuts through the room as Slusher and Azarow bend over the patient, neatly amputating both his legs below the knee with a wire saw.

All five that night are saved.

"Unless you come to us totally mangled, destined to die, you are not going to die," Slusher said. "This is our storming the hill, taking the objective. We are proud of that."

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Day 88, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-27T17:31:00.000-07:00

The monitor on my laptop lit up the inside of my truck with a blue yahoo glow as I brewed the first of several cups of coffee. This morning felt cooler at 4:00AM than most mornings lately so I was encouraged that an early start meant good conditions for the walk. The oatmeal tasted suspiciously like detergent which it tends to when I’m feeling more like a waffle and eggs. I forced it down with raisins and a healthy swirl of honey.

My conversations with folks down here seem to drift towards their depression over the Oil Spill. I enjoyed talking to a teacher who with her husband and son has been using their fishing boat to help in the offshore side of the clean up in local Alabama waters. She told me her men keep telling her to stop crying when they’re out on the water but she says she can’t stop. “I just go down below decks and pretend I’m grabbing equipment and I let the tears flow.”

The teacher's husband is an iron worker so she says the hot work out on the water doesn’t bother him. She is an elementary school teacher back home. They are getting paid by some fund but the teacher says the work is very hard and dirty and equally depressing because of the magnitude of the oil mass. “Sometimes we see long strands of red oil floating like small islands. We’re doing the best we can but it is tough going.” She and her husband have just finished the one month mark down here in Baldwin County.

I arrived at a public parking lot at the beach in Perdido. An old surfer, dripping wet, walked to his car in his bare feet over the coral like gravel covering the lot. He looked like a man passing the hot coal test. His board, however was still in its cover latched to the top of his car.

“No surf this morning?” I asked.

“No, I thought there would be something from that storm off to the west but it didn’t happen.”

The back of my truck was open so I could change shoes. He looked in and saw the catastrophe inside with all my gear and refuse. “You’ve been doing some serious traveling I can see,” he said.

“I have been doing some serious walking across the country.”

“No kidding?”

“I’m just about finished with a two thousand mile walk for Fisher House and the families of wounded vets.”

We got to talking about the walk and he was extremely interested in my methods and my shoes. I showed him a couple of pairs and then I put on my boots which he took to be very special. “My name is Ken, by the way.” I shook his hand and told him my name and gave him a Fisher House card. “Let me take a look at those fancy boots,” he said as he inspected the black bombers.

“I don’t use them much but today I wanted more support for my arches.”

“I’m a long haul trucker. Man, I’ll never get rid of this gut unless I start doing something like this,” he said as he grabbed rolls of fat in both hands.

“The gut is the last thing to go,” I said which I’m sure buoyed his spirits.

“I hear that. Just look at this thing.” I couldn’t miss it, of course, Ken was standing in his bathing suit, fresh out of the water. We talked about walking and surfing and how his job is driving and eating, and more driving and more eating. I assured him that many occupations are lousy, then I marched off toward the bridge east of Gulf Shores.

Today was the Day of Prayer for Alabama as designed by Governor Riley. Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi joined in to “ask for God’s blessings” as Governor Riley framed the message. In talking with so many people from these states, it is clear that there is a massive state of depression that the spill happened, that nothing is being allowed to be done, and that nobody has stepped in to say, “Let’s roll up our sleeves now. I am here to help y’all get ‘er done.” The emotion is absolutely palpable when you meet people from Brownsville to Pensicola. Everyone wanted to help in some way but they were sad, and the frustration was building.

During the walk I noticed several Navy pilot types running along my route. These were all clean cut, well chiseled men wearing Navy caps and T-shirts and many sported camel-backs for hydration. Naval aviation is a big part of this area’s identity and I can see that they have wonderful local support.

One couple here at the KOA spent the whole day at the Pensicola Aviation Museum. The husband warned me after our conversation, “If you got a gun leave it here because they will arrest you if they find it in your vehicle. They pulled one guy over and hauled him off.”

I told him that if I got the chance I would check out the museum and stow my pistol with the management here if they allowed me to. He added, “We’re from Texas so naturally we have guns with us at all times. I’m glad I thought of taking care of that before we went to the base today.”

My routine in Lillian has been to complete my walk, shower, get some lunch then drive over to Gulf Shores on U.S. 98 and Cr 20. Going west on 98 is a treat because it is so beautiful. There are specialty farms growing blueberries, making local cheeses, and farmer’s markets selling everything from herbs to watermelons. And there are brackish creeks to pass over with mysterious black waters that drain slowly into the many local bays and eventually the Gulf of Mexico. Signs offer Pier Construction, Deep Sea Fishing, Specialty Welding, and Massage.

On Cr 20 you can stop in for a quick tanning session. I would not recommend it though because the structure is a metal A-frame. I envision the owner asking, “You got your clothes off yet cause I’m about to flip the switch.”

I think a better use of the building would be to irradiate produce on the way home from the outdoor markets. A tanning booth would work just fine to cut down on the cases of salmonella poisoning. The customer could throw her produce into the A-frame and the proprietor would yell, “Fire in the hole.”

Emotions run strong as families prepare for the deployment of loved ones to a war zone. The New York Times is running a series on how families and individuals cope with an impending deployment. Here is an excerpt I found fascinating:

A YEAR AT WAR

One Battalion’s Wrenching Deployment to Afghanistan
Damon Winter/The New York Times
Sgt. Brian Keith with his wife, Sara, and their son, Stephen, 6 months, just before Sergeant Keith deployed to Afghanistan with other troops from Fort Drum, N.Y.

By JAMES DAO
Published: June 26, 2010

Pvt. Johnnie Stevenson spent his final hours at Fort Drum alone, trying to put his game face on. He played some Ludacris on his iPod, then turned it off. He unpacked his 72-hour bag, then repacked it. Did he have enough toothpaste and spare socks? Had he paid his bills? Was he ready for war? For a year?

A Year at War
Leaving the Family Behind

This article is the first in a series chronicling the yearlong deployment of the First Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment, based in Kunduz Province, Afghanistan. The series will chronicle the battalion’s part in the surge in northern Afghanistan and the impact of war on individual soldiers and their families back home.

Multimedia
Interactive Feature
A Year at War

Damon Winter/The New York Times
FLYING MILITARY CLASS From late March until mid-April, the First Battalion, 87th Infantry moved in waves through Germany, Kyrgyzstan and Kuwait to a small airstrip about 150 miles north of Kabul.

Capt. Adrian Bonenberger took a drive through the farmland of northern New York to absorb one last view of the St. Lawrence River. To drink one last cup of coffee at the Lyric Bistro in Clayton. To savor one last moment of real peace and quiet before heading to Afghanistan. For a year.

Sgt. Tamara Sullivan pulled out her cellphone charger and braced for a night of tears. She called her children in North Carolina, ages 3 and 1, and told them she would soon be going to work in a place called Afghanistan. For a year. She reminded her husband to send her their artwork. She cried, hung up, called him back and cried some more.

“I asked for him to mail me those pictures, those little sloppy ones,” she said. “I want to see what my children’s hands touched, because I won’t be able to touch them.”

These are the faces of the new American surge in Afghanistan. For the next year, the First Battalion, 87th Infantry of the 10th Mountain Division from Fort Drum, N.Y., will be living, working and fighting in the fertile northern plains of Afghanistan, part of the additional 30,000 troops who will make up the backbone of President Obama’s plan for ending the nine-year war.

The president said last week that the strategy — which calls for securing population centers, reducing civilian casualties and strengthening the Afghan police and army — would continue despite his firing the top Afghanistan war commander, Gen. Stanley A. McChrystal.

In the increasingly restive provinces of Kunduz and Baghlan, the 1-87 will be opening a new front and waging a different kind of war. Its job will be to train the local police, secure a vital highway to Central Asia and expand the shaky writ of President Hamid Karzai’s government in the north.

The soldiers will be living with the police in mud-walled outposts and conducting daily foot patrols alongside them into contested areas. The goal is to build public support for the police — no simple task, given its reputation for corruption and ineffectiveness.

Over the course of the next year, The New York Times will be visiting the battalion to chronicle its part in the surge and explore the strains of deployment on soldiers, many fresh out of basic training, others on their fifth combat tour in nine years.

If their mission cannot succeed in the relatively stable north, the policy seems unlikely to work anywhere in Afghanistan.

The battalion is the first large American military unit to be based in these provinces since the war began, and the troops expect to be challenged by emboldened insurgent forces that have been ambushing police checkpoints, vandalizing schools, mining roads and extorting merchants with growing regularity.

Lt. Col. Russell Lewis, the battalion commander, said that for most of the war, troops with the North Atlantic Treaty Organization had not seriously contested Taliban-controlled areas in the north. That, he said, is about to change.

The battalion, which began moving to Afghanistan in March, will be joined by late summer by an aviation brigade with transport and assault helicopters that will allow them to conduct missions deep into insurgent strongholds, which fuels talk of a possible offensive by fall.

“It will get hotter before it gets better,” Colonel Lewis said.

The deployment will also test the emotional mettle of soldiers and their families. Across eight time zones and 6,500 miles, linked by the fragile threads of the Internet and cellular technology, those soldiers will counsel children, comfort parents, manage marriages and mourn deaths back home, even as they struggle with loneliness, boredom and fear in Afghanistan.

They are almost all men, with a small attachment of women in noninfantry jobs. Many are begging to see combat. Others dread the prospect.

Specialist Samuel Michalik, a 24-year-old, single infantryman from Tennessee on his first deployment, offered one perspective.

“I think it’s safe to say that most people would want to see some action — they don’t want to be there and just be sitting around,” he said before the deployment.

“If it’s my time to die or get injured, whatnot, I think then, God’s going to allow that. I’m at peace with that.”

Sgt. First Class Brian Eisch, a 35-year-old single parent of two boys from Wisconsin, also on his first deployment, voiced a different view.

“If we are here for a year and don’t fire one round, I’m happy,” the sergeant said. “I’ve got two boys waiting for me that I want to go back home and be a dad to.”

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 87, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-26T15:57:00.000-07:00

Take It Back
by Jack Bruce and Pete Brown (Excerpt)

Take it back, take it back, take that thing right out of here.
Right away, far away, take that thing right out of here.

Don't let them take me to where streams are red.
I want to stay here and sleep in my own bed.
Need all your loving, long blonde hair,
Don't let them take me 'cause I'm easily scared.
Take it back, take it back, take that thing right out of here...

I had heard that the walking on Pensicola Beach, Florida would be perfect for my designs. I had to tame the horses a bit though as I awoke at 3:22 AM ready to storm the Bastille. I went step by step through my routine and drew out the coffee brewing and sipping as long as I could. I was like the alcoholic who said, “It’s Happy Hour somewhere.” My happy hour had arrived and so I tidied the campsite, ate my mush, and put on some very clean and comfortable socks for a grinder at the water’s edge.

I drove east on U.S. 98 the entire distance and but for the crossing of four bridges, the trip was fairly straight forward. I pulled into an empty parking lot under the glow of lights that had to really irritate any astronomers in the region. The sun hadn’t dared show herself yet so I waited and listened to music and tinkered with the laptop. One of Pensicola’s finest rolled by very slowly trying to determine whether I meant harm to the fair citizens of this decidedly Navy town. I confidently nodded to the officer who pretended not to be looking at me.

When the light began to illuminate the world I tucked in my shirt tale, threw on my ruck and started west toward the opening of Pensicola Bay. The sand made a crunching sound that fine sand always makes. Usually I felt that crunch under bare feet but this morning I started the walk with shoes on. I stood under the new fishing pier and rejoiced at being there at that moment as a fragmented wave lapped to shore. Without direct light the wave looked blue-black and as it collapsed onto the sand it breathed a sort of sigh.

Shortly after my walk began on the soft sand I realized it was silly to keep the running shoes on. I took them off and tied their laces together to a latch on my ruck. I thought, “Ahhhh, I remember that feeling.” By contrast to the temperature I was accustomed to for weeks, the wet sand and the rising tide cooled me beyond all expectation. There was very little risk and great reward for choosing to visit Pensicola Beach.

The workers had marched by the score to staging tents for miles along the west side of the beach. I saw the oil patties and balls that had gathered over night with the tide. There was also an arrival of chopped up sea lettuce. Whole sections of beach had the lettuce-green algae coming ashore with the advancing tide. I don’t know if this is a seasonal occurrence, a regular occurrence or something strange for the location, but the plant looked very much like what the women of El Rosario harvested at low tide on Punta Baja.

I take it back. My first impression of the Oil Spill cleanup people was all wrong. Those men and women were working like dogs out under a very hot sun this morning and they have been doing that every day for over a month in the Gulf Coast area. There were reddish-orange, and coffee colored oil blobs all along the high tide mark at Pensacola Beach. Tents had been set up for the workers to take mini-breaks from the raking and scooping that they did for hours. But relief must have been short lived and inadequate in the face of that kind of manual labor.

One of the workers turned toward me as he wielded a shovel full of red-brown oil cake into a plastic bag. “How are you doing, sir?”

“I’m doing fine. It looks like you have your hands full.”

“We do that but I think we can handle it.”

“I’ll bet you can,” I said as the man smiled. “So what is this stuff like to work with? It looks kind of like stale angel food cake.”

“We’re getting the hang of it pretty well. Yesterday, every bit of it smelled like motor oil. Today it smelled like chocolate.”

“I’ll bet you’d rather have the chocolate smell.”

“No doubt.”

“Thanks for doing such a good job, man. This is a beautiful beach.”
He kept shoveling and said, “I sure do appreciate that. You have a good day, sir.”

“You too. And drink lots of water!” I warned. The man nodded.

I walked on the beach with maybe ten other tourists who wanted to get an early start on the day at the beach. A mother and her grown daughter gathered pieces of sand dollars that resembled pieces of pottery more than the object of their desire. Ours eyes met and we struck up a conversation. “Isn’t it a shame?” the mother asked me as I swung off my ruck and rested it on the sand.

“It is a shame. What a perfect spot.”

“Oh, it is,” said the daughter. She thumbed her cell phone and said, “Here, you have to see this ketchup bottle in the oil. It’s really a weird shot.”

As the daughter fiddled with the phone the mother asked me, “You look like you’re walking a long way. What are you doing?”

I told her about the Walk for Warriors and Fisher House. “My husband is a veteran,” she said with a look like she just remembered something. “Our best friends have a son who lost a leg in Iraq. Those are the people who brought them to Walter Reed I think. That’s a great thing to support,” she said with increasing enthusiasm.

Her daughter finally found the photo of the bottle and the red oil. “Look, isn’t that a cool picture?”

“Very strange, but cool.” Thanks for sharing that. I need to keep my pace so I thanked them, wished them well and turned up the beach again. About two hours later, as I walked back toward the pier, the mother caught sight of me from the water and yelled and waved, “That’s our man! Hi!” The daughter waved and yelled hello too.

It is one thing to walk on concrete or packed sand and quite another to walk for nearly six hours in soft or sinking sand. This morning was beautiful and full of all of the sensations I had yearned for but it also was a strenuous bit of exercise. My right arch was sore from yesterday’s walk so walking barefoot in the soft sand was very therapeutic. But the amount of energy it took to wade through wet sand added approximately 50% to the effort.

My legs used muscles that were not normally required to walk over compacted earth. At the end, my foot wasn’t sore anymore and my soul was dancing a jig on the white sand so I had no regrets. When the walk wound down I noticed that the population of the beach had grown from ten people to ten thousand. I must have blinked.

If you ask Chief Petty Officer Jeremy K. Torrisi, he would say, “It’s all about the team.” Navy and Marine Corps Corpsmen risk their lives every day in combat. They are always a part of a larger team just as is any Marine or soldier. The risks are shared by all and the results are shared by all. But the actions of individuals make the difference when the bullits fly.

MARSOC Corpsman Receives Silver Star Medal for Heroics in Afghanistan
Date: 03.03.2010 | Story by Cpl. Richard Blumenstein
Posted on Wednesday, March 03, 2010 8:50:13 AM by Recon Dad

MARINE CORPS BASE CAMP LEJEUNE, N.C. — "You hear your buddies go down ...You close your eyes... You think about everything ... You hear you're the only other corpsman. What would you do?"

Chief Petty Officer Jeremy K. Torrisi, a hospital corpsman with U.S. Marine Corps Forces, Special Operations Command, faced that question, June 26, 2008 in the mountains of Afghanistan during the fiercest firefight of his life. Torrisi saved the lives of four of his comrades and received the Silver Star Medal at the Court House Bay Gymnasium, Jan 21.

So far, one Navy Cross, two Silver Star Medals, and two Bronze Star Medals with combat distinguishing devices have been awarded in the battle's aftermath.

"I'm the one getting recognized today, but everybody knows, I hope, the story that went down that day it wasn't one person, it wasn't two, it wasn't three, it was everybody," Torrisi said during the award ceremony. "Everybody doing their part. We have a lot of guys around today walking, talking, and breathing because of that. I was just part of the well-oiled machine that we were."

The Battle

On June 26, 2008, two Marine Special Operations Teams with 2d Marine Special Operation Battalion, MARSOC, and Afghan national army soldiers set out on a mission to locate a high value target in the mountains of Afghanistan.

After driving across the desert, the teams came to a draw surrounded on each side by mountains. MSOT 1 pushed into the narrow draw with two tactical vehicles and an additional tactical vehicle from MSOT 2. The forward vehicle of the team encountered a cave system with two abandoned cars parked in front.

The team's vehicles spread out inside the draw. The team dismounted from their vehicles and used their standard operating procedures to insure the vehicles were not rigged to explode; they were not, according to Torrisi, who was with MSOT 2.
That's when two "ranging shots" gave way to a hail of gunfire that literally seemed to rain down on the team's position, according to Torrisi.

"I've never heard gunfire like that before," Torrisi said. "It was like four or five guys just depressing on a [M2 50. caliber machine gun] at once."
The bullets shot into the antennas, doors, windows, gun turrets, vehicles, engine blocks, and tires.

"In the first four to five minutes we received roughly four to five casualties," Torrisi said.

Among them was Sgt. Samuel E. Schoenheit, an operator with MARSOC and now a staff sergeant.

Schoenheit and Sgt. Carlos Bolanos, the MSOT 1 communications chief, were in the second vehicle roughly 50 meters away from the forward most vehicle. Both sergeants received Bronze Stars with combat distinguishing devices, for their actions in the firefight.

As the gunfire rained down on their position the sergeants immediately began laying down cover fire in hopes the Marines further on the ground would be able to take cover. Bolanos jumped from the driver seat to man a M240G machine gun and sprayed rounds into the mountainside while Schoenheit fired a barrage of Mark 47 Striker 40 automatic grenade launcher rounds.

"When he's running out of ammo, I'm shooting and when I'm down he's shooting, we're talking guns," Bolanos said.

The Marines received the order to move forward. Bolanos exposed himself to the enemy's line of fire to move closer to the forward vehicle. He jumped out of the vehicle and the two sergeants resumed laying fire into the mountainside.
However, the enemy positions seemed impossible to find, and their fire was deadly accurate.

A single shot tore though Schoenheit's night vision goggles and Kevlar helmet, then split and entered his skull.

"My bell was rung pretty good," Schoenheit said. "At first I blacked out momentarily in the turret and woke up in the truck. In my mind I'm thinking I'm fine, I'm fine, but my ability to speak was shut down."

Bolanos pulled Schoenheit into a safe position in the truck and bandaged his head wound. Another Marine ran back to the vehicle to take up the automatic grenade launcher and was then shot through the hand and shoulder. Bolanos pulled him into the vehicle.

Meanwhile, Gunnery Sgt. John S. Mosser and Maj. Dan Strelkauskas, then a captain and team leader, were dealing with mounting injuries and relentless fire on the ground near the cave system. Mosser was awarded the Navy Cross and Strelkauskas received a Silver Star Medal for their actions that day. Over the radio, Mosser, ordered no one else enter the draw.

"He was basically saying over the radio, 'nobody else comes in. If anybody else comes in you're going to die,'" Torrisi said. Then a bullet ripped through the only other corpsman on the ground, piercing his lungs and other vital organs.

"That's when I heard [the other corpsman] was injured. ... They don't have any other corpsmen in there... You hear your buddies go down ...You close your eyes... You think about everything ... You hear you're the only other corpsman. What would you do?" Torrisi said. Torrisi was in the trunk of a MSOT 2 vehicle that was heading toward the draw to provide additional support. However, Mosser's orders and the rugged terrain halted them. Torrisi jumped out of the vehicle and sprinted 50 meters through the enemy's line of fire to the rearward vehicle. He addressed the Marines' wounds and then sprinted another 50-75 meters to Bolanos' and Schoenheit's vehicle.

"The vehicle was getting pinged like it was cool, because they saw me run up," Torrisi said.

Bullets entered the inside of the vehicle from the turret and windows. Immersed in rapid sniper fire, and unable to provide Schoenheit care, Torrisi did something a little crazy to end the snipers assault on their position.

"I launched a bunch of 203 rounds [grenade rounds fired from an M203 grenade launcher mounted on the underside of a service rifle] up through the turret from my sitting position, probably not the smartest thing, but it stopped the fire," Torrisi said. Torrisi administered aid and then ordered Bolanos to back the vehicle to a safer location. The boulders made navigating though the draw difficult, and slowing down or turning around was impossible, Bolanos said.

"There was no maneuvering forward, just backward. There was just one path in and one path out," Bolanos said.

Torrisi then fireman-carried Schoenheit the rest of the way to the rearward vehicle. Three of the wounded Marines where evacuated by air support.

As the firefight raged on, Torrisi found himself with seven other Marines taking cover tightly along the side of the forwardmost vehicle. Torrisi was shot in the leg while administering aid to the wounded corpsman. He refused aid until the corpsman's wounds were addressed. With the Marines pinned down, Moser exposed himself to enemy fire to gather more accurate grid coordinates on the enemy's position. He then radioed in the grid coordinates and air support dropped a barrage of bombs, distracting the enemy.

Three Marines and Torrisi took the opportunity to carry the wounded corpsman to the cave system. The Marine driving the forward-most vehicle smashed it into one of the abandoned cars to clear a path. The vehicles pulled in, and the Marines loaded their wounded into the vehicles and headed to a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter that landed inside the danger zone. The severely wounded were evacuated. The Marines then pulled out of the draw, to a safe location where the rest of the wounded Marines where evacuated.

"It sounds cheesy, but we don't do it for the medals," Bolanos said. "We don't do it for the awards. We do it for each other and to make sure we come back safe and sound."

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 86, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-25T14:55:00.000-07:00

Just when you think you’re getting the hang of something, another thing comes along and shows you that you’re really just so-so. I sneaked a parking place at 5:00AM with some strategic planning in mind. I drove the coast route, Highway 182-Florabama (Really, that's what they call this area), to find a restaurant that might serve good food. I based the selection on the size of the parking lot and whether I liked the look of the building. I chose the Shrimp Basket across the street from the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Location, location...

I hand wrote a note to the proprietor and left it wedged between her front doors. It said, “Dear Shrimp Basketeer, I am walking across the country for wounded veterans and I needed a place to park where after my walk I could gorge on a basket of fresh shrimp. Please call me if this arrangement does not work for you. She never called and was waiting for me when I arrived. She was actually a little curt but her waitresses were very accommodating and the shrimp was out of this world. I apologized for smelling so rank, even though I had changed shirts quickly before entering the restaurant.

The morning was sublime. I could have been in Paris or Dzibilchaltun or Perdido Beach, it was morning and I was drinking it up. The lights were washed out with a sickly metallic glow that probably had just the right period of oscillation to cause seizures. Somehow I was immune to that potential problem. No one was up yet but for a few delivery folks in box trucks. The sun hadn’t yet shone but I had enough light to stand at the water’s edge for a deep breath of her.

Much of my life from birth on has been spent standing at the water’s edge: any water. I remembered an early visual snip of a fat perch giving birth on our patio during a storm at Malibu Colony. It must have been an imprinting moment for I search to repeat it as often as I can. The waves came out of the east and that alone made me want to call a friend just to announce, “Swells out of the east at six inches with three second intervals.”

The morning air had heft and could be felt as well as tasted. I stood for quite some time enjoying the dancing light of a shrimp boat moored close offshore, probably awaiting some Papal decree allowing him to earn a living once again. I took off my running shoes of course. I wanted to feel the grains of sand under my feet and between my toes. The sand was warm like a body and felt more like fabric than the sands I know well. But it was sand and I was favored by the gods to have the chance to dip my toes in the troubled Gulf of Mexico.

I understand baptism. Certainly, I understand the baptism that we experience as Christians but there are other forms of the blessed act that are as deep and meaningful for some. Some men are baptized every day. They wake at three, stuff their bags, drive their trucks to the water and pray that today will be bountiful, and that God will allow them one more chance. In that moment, as the salty water flows off their brows and the bills of their hats, they are sinners no more. And the church that they frequent understands this and is glad that they have a place to go and be free.

As I brushed off the sand on my feet a blue bus arrived at the public parking lot that I had stumbled into for my baptism in the Gulf. Sleepy looking men and some women descended from the bus. They all wore the same green T-shirt that had printed on it,

“QUALIFIED COMMUNITY RESPONDERS”

I knew they had to be a part of the “cleanup”. I approached a man who looked like he was in charge. He stood by the bus and wore one of those government Photo Identification Cards on a string around his neck that all government contractors wear. “Good morning. How you doing? Are you here to help clean up the spill?”

“Yessir,” he said with some apparent reticence.

“Is there much oil yet? Or is it the little tar balls?”

“We have been cleaning the shoreline of tar for over a month now. It’s not such a small job.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like an easy job. I wish you all the best of luck.”

“Yes sir, I think we’ll put a dent in it anyway.”

“I sure hope so for these people’s sake. They’re getting, ummm, impatient.” The man nodded in the affirmative and pursed his lips to keep from screaming.

Nothing could have gotten me down. I had been baptized with a trickle of Gulf of Mexico water sprinkled reverently on the top of my head. So I shrugged off the woes of a million Gulf inhabitants for a moment so I could concentrate on the rest of the long walk that lay ahead.

After about a half hour or so of enjoying the State Reserves that were intermingled with large beach homes and upscale beach front condo complexes, I noticed another set of blue buses. I approached the “who-do” among the workers and tried to initiate a conversation. “Good morning, sir. Another day’s clean up.”

The thick necked man stood eye to eye with me with no humor and no interest in engaging me in any kind of conversation. I was not deterred by his demeanor. “Hey, would it be okay if I got a picture with some of the guys?”

“No. No picture,” he said as he turned to a co-supervisor who sat in his pickup writing some notes on a tablet.

“Come on. It would be fun,” I said knowing that I was jerking his chain by then. The guy looked like he wanted to swing on me for asking to take a picture. I kind of hoped he had by that point. I didn’t like him much either and we had just met. As I moved on I could see that none of the blue buses had license plates. A brown bus had Mississippi plates. I couldn’t make anything out of that, it was only an observation and I was moving.

When I began my story I started with that crack about thinking you’re pretty hot stuff and then… Well I had one of those moments when I was gliding on the surface of the pavement like a skater. My gate was smooth and my pace was quick and steady. Then it happened as it happened during my training leading up to the “Walk”.

A woman past me wearing Oakland Raider colors: The Black and Silver. She had forty inch legs and must have known I was a Charger fan. She smoked me bad. I was tempted to say something stupid but I settled for thinking it.

I was so relieved when the Raiderette did an about face after only two miles. I took it all back when she waved at me with this kind of coquettish limp wrist action. “You slut,” I thought about myself. “Good morning. Nice day for a walk…” Who’s the slut now? Did I mention she had forty inch legs? I thought, “Remember the baptism and all that?” I think that stuff about there being a living devil might be true.

On my way back from the Gulf Shores area I thought I saw the boss man who wanted a shot at my chin. I walked full speed past his truck. He was down at the beach or somewhere. It didn’t matter, I was walking and sweating and thinking a blue streak. I reached the public parking lot again just short of six hours after I had left it.

The workers were gathered around and I stood close to one man whose eyes were fixed upon a helicopter that flew overhead. He yelled to a friend leaning against the inside of the box truck, “See that?” Did you see that? That’s an L-3 Lockheed. I used to work on those.” The man nodded disinterestedly as he sipped on a 20 ounce soft drink.

The enthralled man continued anyway, “When I worked with the 10th Mountain Division guys…”

I preempted the man to hear more of what he had to say first hand, “Hey man? Did you mention the 10th Mountain Division?” I walked closer to talk with the man.

“How you doin'?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Were you in the 10th Mountain?”

“Naw, but I used to train them guys and Special Forces pilots on the instruments of those Lockheed jobs. Thirty miles over there is where these Special Forces guys fly.”

“So, how long have you been out of the Army?” I said as I realized I was dripping so much sweat it was drooling off my shorts.

“I got out in ’95. I wish I could have worked on those AC-130 Gunships, man. They got 105’s and forty-cals, and…” he started to say much more but was grabbed by a co-worker. “Hey, it was good talking to you man.”

Seeing his official name tag, I answered, “You too, Gerry. Good luck, man.”
Then I walked across the street and had a delicious shrimp basket with angel hair pasta and a beer from the tap. As I sat watching a silent sports channel on the television I remembered that if it is at all possible, it is always good to start the day with a baptism in warm salty water.

I could see when I was talking to Gerry the ex-soldier, helicopter maintenance tech, and current Gulf clean up “Responder”, that his love for helicopters was still in him.

I could see when I was talking to Gerry the ex-soldier, helicopter maintenance tech, and current Gulf clean up “Responder”, that his love for helicopters was still in him. I looked for a story of bravery and skill as exhibited by a helicopter group or individuals in Afghanistan. I give you Lt. Col. Mike Morgan and his band of professional fliers in the U.S. Army-

82nd Combat Aviation Brigade pilots earn Silver Star
Mar 12, 2010
By Sgt. 1st Class Shannon Wright/82nd CAB, 82nd Abn. Div., TF Pegasus PAO

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates presents the Silver Star to Lt. Col. Mike Morgan, an OH-58 Kiowa Warrior helicopter pilot, Tuesday at Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan. Morgan is the commander of 1st Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment, 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade.
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD, Afghanistan -- Two pilots serving with the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division, in Kandahar, Afghanistan, earned the Silver Star, the nation's third highest war-time medal for valor.

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates presented the awards to Lt. Col Mike Morgan, the commander of 1st Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment (Task Force Saber), and Chief Warrant Officer James Woolley, a Chinook pilot assigned to 3rd Battalion, 82nd Aviation Regiment (TF Talon), in front of the Talon headquarters on Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan March 9.

Morgan earned the recognition for his part in repelling an insurgent ambush directed at a U.S. Army Engineer unit known as Task Force Target Hazards, Open Roadways, or THOR, while they were performing a route clearance patrol. The RCP was sweeping a route west of Kandahar City for improvised explosive devices when they hit an IED. After the blast, the RCP began receiving heavy enemy fire in what they soon realized was an orchestrated ambush.

Morgan was air mission commander for a team of two OH-58 Kiowa Warrior helicopters that arrived in support of the RCP. According to his citation, Morgan repeatedly maneuvered his aircraft between rocket propelled grenade fire and heavy machine gun fire, enabling him to fire on and destroy the enemy positions.

His "quick reaction, skillful employment of his and other attack weapons systems and coordination of multiple aircraft over a target" ultimately led to THOR's safe withdrawal from the enemy line of fire.

"I'm honored that the secretary of defense recognized the accomplishments of Task Force Saber, Task Force Talon, and Task Force Pegasus in southern Afghanistan," said Morgan. "Although there were singular, decisive acts that led to the receipt of this award, the incredible contributions and teamwork displayed by the 4th Engineer Battalion, aviation mechanics, armament technicians, forward arming and refuel personnel, and fellow aviators cannot be overlooked."

Woolley, also an air mission commander during the operation where he earned the Silver Star, is a CH-47 Chinook helicopter pilot.

In November 2009, Woolley and his crew were called for a casualty evacuation mission in Baghdis province, western Afghanistan. As Woolley and his crew approached the pick-up site, his left door gunner reported heavy tracer fire coming at them. Woolley and his co-pilot maneuvered to avoid the rounds.

Once they were able to land, ground troops began loading five wounded Soldiers on the aircraft. Very quickly, the aircraft began taking more enemy fire. With less than a minute on ground, insurgents fired a rocket propelled grenade at Woolley's Chinook. The round penetrated the nose, flew between the two pilots, and hit the flight engineer in the back of the head before coming to a rest inside the helicopter, unexploded.

Woolley and his crew continued to take a barrage of enemy fire, but Woolley directed the team to stay on ground until the last patient was loaded. Once the fifth patient was loaded, Woolley led the team out of the hot landing zone and back to a coalition base where the casualties could receive treatment.

After they determined the aircraft was still flyable, Woolley made the decision to conduct a second casualty evacuation of several wounded and dead Afghan National Army soldiers.

"I feel privileged," began Woolley. "I guess the best way to describe it is I feel the same as I did yesterday, but it is an honor to be recognized. I would've done it anyway, but it truly is an honor and a privilege to be wearing this on my chest."

"These two officers displayed great courage while under intense enemy fire, while serving as air mission commanders in support of combat operations in Operation Enduring Freedom," said Col. Paul W. Bricker, commander of the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade. "They exemplify the tremendous commitment to our mission and join the long line of 82nd Airborne Division paratroopers recognized for valor in defense of our nation."

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 85, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-24T17:05:00.000-07:00

In most parts of the world the man with the donkey is the rich man; everyone else walks. At 4:00 AM I thought if I were N’Toumou I would be pushing through the brush on my way to check my traps and look for other animals to hunt for the village to eat. My wife would move the embers of our cooking fire around with her bare hand and blow a steady stream of air on the charcoal until the fire returned. She would turn and make eye contact with our oldest daughter who would silently acknowledge her well-rehearsed task with one eye open.

Nana would grab her plastic jerry can and follow a slippery path from our hut to the river, one kilometer away. She would bath at the river, take a few cupfuls of water into her mouth and then spit out whatever remained. Then she would fill the jug to the level she knew she could carry back to our place. Walking up the embankment took great skill and strength to reach the top without spilling the water out or falling back down the steep, wet path.

As I drank my stout cup of coffee, sitting on the bumper of my truck, I thought of the old African nanas I had known or spoken to many times as I walked from town to the villages of the Woleu-N’Tem Province. No one had a donkey or a horse in Gabon because the Tse-tse flies would have killed them. Everyone in the countryside walked for miles every day.

I sipped the hot liquid and remembered the women who marched in the dark to their husband’s fields for a day of back breaking labor: eight miles each way. Then, as the afternoon grew tired and ready for a deluge, the nanas would carry eighty to one hundred pound baskets on their backs, strapped to their foreheads for stability.

As I recalled these visions of people I had known and others I had spoken to and waved to over a period of time, the thought of walking from the West to the East seemed quite insignificant as a challenge. I lit out for the coast with a real chip on my shoulder, as if to say, “So what?” On the other hand, if I start killing my own dinner and having long boisterous conversations with myself please, someone call AAA.

The morning was brilliant with a rising sun and a whisper of wind coming from the east. I pointed right into the wind and made the south turn to the Perdido Bay Bridge which linked Alabama to Florida. Someone had a sense of humor and left wide margins on either side of the traffic lanes so I could walk over the span with relative ease. It was definitely commute-time so traffic was zipping by in both directions and of course I was the only pedestrian the commuters had ever seen. Someone honked and waved. I think he mistook me for Willard Scott.

The life in the bay was impressive with bottlenose dolphin and a huge biomass of forage fish; probably ballyhoo and sardines. There were solid “meatballs” of bait popping up all over the place. Underneath the teeming schools of fish were larger predators that chased them all over the bay, picking out ten or more at a time to devour. The four inch fingerlings made m-shaped retreats to no avail as the bigger, faster fish swam them down. Their universal, m-shaped leaps, reminded me of scenes that I had witnessed a thousand times in other waters. With that much bait swimming around it gave me hope that Perdido Bay had a fighting chance at survival.

There was so much traffic for most of the walk I concentrated on my steps, where I was on the margin and with one idea – to keep moving forward. Once I reached the coast route I realized I had already been walking for nearly three hours. I stopped to take a mental impression of what lay ahead for tomorrow. The plan will be to drive to the coast in the wee hours of the morn and start the walk along the Gulf with a belly full of hearty tailgate brewed coffee and one-minute oatmeal.

Tomorrow’s walk will start in the artificial light of Mobile Bay. But I am prepared for any eventuality. Now is crunch time, the time to cover miles and miles, to move purposefully toward the end of a rich and rewarding American experience. The flat land of the beach had been cleared. The artificial lights flickered a hollow, colorless glow and they would accompany me as far as I cared to go: East or West. And I would have the smell of the sea in my nose where it belonged.

Radio Operators in either the U.S. Marine Corps or the U.S. Army have crucial jobs to mission success. Here is a story of a Marine Radio Operator who performed his duties as a Marine with extraordinary professionalism and courage. Please meet Lance Corporal Daniel Gire.

Radio Operator Awarded Silver Star
Story by Lance Cpl. Jad Sleiman
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MARINE FORCES RESERVE, New Orleans - Cpl. Daniel Gire found out he had to address the crowd minutes before the Marines’ Hymn kicked off his Silver Star Medal award ceremony.

“I’m not very good at this kind of thing,” he began as he stood in front of dozens of family, friends and fellow veterans.

At the Veterans Memorial in Columbus, Ohio, he spoke for less than 30 seconds after Lt. General John Kelly, commander, Marine Forces Reserve, pinned on his medal. Pausing with emotion, he thanked his family, his Marine Corps training and his fellow Marines for making sure he made it home from Iraq.

“I think in that situation any Marine would do what I did,” said Gire, now medically retired for over a year. “It was just wrong place, wrong time.”

On Feb. 13, 2007, Gire was serving as a radio operator with Supporting Arms Liaison Team D, 1st Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company, II Marine Expeditionary Force (Forward) supporting elements of a U.S. Army unit in Al Ramadi.

The troops were withdrawing under fire when they were hit by insurgent rocket propelled grenade and machine gun fire that wounded all the members of Gire’s SALT team as well as one soldier. Gire, seriously injured by the blast of the RPG, rose to see his team scout and leader hit by machine gun fire.

Cpl. Daniel Gire hugs his sister Samantha after being awarded the Silver Star Medal during a ceremony at the Veterans Memorial in Columbus, Ohio Feb. 20. (Official Marine Corps Photo by Lance Cpl. Jad Sleiman)

“As bullets and rocket propelled grenades snapped by within inches of him,” Gire roused his teammate and together they got their team leader into a house, his citation read.

The team realized they were stranded and that the quick reaction force vehicle sent to retrieve them had inaccurate coordinates.

Gire couldn’t use his Squad Automatic Weapon because of his injuries, so, using a teammate’s M-4 and firing from his weak hand, Gire braved direct enemy fire as he ran in the open toward one of the QRF vehicles and directed it back to the wounded men.

Back in the states it was the day before Valentines Day and Michelle Gire, Daniel’s step-mother, was baking cookies.

“He normally says ‘hey how you are doing’ and he didn’t say that,” recalled Michelle. “I knew immediately something was wrong.”

Instead, “Hey ‘Chelle, where’s dad?” was all he said over the phone as he was evacuated off the battlefield.

Now safely home with family in Ohio, Gire doesn’t like to say too much about what he did, he’s shy family said. His family and fellow service members, however, recognized he had done something special.

Columbus based Marine Riders applaud as Cpl. Daniel Gire receives the Silver Star Medal from Lt. Gen. John Kelly during a ceremony at the Veterans Memorial in Columbus, Ohio Feb. 20. (Official Marine Corps Photo by Lance Cpl. Jad Sleiman)

“The United States Marine Corps does not decorate its people lightly,” said Kelly before reading Gire’s citation. “In combat, the expected is unbelievable acts of heroism.”

Gire’s two brothers are also Marines, extending a family legacy of military service that dates back to the Civil War. To them, Gire’s actions under fire say more than any acceptance speech or long winded war story could.

“Dan has always had an exuberant amount of courage and this just proves to everyone that he had it inside him,” said Gire’s older brother Nicholas, who served as an airframe rotary wing mechanic before entering the IRR as a sergeant. “I think Dan’s always had that fight in him.”

© 2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 84, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-23T19:58:00.000-07:00

I arose early to get the jump on Alabama. A soft cover of gauze lay over the campground and seemed to keep the area cool and safe from the coming day. The sun took its time rising over the tree tops and allowed me to make one more cup of tailgate coffee which I enjoyed to its fullest. It was going to be hard to leave a Mississippi. I had come to regard her as a special friend.

My transformation was complete after a short time in her embrace. The taste of her sweat, the soft slow song of her voice, and the shadow she gave under heavy bow was all Mississippi. My gate picked up the beat of the road and I was backed by the string section of insects that could be called upon to roar with a wave of my hand.

I dawdled at the campsite, making sure everything was tidy before I left. But I was just trying to hold onto something vague but valuable. The sun threw a string of light over the pines and chased me away like a teenage boy from a daughter’s bedroom window.

So many times as I walked in a dream, my thoughts took me back to another red dust far away. I was transported to a strip of dirt where I fully expected a hunter in shabby rags to bust out of the bush with a gazelle over one shoulder and a pipe hanging precariously out of the corner of his mouth. “Mbolo, tata,” I would have said. Then my mind would wander back as I side-stepped the carcass of an armadillo that had been all but consumed by the ants and crows.

I remember having been especially pleased to see the scrubbed white and pink church at the top of the road one morning. The light hit it just so and gave it a fresh and happy look. The Mt. Gilead Baptist Church could be counted upon to shine even during the week. Its white pillars and soft pink stucco looked like someone stood guard over it night and day to protect it from decay. Each time I saw it a man toiled busily either mowing around it, taking care of its cemetery or washing something in the rear of the building. That man had a good job and he was proud to perform it.

I left Toomsuba with some reluctance but I knew I had to venture forth. I had minor business to conduct in Birmingham. I got there by the opening bell at eight o’clock. I was helped by a young man of no more than twenty but his belt size had grown to seventy inches. I have seen too much of that on this trip. It used to startle me. But I’m no one to judge since I am probably the only man in America who can walk six hours a day and still look like he had just polished off a sixer down by the river.

I can say for a fact that Alabama is covered with forests. Everywhere I looked from Tuscaloosa to Birmingham and from Montgomery to Mobile, forests covered every inch of terrain except where someone had decided to build a factory or a subdivision. Today’s drive resembled one in Washington State but for the fact that the temperature was a steady 96 degrees in all directions.

I pulled in by the Gulf of Mexico for a look before checking in at the Perdido Bay KOA. Highway 59 deposited me right on the sand. Miraculously, a parking spot opened for me as I pulled in. The sand was white with no signs of oil but I was told that it had come and gone out twice since the spill. Booms were strung randomly along the wave line of the beach. In the bay where I am staying, booms were floating in long arches but I could see no evidence that they were needed for now.

I walked on a high bridge over the bay near the campground. From there I could see homes with docks and people fishing along the banks of the bay. A couple scooted by on a jet-ski far below me and disappeared to the other side of the bridge before I lost interest. Pine trees looking like tin soldiers faced the bay at stiff attention. They had perfect separation from one another and that allowed for excellent and easy walking among their ranks.

Tomorrow I will walk to the gulf side and try to cover as much ground as I can along a white sand beach and a growing population of tourists who are hoping for a glimpse at a tar ball.

Throughout the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars the National Guard has played an integral part in combat operations and support. Because of their increased role they have suffered tremendous casualties and also exhibited outstanding combat excellence and courage. Here are some examples of National Guardsmen and women who have distinguished themselves.

Staff Sgt. Timothy F. Nein
617th Military Police Company, Kentucky National Guard

Nein, along with other unit members, distinguished himself in action on March 20, 2005. A three-vehicle, squad-sized element of his company was escorting a convoy of 30 trucks driven by civilian contractors along Alternate Supply Route Detroit, Iraq. The convoy was attacked by 50 enemy fighters, using rocket-propelled grenades, heavy machine guns and small arms. Most of the enemy was concealed in an irrigation ditch and orchard, making them difficult to engage. The initial attack disabled the lead truck of the convoy, blocking the rest in the kill zone. Nein had members of his squad move forward to outflank them on the right side. Sgt. Leigh Ann Hester ordered her Humvee gunner to place covering fire on the enemy positions.

Hester then moved her vehicle to a flanking position and dismounted, ordering her gunner to continue his fire into the orchard, adding hers to the battle. Using her M4 carbine with an attached grenade launcher, she fired grenades into the field. While this was happening, Nein, noting an insurgent behind a 10-foot embankment, threw a grenade, killing him. He then moved forward to the right side of the berm, followed by Hester. Nein quickly engaged and eliminated five enemy fighters. As they proceeded along the embankment, they both continued to take out insurgents, with Hester killing three. Once they reached the end of the trench, Nein called a cease fire.

In total, this action resulted in 27 enemy fighters killed and seven captured (six of them wounded). While the squad suffered at least four serious casualties, none died from their wounds.

A National Guard Bureau Heritage Series painting of this action “Raven 42” can be found at http://www.ngb.army.mil/resources/photo_gallery/index.html?lib=heritage/index.htm.
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Staff Sgt. Timothy F. Nein
617th Military Police Company, Kentucky National Guard
(DSC)

Sgt. 1st Class Joshua D. Betten
Company A, 3rd Battalion, 20th Special Forces Group, Florida National Guard

Sgt. Russell L. Collier
Battery A, 1st Battalion, 206th Field Artillery, Arkansas National Guard

Spc. Richard A. Ghent
1st Battalion, 172nd Armor, New Hampshire National Guard

Spc. Jason Harrington
Company A, 1st Battalion, 172nd Armor, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, Pennsylvania National Guard

Sgt. Leigh Ann Hester
617th Military Police Company, Kentucky National Guard

1st Lt. Tyler J. Jensen
19th Special Forces Group, Utah National Guard

Spc. Gerrit Kobes
Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1st Battalion, 161st Infantry, Washington National Guard

Sgt. 1st Class Andrew Lewis
Company A, 3rd Battalion, 20th Special Forces Group, Florida National Guard

Staff Sgt. Chad Malmberg
Company A, 2nd Battalion, 135th Infantry, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry Division, Minnesota National Guard

1st Lt. Michael J. McCarty
Company C, 3rd Battalion, 153rd Infantry, 39th Brigade Combat Team, Arkansas National Guard

Lt. Col. Michael E. McLaughlin
Brigade Effects Coordinator, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 28th Infantry Division, Pennsylvania National Guard

Staff Sgt. Michael J. McMullen
243rd Engineer Company, Maryland National Guard

Spc. Jason L. Mike
617th Military Police Company, Kentucky National Guard

Tech. Sgt. Keary J. Miller
123rd Special Tactics Squadron, Kentucky National Guard

Sgt. Robert S. Pugh
Company A, 1st Battalion, 155th Infantry, Mississippi National Guard

Staff Sgt. Joseph Proctor
638th Support Battalion (Aviation) Indiana National Guard

1st Sgt. Kevin K. Remington
957th Multi-Role Bridge Company, 142nd Combat Heavy Engineer Battalion, North Dakota National Guard

Spc. Brian M. Sheetz
Company C, 1st Battalion, 103rd Armor, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 28th Infantry Division, Pennsylvania National Guard

Staff Sgt. Emmett Spraktes
Company C, 1-168th General Support Aviation Battalion,California National Guard

Sgt. 1st Class Chad M. Stephens
Company A, 1st Battalion, 120th Infantry, 30th Infantry Brigade, North Carolina

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Day 83, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

New Speedway Boogie
Grateful Dead (Excerpt)

Please don't dominate the rap, Jack, if you've got nothing new to say.
If you please, don't back up the track; this train's got to run today.
I spent a little time on the mountain, I spent a little time on the hill.
I heard someone say "Better run away", others say "better stand still".

Now I don't know, but I been told it's hard to run with the weight of gold.
Other hand I have heard it said, it's just as hard with the weight of lead...

By 4:30 AM I was sitting at the counter at the Waffle House in Meridian hoping to pack in some malted waffle and eggs with a side of bacon and hash browns. I wanted to load the magazine with as much fire power as possible for another day’s walk into the back country between Alamucha and the Alabama border.

The cook greeted me as a waitress filled out her receipts from the long night’s shift. “What ken I get for ya, brother?”

“Coffee and a large milk, please.” I said with a drowsy drawl of my own.
The cook handed me the drinks and asked what I was going to eat. I gave him the list and he said, “Right away.”

The big woman, doing her morning accounting, yawned a long drawn out yawn. I said, “You better count that stuff and head on home pretty soon.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said never looking up from the wad of receipts in her hand.

“That’s all right. You’ve been standing on your feet all night.”
She got up and waddled over to where I sat at the counter. “It’s just that I did some exercise yesterday for the first time since I had me a little baby in March. I’m sore somethin’ awful.”

“Would you like some Advil?”

“You know I would,” she said.

I went out to the truck and fetched a bottle and gave it to her. “Now if you’re breast feeding I don’t think I would take these but if you’re not take four now and then no more for the day.” I took the liberty of throwing that breast feeding warning into the deal just in case.

The cook brought me the five thousand calories I sought and then he and the big gal talked. “Sherry? Did you know that Maria has a man?”

“I didn’t say nothin’ to ya, but, yeah, I knew it.”

“Can you believe that? And this ol’ boy’s name is Mark too! Don’t that beat all.?”

“Uh huh, and that way she don’t have to mess up by callin’ you by some other name if you know what I mean?” They laughed and so did I.

As I drove back to Toomsuba the sun began to peek over the tree line. She was as pink and flat as I have ever seen her: a pink Necco Wafer fresh out of the roll. When I got back to camp I ginned up the tracking device sent to me by the Vigils. I couldn’t find the tiny plug used to charge it for two months. Eureka, I am found, beeping a light on an electronic map somewhere two borders away or maybe even in Beijing. Maybe I’ll send them a quick note to say I promise to be home by eleven.

Later, I headed straight for the red dirt roads, as many as I could link up with.
There was a lot more to see out there among the dust and chiggers before I left Mississippi in the wee hours of tomorrow morning. I hit that red road but good and with a blistering pace by my standards.

I caught myself at one point and said, “Whoa brother, you have all day.” I settled down into a more manageable, tortoise-take-the-reins attitude. The forest was full of unusual aromas again. It smelled of something like urine but with a hint of pine. I moved quickly through that zone; it reminded me too much of the men’s room at Jack Murphy Stadium.

Once on the logging road I was back in my element. There wasn’t a soul out there. It was just me, the whirring and dive-bombing flies, the occasional low flying chicken hawks and a billion unnamed insects keeping cadence to my addled march. It had been a couple of days since we had a good down pour so with each step I took a billow of red dust exploded under my boot. A new kind of turquoise colored wasp came into my view.

These were tiny and delicate looking nano-machines, probably invented in a lab somewhere in Tennessee. Somehow they got released along with the engineered corn that can’t be eaten by insects. The miniscule stingerees would huddle then break as if they had the play they wanted to execute. I walked on as if I hadn’t noticed them.

Later, after taking a poorly paved side-road off the logging road, I found a bridge with bows covering the width of a creek. This time I crept up to the edge nice and quiet like. I was back on mother’s almost mythical Asbyl Creek with a long pole in hand and an eye for a steelhead. Down below there were no ocean-going trout but there was a healthy version of Ictaluris punctatus: I don’t think I made that up. A channel cat lay to the side of a submerged log and gave me what I had longed for: a good look at a keeper. She didn’t move and neither did I but her patience was infinitely greater than mine. I was the first one to blink and I left the bridge for a fast paced retreat into the veldt.

I took a break after a four and a half hour strut. I grabbed a Subway sandwich and contemplated going to the movie house for a solid, air-conditioned snooze. But I still had some juice left so I finished my sandwich, waited for a few minutes then I headed back out into the red and green of my neighborhood.

As I marched to a double time I could feel the electricity in the air. All of a sudden the atmosphere was charged and ready to ignite. The sky turned black in a hurry and I knew I had to find the branches of a tall tree under which to hide.

Crack! A thundering sky unloaded a few days' worth of water over Toomsuba. I got real wet but I felt safe from the lightening that stuck into the ground somewhere near the camp. I had to wait thirty minutes for the micro-storm to drop its load. When it was over the air was washed clean and the earth smelled like baked salt. I skated for the next hour until I was assured that I had reached a sufficient level of perspiration and fatigue.

Going back out after a breather was the right thing to do. And taking in the post-rain aroma on the road brought back memories that couldn't have been elicited in any other way. I breathed deeply as I marched and listened for the mocking bird to bring me in on one of her new songs.

Sometimes you have to take things into your own hands. U.S. Army Spc. Joseph Gibson did in order to save his own life and that of his platoon. This is a harry account.

Spc. gets Silver Star for hand-to-hand combat
By Gina Cavallaro - Staff writer/Army Times
Posted : Monday Oct 6, 2008 11:43:51 EDT

The Rangers were wading through chest-high grass and deep irrigation ditches.
Spc. Joseph Gibson, 23, felt something odd underfoot. It turned out to be an armed man wearing a suicide vest. What happened next earned Gibson a Silver Star medal.

“He was kneeled down in one of the irrigation ditches. I actually stepped on him and just because of how the terrain was I really didn’t even think anything of it. I took about two more steps before I thought, ‘I’d better see what that was,’ ” said Gibson, of A Company, 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment.

Gibson received the Silver Star at a ceremony Sept. 26 at Fort Lewis, Wash., where his unit is headquartered.

It was April 26, and Gibson, who joined the Army in 2005 “to get as much action as I could,” had already been to Iraq three times on the night he and his squad were moving through the ditches.

The man in the ditch was the last thing he expected to see, Gibson said, and because he had been pushing through the grass to see the ground, he didn’t have his rifle aimed.

“He was fixin’ to shoot me and there’s no way I could have shot him first, so I just got in front of his weapon ... and he fired it off right next to my face,” Gibson told Army Times. “I tackled him to the ground and grabbed hold of his weapon ... and I started hollering for help. While I was doing that he ripped my helmet off.”

Before help could arrive, Gibson was in a full-scale hand-to-hand fight with the man, who was on his back and tenaciously fighting to get control of his AK47 assault rifle.

There was no room to maneuver in the ditch, and Gibson gained superiority by getting on top of the man and wrestling his rifle away. The man grabbed Gibson’s rifle, which was slung around his neck, and tried to keep Gibson from shooting him.

“He’s got my weapon, so I start to hit him in the face,” Gibson said. “He wasn’t trying to aim my weapon at me, he was in no position to do something like that.”

While Gibson was throwing punches, he could feel the man’s hand reaching down to “grab a knife or something to attack me and then he told me in English he said ‘bomb’ and I realized he had a bomb on him and he was trying to clock himself off.”

“It definitely dropped my morale, but it didn’t slow me down or anything,” he said.

“I kept control of his hand and he ... used his foot to push my chest plate up into my throat and it was beginning to choke me so I let all my weight down on him and I hit him in the face as hard as I could and knocked him out for just a second.”

With no time to waste, Gibson opened enough space between himself and the man to shoot.

“I buried my weapon into his gut and fired one off and he hollered and then that’s when I got off of him and neutralized him,” Gibson said.

Gibson’s close encounter with the suicidal enemy took place only minutes after he had risked his life under fire to help evacuate a Ranger buddy who had been shot when the squad assaulted enemy-held territory by helicopter.

After the hand-to-hand fight, Gibson continued to press on with his fellow Rangers to secure the area, fighting for about another hour.

After the close combat, Gibson said, “I was in a pretty good mood, I was ready to go. I was kind of discombobulated, running around a little shaken up, but I got it together and got my stuff and carried on.”

After the exhilaration of the action he said he joined the Army to see, he re-enlisted for six more years.

“I’ve thought about it, and I know it could have played out a lot of different ways, I’m just glad the guy did what he did and wasn’t thinking very smart,” Gibson said. “As long as I got out of his weapon’s reach, he didn’t have a chance.”

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

Day 82, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-21T17:33:00.000-07:00

Covering as much ground as possible has been my focus each day . Today I must have left a trail of sweat forty five miles long on those routes from the KOA to Toomsuba to Alamucha. My first four miles this morning were the toughest. I made a decision to walk along the road out toward the Interstate and Toomsuba. I spent much of the time diving into bushes and zigzagging across the road to keep from getting splattered by logging trucks and a bowling team from Alamucha that insisted on driving huge red pickups. There were about ten of those boys coming and going like they had someone to see in a hurry.

I doubled back at the four mile mark and made my way to the KOA Campground road for a more civilized approach to my business. I went out toward the Alamucha-Why Not Rd. and found good clean walking for miles in two new directions. The red dirt roads seem to provide me with the kind of quiet and desolation that fits a journey such as mine. Every once in a while a logging truck would come jamming out of a side road, full of stripped pine trees and a deadline that said, “Get outta my way.” I did.

I made it back to the Yasger’s Farm II so I could see if the bird that serenaded me yesterday would return. There was this starling or some kind of skinny mimicker that talked in tongues to me yesterday. She sat on a wire and changed her song twenty times before I told her I had to leave but that I would come back.

I don’t know if she was copying someone else’s song or if she had a lengthy repertoire all her own. All I know is that each song was distinctly different from the other. In the end she wowed me with a hissing sound that resembled more the sound of a serpent than a songbird. I gave her a round of applause. She must have been used to that because she just stared back at me without expression.

For a long time this morning there wasn’t a breath of wind coming to my rescue from any direction. The air was still and smelled of forest decay and occasionally, urea. There was a cow pasture nearby on top of a rolling knoll. That had to be the culprit since the runoff would have descended to my spot along that road for some distance. Without wind to carry the smell away that part of the walk was down right nasty. I tried my best to pick up the pace to get past all that.

There was a lot of lawn mowing going on today too. I counted eight men and one woman sitting on mowers as they clipped grass on acres and acres of lawns throughout this whole area. It looked like something I might enjoy. “Don’t worry Honey, I’ll cut the grass this weekend,” I could hear spouses say. I think certain couples probably fight to see who gets to cut the lawn on the fancy personal tractor.

For most of the day I was sort of unconscious. I mean I saw the trees and heard the birds and smelled the smells, both pleasant and otherwise, but my thoughts turned inward. I have found that as enjoyable as it is to space out on a long walk, it has proven to be a careless thing to do. I’m not sure if it was related to low blood sugar or a frame of mind but I tried to snap out of it. My general rule when walking alone in the bush is to keep alert, know where I am and watch where I step. Those are rules learned over a lifetime and ones that have to be adhered to. To bring me out of my own kind of ten thousand mile stare I stopped at every bridge on the route. There were three.

Stopping at bridges allowed me to refocus and zero in on specific visual stimuli. Okay, I was looking for fish as usual. But I did focus. There were no signs of snakes or fish but I ran into quite a few snapping turtles within this twenty mile diameter.

I was reminded today of the incredible variety of wildlife I have been afforded the chance to be with for my whole trip. It makes me wish I were an expert at entomology, botany and theoretical physics. The wonders of the world seem closer when you are on foot. I have stood still at the foot of the forest so many times wondering what the insects and birds were saying, both to each other and to us.

Last night I heard the inevitable sound of a crashing tree limb. These forests of pine and oak and sassafras have developed a technique of shedding limbs that are waterlogged or rotten. They let them go in the night to fall wherever they may. It seems like a form of house cleaning. They drop the soggy tree’s branch and make way for another, healthier one to grow. After a big rain branches dropped like flies. It made me glad I slept in my truck, but I must admit the occasion of a crashing branch has become a kind of entertainment for me.

After my walk I talked with a boy along the fence outside the pool area at the KOA. He was in his in bathing suit and we were in the shade as I waited for some clothes to dry. “Are you going in?” I asked.

“If my Daddy say I can.”

“It’s pretty hot. I’ll bet he’ll say yes.”

“I don’t know. We been swimmin’ all day.” He looked at me and realized that I was a stranger.
“Where you come from, sir?”

“I’m from San Diego in California.”

“That’s far away, ain’t it?”

“Far away. Where are you and your family from?”

“Mt. Vernon, Alabama.”

“Is that near Mobile?” I asked, taking a wild guess.

“’Bout thirty minutes if Daddy drive real fast.”

Just then Daddy arrived after a cool shower. Another son joined us informally. He was a chunky kid with tight curly sun-bleached hair. Daddy said, “I bet you cain’t tell dese ah twins?”

“I would never have guessed. Must be fraternal, right?”

“Yassir, dey is dat.” He said with a willing smile. “I seen you comin’ into camp all sweaty after a run today. You working out in dis heat?”

“Naw, I’ve been walking across the country for wounded vets and their families. I walked today like every day.”

“Well, isn’t dat just fine?” he said shaking his head. “Where you headed next?”

“Mobile Bay, Alabama. Your son said you live close by.”

“Dat’s a fact, mister. We show do live thirty minutes away from Mobile Bay. Just a skip and a holler away.”

“I am really looking forward to going down there on Wednesday.”

“Now see, dat’s good. You just go down 45 South, then over tah 10 East. You keep yo eyes open cause that 165 is gonna come up quick. Now you take that until you see 59 and you follow that one right to the beach. Cain’t miss it.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the advice.”

“Alright, den. Y’all have a safe trip. And don’t get no tah on yo feet down nehr. Da whole beach is covered wid brown tah.” He said as he turned and walked to his van.

I thought we should follow a Marine Corps Fire Mission into Helmand Province. No picnic.

Danger Room in Afghanistan: Echo Company in the Eye of the Storm
• By Noah Shachtman
• August 24, 2009 |

MIANPOSHTEH, Afghanistan — For three days, the Marines of Echo Company wondered when the next one would come. Since they got here at the beginning of July, Echo has been in a near-constant series of battles with the local Taliban, making this one of the most violent flashpoints in America’s renewed war in Afghanistan. On Thursday, election day, militants woke Echo up by firing rocket-propelled grenades and automatic rifle rounds into the school compound these Marines now use as an outpost.

It was the 39th day out of 50 that the Taliban and Echo had exchanged lead.
And then, silence. None of the AK-47 attacks Echo had come to expect on patrol. None of the improvised bomb strikes that had become so common on Mianposhteh’s roads and dirt pathways. Nothing.

Officers here tried to guess why. Maybe it was Ramadan, the Muslim holy month; believers are supposed to fast during the day – and the Taliban only fight here during the day. Maybe it was the 500-pound bombs and mortars and artillery shells and rockets Echo dropped on the Taliban’s firing positions the week before. But the Marines really weren’t sure. Echo – who call themselves “America’s Company” — has been here for less than two months. To them, their enemies remain largely a mystery.

“If the rest of Ramadan is like this, I’ll be thankful,” says First Lt. Josh

Faucett, as we walk through melon patches and mud and corn fields, an hour into a quiet patrol, about a kilometer southeast of the base. “I’ve seen enough fighting. I can go home happy.”

We continue on for another half-hour or so – chatting with a few farmers, trudging through shrubs, sweating in the 110 degree-plus heat. We leap over an irrigation ditch, behind an adobe compound. That’s when Echo company’s three-day lull ends.

Bursts of AK-47 rounds crackle from three directions – the desert to the east, the trees to the southwest, and fields to the south. It’s an ambush. Everyone goes chest-first into the dirt to avoid it. Then comes the rattle of machine gun fire, headed in our direction. Some Marines scamper across the field to the south, taking cover behind a berm and some tall grass. They respond with guns of their own, and grenades. Others are stuck at the far north end of the field.

Including me. “I go up, you go up. I go down, you go down,” a Marine turns around and says to me. We run.

We make it to the southwest corner of the compound. After a call for covering fire, to tall grass. A series of thunder booms rings out – American mortars, detonating on the Taliban positions. “OK, motherfucker, you want some of this?” shouts Sgt. John Spring, as he stands up. “Take some!” He fires a grenade round into the air.

Despite the grenades, despite the mortars, the Taliban continue to attack. But their fire seems now to be coming mostly from a treeline to the southeast, perpendicular to the Marines’ position.

Faucett — an Echo company “joint tactical air controller” – talks loudly into a radio. A pair of Harrier jets and Cobra attack helicopters are on their way, he says. Someone drops a yellow smoke grenade, to show the aircraft our position. Of course, it’s a dead giveaway for the Taliban, too. A Marine fires right above my head. My ears ring like they’ve just been through a Slayer concert. Then shots from the other direction zip by — very close.

Faucett tries to tell the aircraft where to target. But figuring out the distance and range – and relating that distance and range to the jets, to the choppers, and to his commanding officer a kilometer away – is tough. The radio keeps breaking up.
The militant fire dies down. A Marine lies on his back, hooking a tree with his left hand, trying to recover from heat stroke. Faucett waves off the Harriers; the

Marines are too close to the Taliban, to risk the jets’ 500-pound bombs. But the copters emerge in the sky to the east. It takes maybe 20 minutes to determine the exact Taliban position – and whether they’re even still there. The wait makes the Marines anxious. “Do this! Come on!” Spring yells. There’s a smell of mint in the air. A pair of swallows appear from the bushes.

Finally, the attack is approved. The two helicopters turn south, towards the Taliban. “Oh my f%$#ing God! Hallelujah!” says Sgt. Jonathan Delgado. The Taliban send popcorn AK-47 rounds into the air – to no effect. The first copter, a Huey, shoots off .50 caliber rounds. It fires its Gatling gun, making an angry, chainsaw buzz. Then Cobra swoops in for its pass, sending four Zuni rockets into the Taliban position.

The militant fire stops. Within a few minutes, everything is calm again. Later, recalling the day’s sudden turn, Faucett tells me: “That’s the way it goes. You’re on the way to shaking hands and kissing babies, and of a sudden, you’re in shit sandwich.”

Not that he was surprised. For Echo, “today was normal,” company commander Capt. Eric Meador says. “What happened today has happened just about every day since we’ve been here.”

After the fight, the Marines try to determine if any Taliban were killed or wounded –to no avail. The Taliban only left a few spent shell casings behind when they withdrew. But they’ll be back.

Photo: Noah Shachtman

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 81, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

My CartHelp Me Walkin' Blues
Lyrics and Music By: Robert Johnson (excerpt)

Well I woke up this morning and I felt around for my shoes
That's when I knew I had them walkin' blues

Well I woke up this morning and I look around and I felt around for my shoes
That's when I knew I had them mean old walkin' blues
Feel like goin' out, leave my old lonesome home

Woke up this mornin', what I had was gone
Feel like goin' out, leave my old lonesome home

Woke up this mornin', what I had was gone
Some people tell you the walkin' blues ain't bad
Worst old feelin' that I've ever had...

I left the ivy covered fencess of the Toomsuba KOA for a walk in the park. It was my park on Tom Hurt Road that held me by the hand as I marched on its red and gravel surface with tall trees on either side. Hidden vegetable gardens unveiled themselves only if I got close enough to discern their fuzzy boundaries with a lush border overrun by vines and tall grass. Once I found them I wondered then who tilled them and cared for them because I could find no house or building associated with their ownership.

By the time I had made it to the intersection of Will Garrett Road I could see an over grown farm house with vines coming in and out of the main house’s boarded up windows. The farm had greenhouses too that were just as lonely but looked as if they would rebound with all their might if someone would just make the effort. I turned left at the abandoned farm and walked two hundred feet to another road that showed some promise as a walking path.

During the first two hours out on the dirt road I had only encountered one old sixty-nine Chevy pick-up with faded blue paint and white trim. The driver of that truck honked and waved as if he might have known me. It would have been a good guess; there were no tourists coming soon.

The start of my walk was blessed with a temperature that was fit for a leisurely stroll or an all out run. This morning was probably the coolest morning I had enjoyed since leaving eastern New Mexico. A breeze accompanied the sun’s presence at the top of the pines and oaks that were with me all day long. And now I am acquainted with a new species of horse fly that is all black and apparently has very poor eyesight. They may have tried to attack me from time to time today but they always missed. In the end they gave up on me for the appaloosa on a well manicured lawn between Why Not and Alamucha.

I found a road that suited my taste for solitude and I took it for miles. There were no houses on the right side of the road for the whole distance. The left or north side had homes, small farms, really that included many acres each. Some had borders of thick, lush forests with pasture land and even some crops of beans and grasses.

One small farm of perhaps thirty acres enjoyed the company of one donkey, three goats and five horses. I counted the barnyard inventory easily as they stood in a group around a fallen tree and grazed on abundant grass. Only the donkey showed an interest in me. He stared at me thinking he may have known me from his days in Aberdeen. It must have been the Ole Miss T-shirt.

I came upon a two or three hundred acre parcel that was a perfect rectangle with three sides bounded by full blown forest and the fourth side that had the road on its south side. I stopped briefly to take stock of what I had in it. I thought it would make a good spot for an outdoor concert. It could have been Yasger’s Farm-South. Of course you’d need to bring about three hundred portable toilets and a nursing station, water for one hundred thousand and a tent and R.V. zone, and a mile long slip and slide. This is how my mind wandered as I took measured steps past the possibilities. Maybe we could get Janis and Jimi, Jim and Jerry to give us one last encore. It would be the perfect venue.

I passed over a bridge which has become a favorite pastime of mine on this voyage. Another corn snake raced past me as I reached the mid-point of the span over a creek whose name I forgot. The water’s color always reminded me of unsweetened tea. I couldn’t see any fish but I watched a nice size snapping turtle come up for air and then scoot when he saw me looking down at him. The few homes that graced that stretch of road were for the most part tidy and small but their location was sublime. Anyone who lived on that road had settled there for a reason. On the other hand, in spite of the location’s remoteness, someone had foot the bill for underground cable and that was curious.

By the time I reached the intersection of old Tom Hurt and Will Garrett Road my body felt a like a drip irrigation system. After the last few days of limping and complaining to myself, feeling the full heat of the Toomsuba sun on my neck was a welcome sensation. I let the water pour out at will and enjoyed the stride of someone who had been renewed. But I know that it isn’t natural to not have the walkin’ blues from time to time. I told myself, "Save that moaning for another day."

Marines and soldiers routinely walk for miles to and from missions. I chose to begin my Walk for Warriors at Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base and end it at Fort Benning, a large Army base where hundreds of thousands of soldiers train for combat. And I started there at Pendleton because the men and women from these bases, by and large, are the ones getting killed or wounded. I will not leave out the wonderfully brave Corpsmen and Seals, and the intrepid Air Force pilots, and PJ's. But I had to have one beginning and one end. I chose to walk instead of ride because that is what they do every day.

I have included a PBS interview conducted by Jeffrey Brown with Sebastian Junger, author of the recent book, War.

CONVERSATION AIR DATE: June 10, 2010
Author Junger Portrays Soldiers' Reliance on Each Other in 'War'

SUMMARY
Jeffrey Brown talks with author and journalist Sebastian Junger about his latest book, "War," which tells the stories of an isolated platoon of soldiers on the front lines in Afghanistan.

Transcript
JUDY WOODRUFF: Finally tonight: an isolated mountain outpost, a small group of soldiers, and a window into the war in Afghanistan.

Jeffrey Brown has our book conversation.

IN-DEPTH COVERAGE
Afghanistan and the War on Terror

ARTICLE TOOLS

JEFFREY BROWN: In late April, American troops withdrew from the Korengal Valley in Eastern Afghanistan, a six-mile sliver of rock canyon high in the mountains bordering Pakistan.

For much of the five years Americans fought there, the Korengal was the most dangerous battleground in Afghanistan, controlled by rotating companies of U.S. troops trying to wrest control from the Taliban and other insurgents.

During 2007 and 2008, author and journalist Sebastian Junger took five one-month trips there to chart the lives of men at war, the soldiers of Battle Company of the 173rd Airborne. That chronicle is now a book entitled "War" and a documentary film shot with photographer Tim Hetherington to be released next month titled "Restrepo."
Sebastian Junger joins me now.

Welcome to you.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER, author/journalist: Thank you.

JEFFREY BROWN: What you have done here is take a big war and hone in on one very small group of soldiers in one very isolated place. Why? What were you after?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: What I wanted was to understand the sort of universal experience of combat. I had the idea that that doesn't change very much for the soldier on the ground, war to war, century to century.

JEFFREY BROWN: Wherever you are.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: Wherever you are. And, so, I picked one platoon, 2nd Platoon of Battle Company. They were at a very remote out post called Restrepo, named after -- after the platoon medic. And I was with them off and on for a year.

I really became incorporated into the group, and, with my video camera, I tried to document what the war was like for them, not as a political thing, but as an actual experience.

JEFFREY BROWN: So, it was one of the most violent places in the war. And you capture that. We learn that a number of the soldiers came away damaged, but, while there, the excitement, the thrill -- I mean, there's almost no other word to use for what they are going through.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: There wasn't much up at Restrepo. It was a two-hour walk from the main base. There was no Internet, no outside connection to the world. There was no running water. They couldn't bathe for a month at a time, no television, obviously, no women, no alcohol. There was nothing that young men like.

And the -- really, the only thing that gave their existence meaning there was combat. And there was a lot of it. They were in something like 500 firefights over the course of the year. A fifth of all the combat in all of Afghanistan was happening around them in that little valley.

And, so, when time -- you know, if time went by where there was no fighting, they got very, very antsy. And, in the end, it actually made them -- made it quite hard for them to return back to Italy, where they're based.

JEFFREY BROWN: This sense that you have of -- I mean, you're describing war, but you're also, at the same time, trying to understand it, the nature of courage, of fear, of almost the psychology of war.
Did -- did you start off wanting to do that, or did that sort of come along in the process of reporting of what you were seeing?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: My initial object was to just chronicle their experience and try to understand it. Very quickly, it became clear that what civilians call courage was an essential part of what was going on out there.

There were many situations where we were taking very accurate fire, and the guys would stand up and shoot back, which really was the only way out of that situation. To shoot back, you have to expose yourself. It's an act of courage in and of itself, guys running through gunfire to pull an injured comrade to safety.

But when you try to talk about courage with them, they sort of deny that it exists. They just say, look, that's being a soldier. That's being a friend. That's not courageous. That's the minimum you can do.
And...

JEFFREY BROWN: And, in fact, the group dynamic of friendship, of protection is what comes out the most.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: Yes. I mean, they -- afterwards, they missed being out there, which is -- seems to be puzzling, considering how dangerous and hard it was. And that's often attributed to, well, they miss the adrenaline rush. That is a part of it, but I think a small part of it.

What really is going on is that, in that place, each man there is necessary to everyone else. He has a completely secure position within that small group.
One guy said to me, "You know, some guys hate each other in this platoon, but we would all die for each other." The security of that relationship with other human beings is so tremendous that the guys are willing to risk -- risk their lives in order to -- to get it.

JEFFREY BROWN: And, also, that dynamic -- and it's interesting, because you -- you sort of put yourself in this place as well -- that subsumes any sense of the larger war. I mean, they're not -- they're not -- don't seem to be talking too much about, why are we here, what are we doing?
You weren't interested in that -- much in that yourself, right?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: Yes. I mean, the soldiers were all volunteers. Unlike Vietnam, it was a draft army.

So, they -- none of them sort of bemoaned their fate that they were in the Korengal Valley. They joined the Army. They joined the airborne infantry, and there they are. And, for a lot of them, that was what they -- that was the point. It was what they wanted to experience.

The broader politics of the war, the broader strategy really wasn't relevant to them. What was relevant was what was happening right in front of them in that valley. That was what they talked about. Had they sat around talking about the politics, it would have been in the book, but they didn't.
And, so, the book really is a very intimate inquiry into their experience.

JEFFREY BROWN: Yes, intimate, and you become part of this story. I want to ask you about that. You're embedded with this unit. You experience a lot of the same things they go through, including being hit -- you are in a truck when it's hit by an IED.
How do you negotiate your role as journalist, as writer, while at the same time almost being, I don't know, almost one of the guys? I don't want to put too much of a stress on that. But how did you see it?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: It was -- it was very hard to maintain any kind -- anything close to neutrality or objectivity. And, very quickly, I realized it was impossible.

JEFFREY BROWN: You weren't going to worry about it?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: And I wasn't going to worry about it. In fact, I was -- it became interesting to me.

The affiliation that I experienced with these guys, the affection I had for them, the -- frankly, the subjectivity that started to occur in my journalism really began to interest me, because I realized that my feelings for them roughly mirrored their feelings for each other.

And what I was seeing in my -- in the -- in my inclusion in that group, what I was seeing was something very important about the group dynamics in a platoon. I was starting to understand why it is that soldiers will say, you know, the worst thing that can happen is that my buddy gets killed, and I would do anything to keep that from happening.

And that just makes no sense to a civilian. But, if you're out there with those guys, and you start to feel the tug of that connection, it starts to make some sense.

JEFFREY BROWN: Of course, this -- this role of the writer goes to fitting into a long tradition of writing about war, whether in fiction or nonfiction.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: It is. I mean, the -- the wars that our country have -- has been in, without the reporting that's done about those wars, the public would have -- really have almost no access to those events.

And, at that point, I think it's really problematic politically, for the public to really not be aware. And the way they understand these events is through books, through film, and through the news.

JEFFREY BROWN: Let me ask you, finally, as I said at the top here, the U.S. military has now pulled out of the valley, which means no one is any longer at Restrepo or any of the other posts around there.

You have kept up with some of the soldiers you write about. How do they feel about that? Do they -- do they sense that perhaps -- I mean, do they think it was worth it?

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: You know, they're very conflicted about it. I mean, they -- on the one hand, they understand that every war is -- has their Restrepo, their Hamburger Hill, their Dunkirk. War is very dynamic. It changes continually, because the enemy is changing his strategy as well. And positions get abandoned. And, abstractly, they know that.

Personally, it was a very painful to them to see the withdrawal from the Korengal, to watch Restrepo be demolished with American explosives intentionally. That was very painful. And, in the end, they had -- the meaning that that place had, they had to sort of carry within their own hearts, even though now it's essentially enemy territory again.

JEFFREY BROWN: All right, the new book is called "War." The film coming soon is "Restrepo."

Sebastian Junger, thanks for talking to us.

SEBASTIAN JUNGER: Thank you.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 80, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

Last night I met my first rough patch in seventy-nine days of walking the “Walk.” I must have had a fever, or maybe it was just the heat of the Mississippi night before a big rain. I found myself as a dried leaf of Sweet Gum stuck between pages in Robert Brock’s novel, “Honeysuckle.” In my delirium I had plopped down in the far back seat of a Greyhound bus and although it was raining, I had streams of sweat racing down the lines of my cheek bones. My freckled face was still sweet but the abrupt curve of my nose said that it was broken along with my innocence.

I rubbed the condensation off the window with my elbow and prayed out loud, “Please God, let me make it to the River. If you can help me make it to Shreveport I will be free.” I scanned the rear view for as long as I could to make sure he wasn’t coming after me. I woke up to the gentle touch of a heaven- sent Mama who said, “Baby boy, you comin’ into Shreveport. It’s Shreveport, dawlin’. Wake up.” “I still believe in angels,” the author told me on his back patio as he flipped a T-bone, a single malt in hand.

I was caught in the netherworld between fatigue and sleeplessness. It was late and the sound of thunder and the crack of lightening came to my door. I had an idea that if I made it to the camp pool I wouldn’t lose my dinner. The flashlight didn’t work so well so I turned it off and felt my way to the water. The sign at the pool gate said, “No Smoking, No Swearing, No Swimming after 10 PM, No…” I teetered for a second on the edge of the pool feeling nauseous and dizzy. I fell back onto the water with no thought of anything beyond relief.

The waters were cool by contrast to the thick and fragrant camp air. When I came up for my first breath I heard the crack of lightening from the direction of Tom Bailey Lake. It reminded me of when I had held onto a cherry bomb too long and had it explode nice and close to my left ear and my brother admonishing me after the fact, “You have to get rid of it sooner than that!”

I took full advantage of the healing gifts of the water. In fact, as a heavy rain began to fall, I found myself waking up with two hands holding on to the edge of the pool and my chin falling to my chest. I rested my head against the warm concrete with my arms outstretched in supplication. The rain fell like solid balls with weight and temperature. I didn’t care because the Mississippi rain somehow washed away my sins and the general malaise that tried to hold me back.

When I finally crawled out my hibernation I knew that I had to take care of what ailed me. There was some of that, “Put me in coach, I’m ready to play” going on but I had to jettison that for some sound reasoning.

The “Free Clinic” I found on line at 606 22nd St had gone bust. I consulted the magical GPS and found no less than three hospitals within four blocks of my position. I wanted to nip this minor physical bother in the bud before it started to keep me from my appointed rounds. It was time to cash in my bonus miles for a day to reboot my joujou. I repeated Mag's, “The mind is always stronger than the body.”

I trundled into the Riley Hospital-Emergency looking rather like the old surfer ready to paddle into the line-up at 19th St. There weren’t any other patients waiting their turn which I found implausible. The receptionist was one of those beautiful girls who didn’t know it. I approached the metal circle in her window and asked, “Can you hear me through that thing?”

“Yes, sir, I can. How can we help you today?”

“I have a minor skin thing going on and I’d like to see a doctor about it.”

“That would be just fine. Can I have you sign here, here, here and here? Then we’ll be able to see you.”

Before I could finish the insurance paperwork and the disclosures a male nurse came to the door and asked, “John?”

He sat me down in room number six. My vitals checked out okay but for the five cups of coffee that gave me away. He told me that he was forty-five years old but I had guessed thirty-five. We talked about our weight issues. He said, “I used to be a runner. Three miles a day. But raising kids and married life, you know how it is.”

“I do. I have weighed two ninety five.”

“I guess I should walk across the country too.”

“Be my guest. But if you don’t have your head on straight you might think it cruel and unusual punishment,” I warned him. He laughed.

“My wife had the lap band surgery. She lost sixty pounds.”

“Our neighbor couple each did that and it worked great for them.”

“My wife is happy although she can only eat a little bit at a time. The doctor and nurse will be in shortly. Can I get you anything?”

“That’s just fine. You go on. I appreciate it.”

As I fidgeted on one of those round examining chairs I heard the admitting nurse say in a muted voice, “We got an interesting guy in Six. He’s walking across the country for wounded soldiers.” I smiled. Shortly thereafter a nurse and the Emergency Physician entered the room.

It is my conviction that Emergency Physicians, male and female, are required to look better than their patients. There is a little known requirement that all of them have to sit through a ten hour Power Point presentation given by General Stanley McChrystal. He was our General in Charge in Afghanistan. He tells them how Emergency Room Physicians should aspire to live lives as Spartans. They have to follow a week of his daily routine: Four hours sleep; a five-mile-run every day; one meal allowed per day; one hour of spiritual alone-time; no hours sleep if need be; and always look as if you have just taken a cold shower and never get your hair wet.

The doctor arrived; a black haired Stanley McChrystal. The nurse was one of my people. She was lovely but normal at first glance. The doctor examined my legs and deduced that I had an allergic reaction to a list of possible culprits. He told me that the Nurse L., would give me a big fat shot of cortisone. I was tempted to say, “Thank you sir, may have another?” But I caught myself.

Nurse L. stayed behind before fetching the syringe filled with the stinging elixir. She asked me, “Do you see what I have around my neck?” She asked as she leaned forward to show me. I couldn’t make it out. She stuck it closer and I saw what it represented.

“This is the thumb print of my nephew, a Marine PFC who was killed in Afghanistan on July 3rd, 2009.”

I couldn’t help myself. I closed my eyes and began to cry. It hit me so fast as she held those precious rings of life in front of my eyes. Tears rolled down my face and she said, “Take your time, John.”

When I had composed myself I asked her, “What was his name?”

“PFC Donald Wayne, USMC.”

As I tried to compose myself she told me how Donald was named after one her brothers who had died when he was five. "My ninety-seven year old mother said, 'Now the two Donalds can be together in heaven'. It will be alright.'”

Nurse L. and I talked like old friends for a spell. We laughed about our smoking. It was inspiring to sit with her calmly in that chamber that seemed so private and full of all that was good and honest and kind in America. As I left the room Nurse L. said, "God bless you." And I said, "And you also."

If you can, stand on a rock high above the valley and bow your head. Say something sweet and full of love for PFC Donald Wayne, and include a little something for all of his brothers and sisters in arms who will not be coming home for Fourth of July celebrations.

PFC Donald "Wayne"

Vincent

Born 4/17/1983 in Slide II, LA- Died 7/25/2009 from injuries sustained on a battlefield in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Wayne lived most of his life in Gainesville, Florida. He attended Talbot Elementary School, Ft. Clarke Middle School and graduated from Gainesville High School In 2001. Following high school he trained and worked as an electrician and in food services for Subway and Melting Pot.

In 2008 Wayne joined the Marine Corps. He graduated from boot camp at Parris Island, SC and was thereafter stationed at Camp Lejeune, NC. Wayne deployed to Afghanistan May 19, 2009, and was an assaultman assigned to Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, Sth Marine Regiment, Regimental Combat Team, 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade.

Wayne was a member of Grace Baptist Church In Gainesville, FL,

Wayne was a loving family member, loyal friend, brave Marine, avid fisherman and hunter. He loved life. He will be sorely missed by everyone who knew and loved him.

Wayne was preceded in death by his grandparents Cecil Vincent of Meridian, MS, Robert (Pete) Bradley and Julia Bradley of Jacksonville, FL; his uncle and namesake Donald Wayne Vincent, Meridian, MS; his aunt Mary Ellen Hughes of Orange Park, FL.

Wayne is survived by his grandmother Victoria Vincent Love, formerly of Meridian, Ms, currently of Gainesville, FL; his parents Lee and Betty Sue Vincent of Gainesville, FL; siblings Rodney Vincent and his wife Cathy of Marietta, Ga, Jeffrey Vincent and his wife Charis of Locust Grove, GA, Julia Havener Doyle of Charleston, SC; nephews Lee and Jonathan Doyle; nieces Jolene Doyle and Marlie Vincent; Uncle Harold and Aunt Lenelle Akin of Collinsville, MS; Great Aunts and Uncles: Judy Mihlfeld of Gainesville, FL; Bessie Carter of Winder, GA, Gladys South of Indianapolis, IN, Beryl Mihlfeld of Grand Ridge, FL, Claude and Coleene Vincent of Meridian, MS, Eileen McGuire of Meridian, MS; many cousins: David Akin, Kim Duncan, Kelly Hughes, Cari Nunes, Mark Hughes and Jason Mihlfeld; two best friends , who were as close as brothers, Ian Walters and Tim Vazquez. The list could go on and on due to his numerous cousins, extended family members and friends.

Funeral Services will be held Tuesday, August 4, 2009 at 11am at Westslde Baptist Church, 10000 Newberry Road, with Pastors Jim Riley and Bill Grindstaff officiating. Burial will follow at Memorial Park Central. The family will receive friends on Monday, August 3, 2009 from 5:30-7 pm at WILLIAMS-THOMAS WESTAREA FUNERAL HOME, 823 NW 143rd Street.

Ian Walters, Tim Vazquez, Jason Mihlfeld, Mike Pittman, Bob Schwab, and Mike Harrison will serve as Honorary Pall Bearers.

In lieu of flowers, please give to your favorite charity, in Wayne's name, or to the Grace Baptist Church Building Fund, 7100 NW 39th Avenue, Gainesville, FL 32606.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote
All Rights Reserved

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Day 79, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-18T16:40:00.000-07:00

Shelter From the Storm

I was in another lifetime one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter from the storm".

Bob Dylan (Excerpt)

Last night I slept in the empty Aberdeen motel with the shades drawn and the air-conditioning running cold enough for me to sleep with my sweatshirt on. Before I fell asleep I got hungry and drove through this mystical place of clapboard shacks and Victorian mansions until I found a place that served food. I sat in front of the Chinese restaurant for awhile until I decided on another burger; two in one day- oh, man.

This morning I set out to see the ghost town of Aberdeen on foot for a couple of hours. I think everyone had already left for the six to four shift at the vinyl plant. Most of the businesses looked defunct anyway. Any sign of life would have been welcome. There were many churches in town, toward the north end especially. Some of these were quite beautiful. But even two or three of the churches had gone broke or their congregations had moved on to the next town with a nine to five awaiting them.

Inexplicably, there were three immaculately maintained Victorian mansions in town. Why they were restored I do not know. Maybe the executives of the chemical company took them. Their presence amid the ruin of the community didn’t make sense but I was prepared for that. I walked for a while toward Alabama but I wasn’t ready to cross that line.

An old man blew his nose down on the banks of a creek. Then he waved the hanky at me as if we had been old friends. That was fine with me. Maybe we were. I waved back just as enthusiastically. He was the only sign of life in the village of old, rotten facades and glorious homes restored as a last gasp by someone who cared.

I decided to take a soak in the pool again before I left for Meridian. I felt like the last person alive in a town where the water still ran and the lights still worked. I wondered when it would get turned off. I thought, “Who would pull the plug on old Aberdeen?”

I left Aberdeen for the calm and luxury of the Meridian KOA campground. The location of the KOA was perfect for my purposes. It was far off the nearest freeway but close enough to the city of Meridian that I could gain the relief of a bookstore, a theater or a restaurant if I so desired. From my campsite I had at least four different directions to take for a walk of considerable distance without the clutter of trucks and the nuisance of stop lights. Today I walked on Will Garrett Road to the intersection of a place called Alamucho.

As with Aberdeen, the location was a stone’s throw from Alabama. I discovered there was no Maginot Line over which I could not cross. Alabama was simply there and I could have easily stepped over for the fun of it. The fact is it looks exactly like where I was so there wouldn’t have been any point in it. But these are the types of debates you have with yourself when you’ve been walking solo for seventy-eight days.

The heat was a factor as usual but I tended to keep it at bay by drinking crazy amounts of fluids. Once I found my pace I was able to put all thoughts of personal comfort out of my head. I would have to say that the highlight of the walk was stopping to watch men loading wrecked automobiles onto a huge truck for transport.

The interesting part of this scene is that the hundreds of car doors and hoods, frames and rear axles had been dumped in a cleft between two hills. There were no signs, no fences, just a crew of five men and equipment moving the junk around. I guess in rural Lauderdale County any old crease in the landscape could serve as a junk yard. Or the bootleg junk yard was a clever way for a crook to avoid rent and permits. It cannot have been a very well kept secret.

As soon as I got back to my luxury campground I plopped into the swimming pool. I had a nice chat with two ten year old boys who seemed to be fascinated by my very presence. The families left the pool as the clouds began to threaten rain again.

Only a few drops fell but the drama of it all was worth waiting for. I soaked for the better part of an hour and a half. Once my core temperature had reached something I could tolerate, I repaired to the laundry room to clean some clothes and finish some writing. The air-conditioning was true luxury.

A reminder: One of our many obligations as Americans is to ensure that those who fight for our freedoms are treated with dignity and afforded every opportunity to heal from wounds they suffered in combat. To abandon our warriors upon their return would be a blight on our nation’s soul.

Shelters take many vets of Iraq, Afghan wars
Also housing those from earlier eras

By Anna Badkhen, Globe Correspondent | August 7, 2007

NORTHAMPTON -- After Kevin returned from Iraq, he spent most nights lying awake in his Army barracks in Hawaii, clutching a 9mm handgun under his pillow, bracing for an attack that never came.

His fits of sleep brought nightmares of the wounded and dying troops whom Kevin, a combat medic, had treated over 16 months of suicide attacks and roadside bombings. He kept thinking about an attack that killed 13 of his comrades. He hated himself for having survived.

Soon he was drinking so heavily that the Army discharged him. He moved back in with his parents in Narragansett, R.I., and drank even more, until they asked him to leave. Less than two years after he returned, Kevin became one of a growing number of veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who are now homeless.

"I lived in my car, at the Wal-Mart parking lot," said Kevin, who asked that his last name not be published because he is considering reenlisting. He has been staying at a homeless shelter in Northampton since early July.

Kevin's tailspin encapsulates a little-researched consequence of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As more troops return from deployments, social workers and advocates expect the number of the homeless to increase, flooding the nation's veterans' shelters, which are already overwhelmed by homeless veterans from other wars.

"It's a major problem that's not going away anytime soon," said Cheryl Beversdorf, director of the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans in Washington, who estimates that hundreds, perhaps thousands of troops who fought in Iraq and

Afghanistan are living in shelters.Kevin's story illustrates the lagging response of overburdened government agencies to the needs of troops returning from wars, said Jack Downing, who runs the shelter where Kevin and four other veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are staying.

"The general public believes that when a vet comes home, he's well taken care of," Downing said. "That's a horrible misunderstanding."

No one keeps track of how many of the 750,000 troops who have been deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan since 2001 are homeless. Peter Dougherty, director of homeless programs for the federal Department of Veterans Affairs, said 300 veterans of these conflicts have asked the agency for help finding shelter in the last 30 months. Beversdorf's agency has helped 1,200 homeless veterans of the current wars.

This reflects only a fraction of the total number of homeless Iraq and Afghanistan veterans, said Amy Fairweather, who works with Iraq war veterans at Swords to Plowshares, a private organization based in San Francisco that assists veterans. Last year, her agency's five shelters in California helped 250 such veterans, she said.

She said it is impossible to know how many veterans have not asked for help and are "crashing on their friends' couch, in a car, in a park . . . [or are] people who live in a church."

Social workers say combat trauma is responsible for the plunge into homelessness for many veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Unable to cope, veterans turn to alcohol and drugs, lose their jobs and the support of their family and friends, and end up on the streets, said Larry Fitzmaurice, whose homeless shelter in Boston is currently providing beds to seven veterans of the Iraq war.

Mental problems "really interfere with the ability to maintain a stable relationship, to maintain a secure employment," Fairweather said.
Army studies have found that up to 30 percent of soldiers coming home from Iraq suffer from depression, anxiety, or posttraumatic stress disorder.

Dougherty and other specialists who work with homeless veterans say the pattern of homelessness has changed. The approximately 70,000 veterans of the war in Vietnam who became homeless usually spent between five and 10 years trying to readjust to civilian life before winding up in the streets, he said. Veterans of today's wars who become homeless end up with no place to live within 18 months after they return from war, according to Dougherty.

Dougherty said the Department of Veterans Affairs is supposed to recognize and address combat trauma and help the new generation of veterans readjust in civilian life. But he acknowledged that many veterans "become homeless because there is not a support system."

"There are more services available to veterans returning today, but I still don't think there's enough," said Allison Alaimo, who works at the shelter for homeless veterans operated by Massachusetts Veterans Inc. in Worcester. Alaimo said her shelter has hosted a few veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan since 2001.
Joe, who also stays at the Northampton shelter, sustained a traumatic brain injury during the invasion of Iraq in 2003, when he manned a 155mm howitzer for the Third Infantry Division.

"My first time killing somebody was very devastating," he recalled, saying that he fired at a minivan carrying a family of 12 unarmed civilians. "Just one woman survived."
J
oe said he spent his first year back drinking, abusing drugs, and going AWOL from his military base at Fort Stewart, Ga. He said he was trying to shut off the horrible fits of screaming and violence brought on by his brain injury and his memories of the most disturbing moments of his war.

"Two months after I'm back from Iraq I'm shooting heroin," said Joe, staring into space at the shelter, where he has been staying for three months. Since he was discharged from the Army in 2004, he has been living in shelters and abandoned houses and staying with relatives and friends. He stole and dealt drugs to support his habit. He asked that his full name not be used because he has a criminal record.

Kevin said that at least two of his friends have become homeless since his deployment with the 25th Infantry Division ended in 2005. One stayed in Hawaii, "because you've got beaches you can sleep on," Kevin said. The other, he said, moved to the Salt Lake City area, "because out there, if you're homeless, you get meals, you get money" from Mormon charities.
As the wars continue, the number of homeless veterans is "going to radically swell,"

Downing said. Downing and others who work with homeless veterans said the government is not prepared to assist those troops; a recent report by the Government Accountability Office said there are some 200,000 homeless veterans and only 15,000 beds for them at shelters. At least 9,600 more beds are needed, the report said. No government agency provides permanent housing for homeless veterans, said Beversdorf.

"We're just the fallout, you know?" Joe said in the garden of the shelter. Under the trees, several homeless Vietnam War veterans stood in the shade, smoking in silence. "We fall through the cracks."

Anna Badkhen can be reached at abadkhen@globe.com.
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 78, Walk for Warrios

2010-06-17T16:57:00.000-07:00

I lay on my back in the empty motel’s pool and gazed at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Round shouldered, voluptuous clouds gathered as shards of sunshine shot through them in defiance. I floated as if I were made of light cloth, and the cool water soothed the sores on my legs that I had honestly accumulated over the past two weeks.

Today was splendor from the very start. I entered Oxford, Mississippi with an open mind and heart so that I could absorb all she had to give. Coming from a faraway place, I never had imagined that I would find myself exploring every cranny and edifice of the stately Ole Miss campus. But there I was, a foreigner who had stepped into the Kasbah or one who stood looking up at the Eifel Tower from the ground. The verdant and rich campus was alive with students, workmen and faculty and I could not bridle my odd fascination with the place.

Mississippi was growing on me. It is a lush and lusty place with the constant reminder of moisture and heat and a collective voice that is sweet and difficult to interpret. I stood in front of the Journalism building named after someone named Overby. I liked the way it looked and I stood before the structure as two professors, maybe a husband and wife, approached me to find out what was so interesting. I pulled out my silly digital camera and took a snapshot of it. The couple approached me. “I’ll bet you love being at Ole Miss,” I said.

The woman professor answered, “We have been here for years and we do love Ole Miss.” The husband asked where I was from and I told him, “San Diego.” He said, “San Diego is lovely.”

“It has its charms. But it is a desert and that is a different kind of beauty.”

“You should come back in Autumn. The colors are magnificent on this campus,” the husband continued. We wished each other well and said goodbye.

I spent the whole day on the campus talking to gardeners and watching students engage each other. At one point I found myself blocked off from the several paths that led to the football stadium. I saw a man standing by his maintenance truck talking to a woman who carried a load of papers. I asked the man, “Excuse me, can you tell me how I can get to the stadium with all this construction going on?” The woman smiled with a face that said she was perturbed.

“Sir, I don’t really know.”

The woman turned to me and said, “See, you should have asked me in the first place. I have been around here for twenty years.”

“It seems I should have. I’m sorry,” I said with a smile.

“You are forgiven. Do you see that barrier over there?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“Go past that until you see the stairs. Follow it down and it will take you right to the north end of the stadium.”

I thanked her and as I walked away, I whispered to her, “Next time I’ll ask you first.”

She winked and said, “That would be the smart thing to do.”

I have a thing for empty football stadiums. I like to walk on their fields and get a feel for the place. It’s probably my unrequited love for the game. I remember doing it with my son when we visited the University of Oklahoma. We enjoyed ourselves immensely standing in the end zone of Sooner Stadium. We could almost hear the crowd roar. Rebel Stadium which has a bank name on it was a perfect sized arena. I walked to the fifty yard line and tossed a coin onto the fake turf. “Heads. I think I’ll receive,” I said out loud. If I had had a ball in hand, I would have spiked it.

As I left the stadium I walked past the Athletic Department. Next to it was a building that was dedicated to the academic excellence of the university’s student-athletes. I thought that was a really good idea so entered the building to find out more. There was a female student sitting on a couch across from the reception desk. She had a pile of books and papers on her lap.

“Hi, I am visiting the campus and saw the sign out front. This is some great idea to have a place where athletes can come for academic help. Are you an athlete?”

“No, I’m one of the tutors.”

“So, is this a busy place?”

She said, “Oh, yes it is a very busy place during the school year. It’s even pretty busy right now.” Just then a woman in her early forties entered and said, “Whoa, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all. I’m visiting Ole Miss for the first time and I think it is fantastic that you have this big old place here to help your athletes.”

“We have it very well organized. Everyone is involved form the A.D. down to me and the tutors. It’s really effective. We try anyway. What brings you to the campus?”

I told her that I had played some college football and that I was impressed by Ole Miss having a whole building dedicated to helping its athletes succeed in the classroom. I told her about my mission and that I had walked from Camp Pendleton to Oxford. She said, “Hold on a second, there is someone here you should meet. Jonathan, this man was a football player. He’s from San Diego.”

I walked across the room and shook hands with the fellow Californian. The young man was a senior linebacker on the team and reportedly a very good student. “Jonathan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m going to guess that you weigh 222 and that you play linebacker.”

“You’re off by three pounds, sir. I am 225.”

“Do you play inside or out?”

“I’m an inside backer, sir.”

“What’s your number?” I asked. Sometimes a player’s number has significance.

“Fifty-one, sir.”

“Dick Butkis’s number. I had a picture of him over my bed all through high school.” I’m not sure if he knew who the heck I was talking about. We talked about his best friend who had played offensive line for the UCLA Bruins. Then he had to go into a meeting. I wished him luck. “Jonathan C.,” I said, to fix the name in my memory.

The department employee told me that Jonathan is a great kid. She told me about her two nephews; one a Marine, the other an Airman in the U.S. Air Force. Somehow, out here in America, the conversation always comes around to the relative who is serving oversees.

One of my friends had to work out some issues in rehab a few years ago. While a resident in the V.A. facility he became friendly with a man who had recently been released from San Quentin. The series of events that led the man to his captivity is for another day’s discussion but the man had a story that my friend thought I should know.

Henry Schunck was a Marine Corporal during the Vietnam War. I have included the official story of Henry’s heroism during an enemy attack at an Army Special Forces camp on May 10, 1968. Henry described to my friend how the events got started that led him to perform so bravely that day.

He said that at the beginning of the attack, an enemy grenade landed right next to him. When it didn’t go off he figured it wasn’t his day to die. Henry went into action in a most selfless and remarkable way. Here is the citation report giving a full account of his actions which earned Henry M. Schunck the Navy Cross. It is my hope that a Henry Schunck from one of our current wars isn't allowed to slip out of our embrace this time around.

SCHUNCK, HENRY M.
Citation:

The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Henry M. Schunck (2248186), Corporal, U.S. Marine Corps, for extraordinary heroism while serving as a Field Artillery Batteryman with Battery D, Second Battalion, Thirteenth Marines, FIRST Marine Division (Reinforced), Fleet Marine Force, in connection with operations against the enemy in the Republic of Vietnam.
On 10 May 1968, Corporal Schunck was a member of a detachment of two howitzers at the United States Army Special Forces camp at Ngok Tavak in Quang Tin Province.

In the early morning hours, the camp was attacked by a reinforced North Vietnamese Army battalion which attempted to overrun the hill-top position. Corporal Schunck unhesitatingly left his covered post adjacent to the command bunker and moved under intense fire to the 4.2-inch mortar emplacement in the center of the compound.

Although wounded in the leg by grenade fragments en route, he resolutely continued to the mortar position and attempted to deliver mortar fire single-handedly. Suddenly, he was attacked by a North Vietnamese soldier armed with a flamethrower. Reacting instantly, Corporal Schunck mortally wounded the enemy with accurate rifle fire and then left the mortar emplacement to assist a comrade who had been wounded while attempting to reach the mortar. After moving the casualty to a covered position, he shifted to the 81-mm. mortar, and with the aid of a companion, directed a heavy volume of fire against the attackers, inflicting several casualties as they launched a concentrated attack on his position.

Although wounded a second time by grenade fragments, he selflessly disregarded his painful injuries in order to continue bringing effective fire to bear against the hostile force until his supply of ammunition was expended. Leaving the emplacement, he moved along his unit's defenses, distributing ammunition and moving casualties to the Fire Direction Center bunker for treatment.

Throughout the remainder of the engagement, until the enemy had been repulsed, he continued to move along the defensive lines, encouraging and directing his companions. Then, weakened from his wounds and near exhaustion, he accepted evacuation. By his uncommon courage, unfaltering determination, and selfless devotion to duty at great personal risk, Corporal Schunck upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

Authority: Navy Department Board of Decorations and Medals
Home Town: San Francisco, California

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 77, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-16T18:33:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning in a Mississippi frame of mind. But before I wrapped up the camp I walked a farewell lap around Lake D’Arbonne. The weather had a hint of change in it. The forecast was for an 80% chance of thundershowers. When I arrived at one of the park’s fishing docks, facing the east, I was greeted by dawn’s early light and a shimmering white haze that hovered over the lake.

The shorebirds hadn’t yet arrived and the din of the insects continued as if the forest was still under the spell of night. The fragrant air gave away the strong and gathering moisture that was about to fall upon the land. As I entered one of the paths I had grown to admire I heard a heavy hoof crash upon dead wood. A doe must have been startled by the crack of a fallen branch under my boot. Her fawn stood feet away from me not knowing whether to run or to stand perfectly still. I helped her out and made a very loud whistle so that she would runoff and join her kin.

Knowing that I had some driving to do, I wanted to make sure I walked hard and fast for at least two and a half hours. I felt like I was running a steeple chase, up hills and down through bogs. The horse flies hadn’t started their engines yet and so I was unfettered and free to jam without having to swat the empty air as I had so often in the last few weeks.

I was astonished at how familiar I had become with my surroundings in such a short time. That pleased me and added to the pleasure of repeating the path among enjoyable landmarks like a fallen tree or a rickety bridge over a trickling brook.

When the walk was done and I had satisfied my need to penetrate the forest one last time, I made sure the campsite was as clean and inviting as when I found it. The showers at the park were actually very clean and the water was hot. I had clean, fresh smelling clothes for my drive to the Mississippi Stateline.

Although I have a dash mounted GPS, I prefer to pore over maps. I remembered that I had given my map of Mississippi to the Texas Jesus. His map had gotten soggy in a rain storm over Texarkana so I gave him mine. This morning I stopped into the 24 Hr. Walmart Super Store in Ruston, Louisiana to pick up another.

It was before 8:15 AM when I walked in and asked an Assistant Manager if he could help me find a map. This process attracted a crowd. First, the Assistant Manager began by saying, “Now the answer to that question is, I don’t know. But I know who does know. Hold on, sir,” he said as he spoke into one of those walkie-talkies pinned to his lapel. “Betty, honey, do we have any of the State maps of Mississippi anymore?”

“It’s really no big deal. I can find one in Vicksburg for sure,” I said.

“Now Vicksburg is as easy as it gets,” he began as another man and a woman got close to hear what the excitement was about. The other man started right in, “You just take I 20 for about an hour and half depending how fast you goin’. And it is straight as an arrow, sir. Straight as an arrow.”

By then the Assistant Manager put up his index finger and said, “Thanks, Betty. That’s what I thought.” Then turning to me he said, “I’m sorry sir, but we no longer carry those. But I tell you what. You go down this frontage road right here. You turn right and go down a ways until you will turn left. Then you go over the freeway…” As the man recited every inch of the road I should take to find a map, the other man stood close by and nodded his head. I guess he was there as my back-up in case Mr. Assistant Manager made any mistakes.

I thanked everyone. Those folks really took an interest in helping the stranger find a map. Eventually I bought a map and sat at the counter of a Waffle House reading it very thoroughly as I drank hot coffee and waited for my order of grits and eggs over easy.

There was no apparent way for a pedestrian to walk over the mighty Mississippi so I had to settle for a lovely drive over the majestic and historic river. I made a dash for the La Fleur Bluff State Park after a brief stop at the Old Historic Vicksburg Public Library on Walnut St. I sat at the computer there for a few minutes. The view from my reading table was the magnificent river swirling and rolling as slow as can be.

When I arrived at the park I have to say I was sorely disappointed but that gave way to amusement. The park was an urban park located almost in the downtown of Jackson, Mississippi. My error. The smallish park had been a string of swamps which some joker in the legislature had decided to claim as a state park. I rolled with the punch, signed in and immediately started the second half of my day’s walk. I spun around that tiny area at least ten times to reach a three and a half hour march.

When I arrived back at my campsite by the swamp a Park Ranger was waiting for me. She had a uniform and a badge and was looking rather official but for the tobacco stains on her teeth. “Sir, I see you don’t have a tent. Does that mean you don’t have a tent?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I prefer to sleep in my S.U.V.”

“Well, see now, we have a regulation put into effect a month ago that says you have to have a tent or an R.V. on the premises.”

“Couldn’t you consider my S.U.V. as an R.V.? I have been sleeping in it across six states and no other park has quibbled.”

“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave the park or maybe I can let you use an old tent I have back at the garage.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. The park is actually too small for my purposes,” I said and then I gave her my story and told her about my cause. She was not moved. She told me that I would be given a voucher that would be good at any state park for one year. There would be no refund. "No problem," I thought, I was leaving anyway.

“This could work out pretty good. You might be able to give that voucher to a friend or something as a gift.”

“Ma’am it’s okay. I appreciate your situation. I’ll be out of here pronto.”

“We’ve had some shady folks staying here without tents. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you’re one of ‘em but…”

I smiled and told her not to worry. She spoke into her walkie-talkie and I could hear her say to a supervisor, “No, he ain’t mad or nothin’.” Next stop, Oxford, Mississippi: The home of Ole Miss and William Falkner.

Having a son or other loved one deployed in a combat zone can mean unbearable anticipation of doom for some. This story turns out happy but the mother’s anxiety remains. The events describe another harrowing account of action in the now infamous Korengal Valley, Afghanistan.

Knox man earns Silver Star

Son's bravery makes worried parents proud
By Merri Shaffer
Posted July 16, 2008 at midnight

Sometimes when Lucille Ambrosia walks into a room, her husband, John Ambrosia, and her eldest son, Greg, fall silent. She understands why, and she would rather keep it like that.

The West Knoxville woman knows they've been discussing details about the 26-year-old man's tour as a soldier in Afghanistan. And she just doesn't want to hear about it.
So, when she received a letter in mid-May informing her family of her son's recommendation for the Silver Star, a prestigious and rare award of valor in military service, she was proud of him. But she didn't want any more details than that.

"Of course I am proud," she said, "but then it makes me realize how much danger he is in, and I'd rather not know that. ... I just try not to think about it."

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff presented Capt. Greg Ambrosia and 11 other paratroopers with awards July 11 in Afghanistan for valorous acts in combat. Ambrosia, a Knoxville native, was the only recipient of the Silver Star among the group.

He graduated from Catholic High School in 2001 and won acceptance to the United States Military Academy at West Point, from which he graduated eighth in his class in 2005.

It wasn't his lifelong dream to join the Army. He chose it during his junior year of high school after taking an Advanced Placement history course. He hasn't regretted his decision at all, Lucille Ambrosia said.

Greg Ambrosia previously has received a Bronze Star for a battle situation in early July 2007 in which he had to rescue men in a "pindown situation," his father said.

The paratroopers received their commendations this month as a result of an encounter they had with Taliban fighters in September 2007.

All members of the 2nd Battalion, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team, have been operating in Korengal Valley, Afghanistan, for 14 months with the bare necessities of buckets for bathrooms and wood for beds, Lucille Ambrosia said.

Ambrosia described the intense encounter with Taliban fighters to his father Tuesday afternoon in a phone call.

"His position started taking fire from multiple directions, and the fighting got so intense and so close that soldiers on both sides were throwing hand grenades," John Ambrosia said. "They were ... in danger of getting surrounded."

By intercepting the enemy's radio traffic the paratroopers learned of the Taliban fighters' plan to overtake their position and take them hostage. Greg Ambrosia had to keep the enemy at bay and call in for aerial support and artillery fire for their direct position, he said. It was Greg Ambrosia's actions along with his men's hard work that held the enemy fighters back long enough for aerial support to arrive.
By the end, a few soldiers were wounded. None were killed.

John Ambrosia said he thinks his son's star was because of his ability "to control the situation, keep the enemy at bay and maintain a cool and steady head in face of ... the enemy being upon" them.

A Taliban attack over the weekend that killed nine U.S. soldiers and injured 15 others has tempered the Ambrosias' happiness on behalf of their son and his company. It was also not until Tuesday morning, three days after the award presentation, that the family got confirmation their son was not involved.

"You talk about different extremes of emotion," John Ambrosia said. "From being ... so proud of him to so worried and so frightened that the absolute worst thing imaginable to a parent has happened."

Ambrosia's entire battalion should conclude their 15-month deployment and be back at their home station in Vicenza, Italy, by the end of this month.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote'
All Rights Reserved

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Day 76, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-15T17:37:00.000-07:00

The Night They Drove Old Dixie

Virgil Caine is the name, and I served on the Danville train,
Till Stoneman's cavalry came and tore up the tracks again
In the winter of '65, We were hungry, just barely alive
By May the tenth, Richmond had fell, it's a time I remember, oh so well,

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
And the bells were ringing,
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
And the people were singin'
They went,
Na na na na na na…

The Band (excerpt)

Late yesterday afternoon, as I sat down to write, I heard the mewling of the four year old from the fifth wheeler in the campsite across from mine. I was only slightly annoyed as I realized his parents were trying to coax the boy into taking his first ride on a bicycle. The parents were gentle but firm in their encouragement but I could tell the boy was mounting resistance. I heard,

“You can do it. Keep going…”

Then the boy cried, pleading to be released, “I can’t. I can’t.”

The mother stood her ground, “Keep peddling. That’s it.” And then there was applause from both mother and father. I kept my head down through the process but I could hear that progress had been made.

Later, as the one year old and the new bicycle rider were settling down in the fifth wheeler with their father, the mother came over to my campsite to apologize. “Hello, sir, I am sorry about all the commotion of a while back. We were teaching our boy how to ride a bike. My name is Charnyce.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is John Cote’,” I said with outstretched hand.

“You know I think cause he’s my first I might have spoiled him.”

“Everyone learns to ride a bike at a different pace. It sounded like he was getting it down.”

“Yeah, well sort of.”

“You’re not in a hurry are you?”

“No, not really, I just don’t want him to be afraid of the thing.”

“I’m not giving you advice, but as a suggestion, don’t be too worried about how fast he picks it up. When he’s ready he’ll ride away without a peep from you.”

“You really think so?” she asked with a look of incredulity. I nodded in the affirmative.

“How long are you and your family camping out here?”

“My husband works for the oil company on a pipeline. We stay two months here and two months there.”

“Is that hard with two little boys to take care of?”

“It’s fine with me. My husband makes a heck of a lot more now than when he was a police officer and I was a teacher.”

“How long was your husband a policeman?”

“Seven years. A bad man hit him in the head with a hatchet and my husband had to kill him. After that he had to go on disability and I quit my teaching job.”

“Is he okay now?”

“Oh yeah, he’s much better. He likes the work and we’re doing than with our two jobs before. The Lord always has his plan. Neither of us had any idea that we’d being doing this. We just trust in Him and the rest is taken care of.”

“Good for you. You have a good looking family. I wish you lots of luck.”

We talked for a while. She asked why I was walking all around. I told her and she thought that was really great. She took a Fisher House card and said that her husband would solicit donations from his crew.

Then Charnyce’s husband hollered from behind their fifth-wheeler, “She will talk to you for hours, sir, but it’s time to put down the kids. Come on honey give the nice man some peace.” She and I laughed and said goodnight.

At three o’clock I heard some noise close to the truck. Adrenaline shot through my body and put me in a state of readiness, but for what? I slapped a magazine into my pistol and waited for something or someone to move outside. I inched toward the rear window to get a look at the intruder. It was a twenty pound raccoon. I dropped my magazine and put the gun down.

I couldn’t sleep anyway because of the humidity so I got up and made some coffee. As I heated the water the little raccoon walked in a semi-circle as she watched me with great interest. She had destroyed my trash bag and left its contents all over the campsite. I knew that she had a belly full of Raisinettes that I had thrown away out of guilt. But I could tell she either wanted to talk or she wanted something more to eat.

I’m sure she would have preferred a crayfish or a nice fat grub but I poured out a nice pile of dry-roasted peanuts for her to munch on. I watched her circle get tighter and tighter as she approached the picnic table. Finally, I saw her black banded face and her sparkling eyes in the ray of my flashlight. Her hands worked the nuts into her mouth and she seemed very happy. Once she had finished that pile of peanuts she inched away from the table watching what I might do next. I was a pushover and poured out another cupful of nuts and drank my coffee and watched my new “pet” devour her breakfast.

After that I lay down for an hour of fidgeting, finally deciding to get up and walk. I walked for an hour and half before I realized I could barely see in front of each step. Even staying on the paved road within the park was not the best idea until the sun had actually cleared the Appalachians. I returned to the campsite.

When I went back out to finish my walk, I passed by the children’s fishing pier again. As I appeared from the forest path and started toward the pier, a red-bearded man stood at the foot of the pier. His extended family went to the end with two fishing poles and a ten year old boy who looked ready to hook up. The red-bearded man asked, “Did you see any bar in there?”

“No, only a brand new fawn. No bar today.”

“Give it time, sir. There’s always tomorrow,” he continued.

“So, is that your family out there getting ready to fish?”

“Yassir, my ten year old and his uncle and the two women are sisters of mine. That kid is a fishin’ fool.”

“I understand. I was just like that it his age.”

“I’m not much of a fisherman. I hope you don’t hold that against me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Sir, you are a gentleman. Y’all have a nice walk.”

I tipped my hat and wished him luck as a breeze cooled the back of my neck. As I crept under the bow of a tall gum tree the man yelled, “Keep an eye out for them bar.”

I know that this next story will be difficult for many of you to read. But it is the story of a family’s dedication to a son. When round-the-clock nurses just didn’t care, a mother and a father of a severely wounded U.S. Soldier stepped in to render the best love and care possible. It is a story of love and faith and hope. It also highlights the need for more and better health care for our returning wounded warriors.

Mother tends to severly injured soldier son

Associated Press In this April 8, 2010
(AP Photo/Jacquelyn Martin)
Posted: Sunday, May 30, 2010 10:00 pm | Updated: 3:09 pm, Fri May 28, 2010.

MANASSAS PARK, Va. (AP) - There are mothers who will spend today missing sons and daughters fighting overseas. There are women who have lost children in those wars, for whom Mother's Day will never be the same.

And then there is Eva Briseno.

Joseph Briseno Jr., Eva's 27-year-old son, is one of the most severely wounded soldiers ever to survive. A bullet to the back of his head in a Baghdad marketplace in 2003 left him paralyzed, brain-damaged and blind, but awake and aware of his condition.

Eva takes care of "Jay" in her suburban Virginia home where the family room has been transformed into an intensive care unit, with the breathing machine and tubes he needs to stay alive.

Try to imagine this life.

Each day starts with two hours of bowel care, an ordeal as awful as it sounds. She labors over his body, brushing his teeth, suctioning fluid from his lungs, exercising his limp arms and legs, and turning him every other hour to prevent bedsores.

She sleeps a few hours at a time, when the schedule says it is her turn, often slumped in exhaustion by his side.

She has been out to dinner with her husband, Joseph Sr., once in seven years.

She could have a better life if she put Jay in a nursing home. Or if she went back to using the home health care nurses the government provided. But one looked indifferently without wiping Jay's mouth when he drooled. Others fell asleep on the night shift, inattentive while Jay suffered seizures.

It's hard for a mother to watch such lapses. The nurses don't love Jay. His parents do. So they have chosen to care for him on their own, and you will not find them feeling sorry for themselves - only for him.

A lesser man would leave, Eva says of her spouse, whom she has known since grade school in their homeland, the Philippines. A lesser woman would cringe at the wound care and bodily indignities that Eva has learned to manage for her son, Joseph says.

"I can't walk away from this. She can't. I'm very proud of my wife," he said.

What keeps Eva going is hope that stem cells or some future treatment advance will help her son.

"I do believe in miracles," she says.

Yet desperation clouds her prayers. "Most of the time I ask God if I can take Jay's place," she confesses, unable to suppress a sob.
Hearing his mother, Jay cries too, the tears silently slipping from his blind eyes.
For Eva, the tears began the day Jay shipped out, on his 20th birthday in 2003. He was a student at George Mason University, hoping to become a forensic scientist. He had joined the Army Reserves and was surprised to be called up so soon. Eva took a cake to his unit before he left.

At first, she wasn't very worried: Jay was assigned to civilian work, building community relations. A few months later, the call came. One of those civilians had shot Jay in the back of the head at point-blank range. His spinal cord was shattered, and cardiac arrests led to brain damage that left him unable to see or to speak more than an occasional word.

His family became a mass casualty of the wound.

His parents quit their jobs and drained their savings to take care of him after he came home from hospitals and rehabilitation centers. His younger sisters, Malerie and Sherilyn, help when they can, and Joseph does a big share. But much of the care falls to Eva, a small, doe-eyed woman who weighs 100 pounds to Jay's 147.

At first, she took care of Jay in the basement, using a hoist that some charities provided to lift him into a wheelchair and the shower. But descending those stairs became a descent into hell. After a while, Eva could no longer bear caring for him in that cavelike setting.

So they moved Jay upstairs, surrounding him with white walls, bright flowers and Washington Redskins gear so he will have cheerful things to look at in case he has glimmers of vision the doctors can't detect.

Eva fills his days by reading him news stories, telling him how good he looks and how nicely he is dressed, and playing the "young people music" he likes on the radio. He grins when the Redskins win, or when Linkin Park, Eminem, Jay-Z or Beyonce are on. Others get a grimace.

"He doesn't like Mariah Carey or Kelly Clarkson," Eva laughs.
She reminisces about Jay as a teen who loved track and field, played pranks on his sisters, tested her nerves when he was learning to drive, and hosted parties with friends in that basement she now avoids.

Jay's care requires a schedule with such military precision that trips to the grocery store or to church must be planned two days in advance.

It starts at 6 a.m., when Eva gives Jay medicines, logs his blood pressure and temperature, and begins his bowel care. That involves properly positioning him, giving suppositories and bathing him afterward. If it's not done right, he can suffer obstruction or impaction, and they've been down that road before.

Next comes grooming, and cleaning the breathing tube that attaches to his respirator. By noon, Jay is dressed and into a wheelchair, a lunchtime sludge of nutrients draining into his feeding tube while he listens to the TV. Afternoons bring physical therapy and twice-weekly prayer sessions with a deacon who comes to their home.

At night, they give Jay breathing treatments, empty his urine bag and weigh its contents, because a change in volume can be a sign of trouble.
When taking care of such basic needs in babies, "you see them grow" and have the joy of watching them progress, Eva said. "Now, every day is the same," and the only changes are bad ones, she said, starting to cry again.

A year ago, Jay had a setback and lost the ability to swallow. Two months ago, he suffered a nicked kidney and internal bleeding after an operation for kidney stones.
When the doctors showed Eva his big wound and how to care for it, "I thought at first, 'I cannot do it,"' she said. But again, she rose to the occasion.

The degree of care the Brisenos provide is unusual, said Dr. Mitchell Wallin, one of Jay's doctors and a neurologist at Georgetown University and the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Washington, D.C.

"Most patients in this kind of condition would not be able to live at home," Wallin said. The Brisenos "are doing an incredible job," he said. "They don't take enough breaks. They're almost too dedicated."

Jay's father has a plan: forming his own home health care agency to supply nurses for Jay and other wounded veterans.

"The only way we can move on with our lives is to hire and interview, from the start, these nurses," he said. "One of them straight up told us, 'I'm in it for the money.' We just looked at each other and said, 'You're in the wrong house. You're not coming back here."'

The Brisenos are proud of their son's service despite the price they all pay for it now.

"This is the effects of war, its effects on families. War is ugly and the American people need to know this," said Jay's father, who spent 17 years in the Army himself.
Eva admits regret but also feels gratitude.

"Probably other mothers regret having their sons or daughters go to war, especially when they come home hurt. It's not easy seeing your child be in this position," she said. "We are so proud of Jay and we thank God every single day that we have him."

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote
All Rights Reserved

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Day 75, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-14T17:25:00.000-07:00

I left my playground in the forest for the road to Farmersville and the promise of a waffle breakfast. I discovered early on in this walk that this man does not live by oatmeal alone. I could never have made it as a spy because at the first mention of a Salade Nicoise or a perfect cut of juicy prime rib I would have given away all of our country’s secrets. Once I left the protective bubble of the park I was free to lower my butt, drive the knees and tilt the body just right to attain maximum velocity: four miles per hour.

LA 2 broadened as it passed by the entrance of the state park. There were grassy margins on either side of the road which were alternately wider on one side then wider on the other. There was so little traffic that I marched from one side to the other to take advantage of the increased space. Occasionally a logging truck would pass at break neck speed. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t my neck that was breaking so I stayed alert.

I descended to the low spot in the road which was at the northern portion of Lake D’Arbonne. From there I could see several homes on the lake. Many of the homes were very modest but their location was superb. Some of the more elaborate properties had docks and boats poised for a day of fishing.

The lake was the very image of Louisiana that I had in my head before ever seeing the place in person. Cypress trees, imprisoned by the ubiquitous water, stood as if they were unhappy about the whole situation. Their foliage resembled something of a bad hair day which I attribute to being up to their trunks in water. But the trees were everywhere and so I guess Mother Nature knew what she was doing.

Snowy egrets plied the shoreline for crustaceans, worms and small fish. A larger bird, probably an immature fish hawk soared passed me at a high speed but it pulled up before crashing onto the water fifty yards away. His feathers were a mottled brown without the white head I was used to seeing in California and Mexico. His air speed was a tell tale sign that he was made for aerial attacks on fish swimming near the surface.

There was a cove that looked promising for holding fish but I found no fishermen anywhere around. An opening in the trees allowed me to stand under cover and watch for any boils or bait being chased on threat of their lives. I settled for a good sized shadow that moved slowly and with confidence only a few feet below me. I couldn’t be sure if it belonged to a five pound catfish or a fat bass that was cruising the banks for minnows and crawdads.

For at least a mile the terrain followed the elevation of the shoreline and made my pace quick and steady. The distance from camp to the Huddle House restaurant was exactly 5.5 miles. I could taste the waffle already but I refrained from jogging. The temperature had already risen to 90 degrees by 8:30 AM and I wanted to be able to walk later in the day without difficulty so I pulled back on the throttle.

I had to finally attack the rise that ran for nearly two miles as the road approached the town of Farmersville. I could see the Golden Arches of MacDonald’s towering over all of the other structures and knew that my reward was close.

Frankly, in towns like Farmersville any restaurant called something other than Waffle House, MacDonald’s, Sonic, or Billy’s Catfish Shack is the one I chose. I was really happy to have arrived at the modest Huddle House for a fresh batch of eggs and a waffle with its hint of malt.

I bought the local news paper and caught up on all the latest arrests and deaths and I read about the local Sherriff who was indicted on forty counts of everything from false imprisonment to possession of narcotics. I was relieved not to have made his acquaintance out on a lonely road during one of my lonely sojourns.

The Huddle House was not busy when I sat down to order. In fact there was me, a red-faced man with an enormous gut sitting next to me at the counter (I moved over one notch so as to not crowd his waist) and a cantankerous man with a full beard sitting by himself in one corner. First thing I heard upon sitting down was, “Hey, waitress, I am waiting for those damn eggs.”

The waitress, who taking my order at the time, rolled her eyes and whispered, “Don’t you just love Monday mornings?”

“Probably more than you,” I answered.

The man came to the counter and explained, “I haven’t had my coffee yet. And what about them grits?”

The waitress was very calm, I mean Paxil calm. She looked him right in the eye and said, “If you will sit on back down, sir, I will bring you some fresh brewed coffee and the grits you wanted.”

The man huffed but turned around and sat down with a twisted up face and a hand that patted a 2/2 tempo on the table. Then Santa Clause sitting next to me became inflamed when the eggs he received were scrambled instead of over easy. “What in blazes is goin’ on here? Can’t you remember a gall dern thing?” He bellowed.

The waitress who received her doctorate in Clinical Psychology from Tufts last May (Well, she could have) approached the man with a smile and said in a very soothing voice, “We’re so sorry. Let me take those away and I’ll bring back those eggs just as you wanted them and they won’t cost you a dime.”

Santa Clause chortled, and with great reluctance offered, “Well, er uh, that’s more like it.”

By that time, the man in the corner had popped a cork. He rushed up to the cashier and threw down his bill and proclaimed, “I ain’t paying for any of it!”

“We’re terribly sorry, sir. Please come back and see us when you’re in a better mood,” the waitress replied as if she had practiced the quick-fire retort.

The man stood there as if he were considering some physical response. Instead, he turned and left in a big hurry. I ate my eggs and waffle without incident and ran like hell back to camp.

In the afternoon I gave myself another treat. When I was sixteen and totally immersed in football, I saw an interview with a great man. The man was Eddie Robinson, the Head Football Coach of Grambling State University. I had wanted to visit Grambling ever since and today I did. I wandered around the campus, visited the library and the Student Union. The Eddie Robinson Museum was closed. I joined a parade of one hundred teenage boys who were walking toward the football practice field to start the afternoon session of their football clinic. A soon to be three hundred pound boy came up to me and said, “How do you like this heat, sir.”

I said, “It feels like football weather.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And man, these coaches are running us like fools. I’m so tired I could sleep for hours.”

“I know what you mean. Football takes a lot of hard work. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, sir. We got two more hours this afternoon.”

“You can do it,” I said, repeating my own mantra. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy politely said as he hobbled toward the football offices.

I stood at the fence of the empty stadium and imagined the most revered Eddie Robinson on the sideline with his white shirt and tie, willing his men to victory. It was a visit I will always remember.

I was reminded today of the consummate U.S. Army Ranger, Col. Ralph Puckett, and other American men for whom character was everything. Today as I stood above Grambling Stadium I began to ponder the importance of leadership. John Wooden recently passed after living an incredible life dedicated to building the character of his players. Col. Puckett, Eddie Robinson and John Wooden all served to inspire generations of young men to be the best they could be.

In a world where character is often subordinate to results, these men proved that character is what counts above all else.

Last year, I heard Col. Puckett speak to the graduating class of the Infantry Officer Basic Leadership Course in which my son, John had participated. His speech to the young Lieutenants was so inspiring I was ready to sign up right there. Here is some information on this man of such exemplary character.

Army legend credits success to training, Soldiers

Story and photo by Bridgett Siter/The Bayonet

FORT BENNING, Ga. (TRADOC News Service, April 15, 2005) – “Personal growth through safe adventure.”

It’s almost laughable to hear retired Col. Ralph Puckett use that slogan, given the harrowing experiences that earned him the Distinguished Service Cross, two Silver Stars and five Purple Hearts during his 22 years of service with U.S. Army Rangers.
But it was exactly that – his experience with the Rangers – that taught him the importance of teamwork and the life-altering benefits of overcoming extreme challenges.

He applied those principles – and that slogan – to the company he founded after he retired from the Army in 1971, a company he called Discovery because it was designed to help people discover their inner strengths through extreme adventures such as whitewater rafting, rock climbing and surviving in the wilderness. He took great measures to ensure the safety of those who participated in the program, but they didn’t always know it.

“There was a very real connection there, as I see it, between them and Rangers,” Puckett said. “Soldiers, Rangers in particular, develop confidence and teamwork because they do things that are extremely challenging. Even their training is extremely challenging.

“The people who (participated in Discovery) would have to do things they thought were impossible and they perceived as dangerous. It taught them teamwork and built their confidence.”

Puckett regularly preaches teamwork and confidence when he speaks. And he’s in much demand as a speaker on Fort Benning at graduations and the Infantry Officer Basic Course; locally at civic events, churches and schools; and as far away as Korea and Afghanistan, where he met with Rangers in December 2004. And he’s a frequent guest writer for the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer.
No matter what the venue, Puckett is always, unabashedly, pro-Ranger.

“We have very fine Soldiers today, and Rangers are the cream of the crop,” he said. “I like to say Ranger training is the best life insurance for the battlefield you can get – for the leaders and the Soldiers they lead. It’s the icing on the cake.”

Puckett was a first lieutenant in 1950 when he formed and commanded the first Ranger company since World War II, the 8th Army Ranger Company, in Korea, the only Ranger company that wasn’t trained at Fort Benning.

Months after its formation, Puckett was wounded when his company, though outnumbered 600 to 71, captured a Chinese stronghold and repelled five counterattacks. On the sixth counterattack, Puckett was wounded a second and third time. He ordered his men to withdraw, but he stayed behind to fight. Two Rangers returned, fought back the Chinese, and dragged their commander to safety.

His extraordinary valor was recognized in 1992 when Puckett, who was wounded twice in Vietnam, was among the first to be inducted in the Ranger Hall of Fame, and again in 2003, when he was named Distinguished Member of the Ranger Training Brigade.

Though he was, in fact, never a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment – it wasn’t formed until 1984 – the secretary of the Army chose Puckett to serve as the regiment’s honorary colonel eight years ago, in spite of a policy that requires an honorary commander to have served with the regiment. Such was Puckett’s influence on the Ranger community.

Last year, when Puckett was named West Point distinguished graduate, Col. Craig Nixon, the regiment’s commander, said the honorary regimental commander deserves all the accolades he’s acquired because “he embodies what we strive for.”

“(He’s a) quiet professional and a true gentleman,” Nixon said. “He’s the ultimate mentor to the senior leadership and young Soldiers alike.”
Puckett said these honors and awards humble him.

“But all that I have accomplished in my military career, I owe to my Soldiers,” he said. “They deserve all the praise.”

These days, when he speaks, as he did recently at West Point’s Infantry Ball, Puckett tells young officers and cadets they can count on their Ranger training to set them on the path to success.

“I hear the same thing over and over,” he said. “‘Col. Puckett, when I get a platoon, I know 80 percent of my Soldiers will be combat veterans. I’ve never been to combat, sir.’

“And I tell them, ‘If you’ve got that Ranger Tab, they know you’ve got what it takes to lead them.’”

As the Ranger Training Brigade gears up for next week’s induction ceremony for the Distinguished Member of the Brigade and the 22nd annual Best Ranger Competition, Puckett said he’s preparing for what is traditionally an exciting time for the Ranger community.

“It’s a very exciting time of year, particularly the competition,” he said. “It’s a competition to see who is the best of the best, and from my perspective as an observer, it showcases what is important about Rangers: their teamwork and training and pride.

“The Best Ranger (Competition) is probably the greatest challenge these (competitors) will ever face, including combat,” he said. “Certainly not everyone can compete, but it shows what human beings are capable of if we aspire to be better than we are.

“They’ve worked themselves up to being the best they can be. That’s what being a Ranger is all about.”

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Day 74, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-13T14:35:00.000-07:00

Ballad Of The Green Berets
As Written & Performed by SSgt Barry Sadler

Fighting soldiers from the sky
Fearless men who jump and die
Men who mean just what they say
The brave men of the Green Beret

Silver wings upon their chest
These are men, America's best
One hundred men we'll test today
But only three win the Green Beret

Trained to live, off nature's land
Trained in combat, hand to hand
Men who fight by night and day
Courage deep, from the Green Beret

Silver wings upon their chest
These are men, America's best
One hundred men we'll test today
But only three win the Green Beret

Back at home a young wife waits
Her Green Beret has met his fate
He has died for those oppressed
Leaving her this last request

Put silver wings on my son's chest
Make him one of America's best
He'll be a man they'll test one day
Have him win the Green Beret

The drive out LA 33 was like a walk in the park. Tall trees lined the road as usual and in between long expanses of forest there were gentleman farms with vast lawns and just enough livestock to identify them as such. I stopped briefly at a mom and pop convenience store. I mixed coffee and hot chocolate for my morning treat and stood in line for ten minutes while two men cashed in their scratchers.

Before I arrived at the state park I was already crossing a bridge over Lake D’Arbonne. Being from California, northern Louisiana is out of my cognitive jurisdiction. But I can say from first-hand experience that this region of the South is as picturesque and tranquil as anything I have seen. I am conditioned to aggressive public behavior. But I think the cell phone talking, “get out of my way, that’s my parking place –fool”, Escalade driving folks of back home haven’t discovered the Sportsmen’s Paradise yet. God knows I hope they don’t.

Thankfully, as I began my late walk into the depths of Lake D’Arbonne State Park, a breeze began to follow me. And although the temperature hovered near one hundred again, my body didn’t seem to mind. The park was pretty much full from the moment I arrived but I didn’t hear the chatter of children or adults in conversation as I had elsewhere. An occasional dog barked well in the distance and became part of the background noise of the forest.

By the time I reached the boat ramp I finally began to hear the familiar laughter of children. The park pool was less than a half a mile from where I stood at the end of a wooden dock. I was hoping to find some fishermen at the fish cleaning station but no one was there. Nor could I see any boats on the lake. Maybe everyone had come in before the full strength of the sun had worn them down.

I continued on a trail into the woods and walked over three small bridges that arched over rivulets of slow moving tea colored water. Small creeks like these add so much to my wanderings through the forest. I like to wait to see if I can find a frog leaping or a turtle ducking or a damsel fly suspended over its reflection. I am rarely disappointed.

As I came around a bend in the trail I saw a long pier made for children’s fishing. The wooden railing was high enough so that an eight year old wouldn’t fall in and low enough to allow him or her to cast a line into the water. A boney waif stood at the mid-point of the pier. He was curling his index finger at me and he said, “Hello, you. I want to talk to youuu.”

“What do want to talk to me for?”

“I want youuu to help me and my brother get a hook that’s stuck in the wood down there,” he said as he pointed to the end of the dock.

His brother ran up and said, “No we don’t either. Our Daddy has lots a hooks. He even has a tackle box in the back of his truck.”

The little waif was determined. “Hey, I think we could use that thing.”

“I would get it for you but I think you’re better off using a hook from your dad’s box. That one is probably all rusted out.”

“Well, I wanted that thing to take home.”

“Where do you boys live?” I asked out of habit and trying to change the subject.

The waif did all of the talking for this duo. He said proudly, “1437 Turtle Dove Road, The U-nited States of A-merica. That’s where.”

“Is that close to here?” I asked.

The old boy sneaked in the answer this time, “Yassir, it idn’t far.”

Then the waif asked me what I was doing and where I was from. I told them what I was up to and the waif jumped all over that. “Come on Mister, you gotta meet our daddy. His name is Paul.”

“Well, that would be nice boys but I have to finish my walk. Maybe…” I tried to bow out gracefully but was cut short.

“Come on. They’s having a birthday party for Brittany. You might could get a hamburger.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just say hello. Who is Brittany?”

The waif shot back, “I don’t know! I just know it’s her birthday and they got balloons and burgers and everything. Come on, it’s right up there.”

The boys led the way to an outdoor party shed with a roof and a concrete floor. There were tables set up with salads and burgers and hot dogs in covered trays. A skinny man about my age turned as the waif made the introductions, “Daddy, this is a man from Cal-ee-forn-ya and he’s walking all the way to Georgia by hisself.”

“Well, I’m pleased to know you. Would you like a hamburger or a beer?”

“Thanks so much. I told your sons I would come up and say hi. I’ll just finish my walk and let you all enjoy the birthday party.”

“Then thanks for comin’. Have a good walk, man.”

After waving to the two boys I jumped back under the cover of the oaks and pines, some of whom I hadn’t met. D’Arbonne has so many trails that wend their way through the park for miles. There were as many oaks and gum trees as there were pines which made these trails somewhat different from the others I had covered. I could stay on one whole track of them for ten miles on one loop which made for an easy transition to my new surroundings. Two loops plus the added mileage walked on the park’s main arteries allowed me to reach my daily goal in almost record time. But I was in no hurry.

Early on in this journey I was exhorted by former Green Beret, SSgt. Gil “Mag” Magallanes, to never give up. He said, “The mind is always stronger than the body. You can do this.” I have remembered that bit of wisdom on a daily basis since the first week of my walk across America.

Article
Fort Bragg Soldier becomes the first amputee to complete Jumpmaster Course
Mar 03
By Sgt. 1st Class Jason B. Baker

FORT BRAGG, N.C. - For most Soldiers, when they join the Army there are a set of schools they set their eyes on as goals to complete. Schools like, Air Assault, Ranger and Pathfinder. For any airborne qualified noncommissioned officer, the natural goal would be the Jumpmaster Course.

For one NCO achieving this goal faced more than just a minor set back; but Sgt. 1st Class John (Mike) Fairfax, Special Forces Intelligence NCO, Headquarters Support Company, 3rd Special Forces Group (Airborne), became the first amputee Soldier to successfully complete the Jumpmaster Course, Nov. 15, 2008, and performed his first duty Dec. 3, 2008.

For Fairfax, this journey began the summer of 2005 in a remote region of Afghanistan when his truck was struck by an improvised explosive device.

In the attack he suffered a severe injury to his right leg, as well as injuries to his right eye and left lung. His team's medic, Sgt. 1st Class Derrick Coyme, quickly went to work to stop the massive bleeding caused by the severed femoral artery.

Just before losing consciousness Fairfax faced the realistic possibility he may not survive the attack, because of his heavy loss of blood and the team's remote location.

Fortunately, he survived, and his next memory is waking to the voice of his wife at his bedside in the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Fairfax knew he was not in the best condition, but felt committed to recovering from his injuries.

"It never crossed my mind that I wouldn't get back to a team," said Farifax. "My only goal was to get better and continue on with business as usual."

Initially, Fairfax still had his right leg, through several surgeries and battles with infection, doctors were able to save it and he began the long road of rehabilitation.

December of that same year, Fairfax returned to the group and his leadership gave him one mission: "go get better."

By June 2006 Fairfax was back to work, but spent over a year struggling with the pain of the injured leg. After several surgeries to repair the leg to make it more functional and reduce the pain had failed, a friend and fellow amputee joked that he should just cut the leg off.

Fairfax gave the option serious consideration. After consulting several doctors and amputee Soldiers, he decided to go through with the amputation.

A year prior to the day of his graduation from the Jumpmaster Course, he had the operation to remove his right leg. The next year would be spent dealing with a cycle of rehabilitation and methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus infections.

Each time the MRSA would come back he was forced to remain off the prosthetic.

Once healed, he would have to rebuild the muscle strength to walk in the socket again. When it was time for the Jumpmaster Course, it had only been three weeks since his last bout with a MRSA infection and his return to using the prosthetic leg.

"Only being in the socket three weeks really increased the physical demand," said Fairfax. "It takes time to build up the hip flexors and other muscles. I was pretty sore each night during the course."

The majority of the course focuses on the jumpmaster personnel inspection. The sequence requires the jumpmaster to squat or bend down to visually inspect the jumper's equipment. Most jumpmasters will go into a deep squat during this portion as, going to a knee will take more time to get up and continuing the inspection.

During the final test students are required to properly inspect three jumpers and in five minutes find all deficiencies and conduct the inspection in the exact inspection sequence. For Fairfax his only option was to drop to a knee.

For fellow students in the course this would be the only clue that he was missing a leg. "Most guys saw him kind of limping around, but didn't know he was missing a leg," said the noncommissioned officer in charge during the course, Master Sgt. David West, from 2nd Bn., 3rd SFG.

"It wasn't until our first rotation in the (JMPI) circle and he dropped down on the concrete slab. It made such a loud sound all the guys turned and looked. The crack was so loud it sounded like rounds were dropping in. One guy asked him 'did that hurt' and he responded, "no, I don't have a knee."

Though disadvantaged, there were no changes made to the course's standards. The jumpmaster is typically one of the U.S. Army's more challenging schools; the standards for success are purposefully strict. A typical course will see a 50 percent pass/fail rate.

"Before the start of the course I told myself, failure is not an option," said Fairfax. "I knew I would be paving the way for other amputees to go through the course and I didn't want this to be something they couldn't do." Not only did his success provide fellow amputees with inspiration, but fellow Green Berets as well.

"The majority of the guys and all of the instructors were impressed," said West. "Most were saying to ourselves, 'holy smokes, would I be able to do that?' To do what he did with a prosthetic leg is a very real inspiration. These are the kind of guys you want in SF. The guys who are going to find a way to get things done, no matter what the circumstances are they will accomplish the task."

West added that this is the kind of Soldier Fairfax has always been. "When you wear an SF tab, you hold yourself to a higher standard," said Fairfax. "If this can give another guy a glimmer of hope, then that's a good thing. Sometimes you need someone to look up to ... someone to look to when you're down."

Fairfax expressed gratitude toward his command for supporting him through his recovery and providing him a way to still be a contributing member of the group.

"It has always been one of my goals," said Fairfax. "If I can't be on a team, at least I can be a productive Soldier in the group." Just as any good Soldier does, Fairfax has set his eye on more training and goals for the future. "I don't want this to be the last thing I do," he concluded.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 73, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-12T08:59:00.000-07:00

I woke to a conversation between two crows who sat a hundred yards apart in the tree tops. They are real complainers. In between the kvetching crows were the Be-Hold birds. I don’t know what species they are or even what they look like but in my Louisiana mornings I always heard them say, "Be-Hold. Be-Hold.”

I got an early start in the park. The clouds had gathered again to form a shroud of deep gray over the tree tops. The light was low and all was quiet but for the chatter of birds and the vibration of insects. I thought of Miss L., the manager of the Blue Moon Internet Café in Minden with whom I had a nice long session before she locked up for the night. I sipped a large latte’ as she told me about her life and how she’s always held two jobs since she was seventeen. She is a mature twenty-three old with a tall, slight physique and an aura of melancholy.

As a bald, middle aged man with a waning paunch, I must have looked like the closest thing to a psychiatrist in the town with no movie theater. She was worried about telling the owners of the café about the sloth of their teenage daughter who each time I went there was lying on a couch talking loudly on her cell phone. I asked if she felt she could tell them the truth?

“I’m not afraid to tell her mom. But they don’t listen. I think she would tell me that I should be happy to be working in such a nice place.”

I nodded without saying a word. I think if I had had a pipe drooping out of the corner of my mouth I would have said, “Take the couch and follow with, ‘Can you put it into words?’”

“I’ve been sick for a year. I was in the hospital for a long time and needed to take eight months to recover.” She continued.

“Did you have surgery?” I asked. She nodded. She paused as she thought about it. Interestingly, she sat thirty feet away from me during our chat.

“I have Krohn’s Disease pretty bad. Sometimes I get doubled over at the cashier’s. If it keeps on like this I will have to take disability.”

“Isn’t the treatment helping any?” I asked.

“They give me painkillers and relaxers but that doesn’t really help the Krohn’s. The worst thing is that my husband and his mother say I can’t go on disability.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause, they say their family has never been on the government dole and they never will.”

“What do you say?”

“To hell with that! They don’t have this disease.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna give it another few months then I’ll apply. I’m pretty tired.”
Just then Miss L.’s husband came through the door. They greeted cordially and kissed. I packed up and as I left the café I said, “You take good care of yourself.”

Miss L. replied with a smile, “It was nice…” she said without finishing her sentence. I waved to her from the other side of the glass door.

Back at the park the sun was making an appearance, though weakly. I reached a place on the trail where a clearing lay before me. It was a grassy circle no more than thirty feet across but the deer had found it and were lazily grazing without a care. I stood quietly and watched them eat. The foot path went right through the center of the circle so I side-stepped the happy family and continued on my way. A yearling with two three inch spikes looked up at me for a moment then put his head down into the tuft of grass that was his breakfast.

I found a bridge over the lake that joined one part of the campgrounds to another. I took it and as I stood in the middle of the span I began to spy several fish in suspension below me. The light was perfect on the water and allowed me to discern the size and shape of each species without detection. The bridge spanned the distance of a cove where the water had the look of dilute tea. A large mouth bass lay in wait next to a submerged log. Smaller fish swam by in tight knit schools unaware that they would become dinner for a larger fish sometime soon. I could have stood on that bridge for hours but I had more ground to cover before leaving the park for another one down the road.

I kept walking in the direction of Homer. I discovered a lonely peninsula without the aid of a path. I had seen it from the bridge and figured that it would be a good place to rest for a minute or two. I sat on a rock discolored by lichens and watched a kingfisher skimming the water for shad.

Two fishermen arrived in a boat a hundred yards to my south and began to pitch plastic lures toward the shoreline. The man on the bow hooked up almost immediately. He arched his back in a violent draw of his line and set the hook. His buddy reached for the net as he was about to land a nice size large mouth. I ate an orange and waited for another strike. “Be-Hold,” I said under my breath.

The “quiet professionals” are the men wearing the Green Berets. This is a transcript from an in-the-field interview by “60-Minutes” reporter, Lara Logan. Their job is one of the toughest: To train the Afghan soldiers to fight smartly for themselves on behalf of their nation and not just their tribe.

Jan. 31, 2010

Green Berets: The Quiet Professionals
Lara Logan Reports On The Process Of Readying Afghans To Fight On Their Own
0diggsd

Special Ops Colonel James E. Kraft Jr. says U.S. teams are stationed all over the world. Many in places you'd never expect.

(AP / CBS)
(CBS) Much of their training comes not from drills but from the frontline. One such operation was an all-night raid into a village used as a base by Taliban fighters. And it went badly wrong - Martin has just been shot.

Two bullets from a machine gun ripped through his legs. But the worst part: he'd been hit by accident by one of the Afghan soldiers.

"I didn't realize at first. I thought we had stepped on a pressure plate," Martin told Logan.

A pressure plate is an IED. "I wasn't sure my leg was gonna be there when I looked down," he said.

Asked what happened, Martin explained "Well, you go to stand up, and it doesn't wanna move 'cause it's still in shock. Like it spasmed. And then you become aware of the burning sensations that's on the back of it."

"Is that burning sensation you described commonly known as pain?" Logan asked.

"Yeah. It's only pain when you acknowledge it. There's work that has to be done. You don't have the luxury of self pity," he replied.
Martin refused to take morphine so he could treat himself - he's a Special Forces medic, trained in advanced combat medicine.

He made it out and had surgery the next day. In less than 24 hours, Martin was back with his unit.

"Is it fair to say the last thing you expected was to get shot by one of your own guys, one of the Afghans that you'd been training?" Logan asked.

"That's fair, yeah," Martin said.

"We were very angry," another Green Beret named Bill added.

Bill is 29 years old and just became a father. He's one of the team's top snipers, and before enlisting, he managed a sales team at a marketing firm.

"You're angry at the individual because it's something that could've been prevented, you know. And then you're angry at yourself 'cause we're trainin' 'em. So, that means we failed at some point," Bill explained.

Asked if it's hard to go back with the same sense commitment and put that anger aside, Bill said, "At the end of the day our job is not to be angry at 'em. Our job's to make sure it never happens again and to get them ready to go back out in the fight."

But the very next time they went back into the fight it happened again. This time, another Afghan soldier shot himself in the foot.

Asked how he'd rate the Afghan commandos he's been working with, Martin told Logan, "On average, they're an organization that has a lot of potential."

"When I hear words like, 'potential' that's usually a giveaway. That's like they're a long way from where they need to be," Logan remarked.

"No. They train hard. They work well. There's large cultural differences that we struggle with, you know, in terms of developing training for the individuals." Martin said.

"They also shot you in the leg," Logan pointed out.

"Right," Martin replied with a chuckle. "Yeah."

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 72, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-11T14:42:00.000-07:00

The morning air over Homer was filled with electricity. A storm was blowing its way over the park and I smelled it with anticipation. I walked through the park to the kiosk where I wanted a word with the ranger on duty. As I approached the kiosk I saw five does munching on grass. They allowed me to get within twenty feet, only occasionally looking up to see if I meant them harm.

I sneaked into the kiosk as quietly as I could so as not to disturb the deer. The ranger said, “No need to tip toe. We feed those deer every morning. You could honk your horn and they’d probably keep eating.”

I wanted to ask if the park allowed people to walk on the dam that was down the road some nine miles away from the park entrance. The ranger scratched her head, “I don’t really know. People do fish down there. You gonna walk to the dam?” she asked in disbelief.

“It’s not that far,” I said as I watched a huge horse fly land on one of the does with a shiny red-brown coat. “See that horse fly. It’s huge.”

“Oh yeah, we definitely have a lot of them around here. I have one that has met me here every morning for five years straight. But I am ready for him with two swatters just in case.”

“I thought it was me,” I said as an idea squeezed into my head. “Would you be willing to let me carry one of your spare swatters for my walk?” I had gotten to the point where all concerns about my masculinity were secondary. I wanted to kill me some horse flies.

“Sure. I hate those things. I’ll give you the industrial strength model. It’ll kill ‘em for sure.” She handed me a sturdy black fly swatter that still had the carcass of a fly wedged into its paddle.

“Thanks. I’ll bring it back after my walk at around one or two.”

“That’s fine. Have a good walk.”

It was still early with a cooling cloud-cover overhead. A slight breeze made the clouds track quickly across a roiling gray sky. I began my walk down State Road 146 with plenty of water and a weapon at the ready against all comers.

I found the walking an unconscious experience. I walked and walked up slight inclines and down gentle slopes, through tree lined residential areas where no more than five or six homes stood amid the greenery. By the time I passed the last house, it was time to turn left at SR 518, a segment of road used for transporting fresh cut lumber to the mills.

I had mixed pine and broad leaf forests on either side of me as I walked on the deserted road. Although I was outside of the park the scenery was inspiring in its own right. Long bows reached out along the edge of the forest on both sides of me. I thought that if it began to hail I would be able to slip under the umbrella of a million trees and not care how many golf ball sized icicles fell to earth.

I reached a stretch that was a few miles long of almost level terrain. I was on a plateau of sorts and I could see for fifty miles in three directions. From time to time a renegade shaft of sunlight broke through the gray and lit up the forest as if from below. All of a sudden there was an explosion of life all around me when ten thousand dragon flies decided to cross the road at once. And this lasted for about a mile.

One solo dragon fly was bigger than those in his fleet. The main traffic of insects became a thick cloud of painted and fluttering wings. I could hear the solo calling the tower for clearance, “Yeah, Tower, this is 119 Heavy requesting authorization to escort a bogey at my three o’clock. Please advise. Over”

“Copy that, 119 Heavy. Proceed 200 meters to vector 2-7-0. Over.”

“Roger that, Tower. 119 Heavy out.” 119 Heavy escorted me for the required two hundred meters.

As quickly as the dragon fly explosion had appeared, they were gone. 119 Heavy dipped a shoulder and followed the group into an impenetrable wall of green. I laughed out loud at their inexplicable display. I thought, “Maybe some big hail would be fun.”

Walking on flat ground got my mind into a comfortable rhythm to match the pace of my stride. I thought of sitting on the bank at Ackerman Creek on Grandpa’s ranch. I was five years old and it was my first time that dragon flies had crept into my consciousness. My brother said something about them drinking water through their bottoms which was unsettling to me. My brother and I watched the creatures put on their dance which has stayed with me ever since.

Then I remembered my brother, Mike, putting his finger over his mouth and whispering “Shhh! Give me your hand.”

He had climbed onto the top of a ten foot tall boulder that stood watch over the “swimming hole” of the creek. I crawled behind him and watched what he did. He lay on his belly, peering over the edge. In a soft yet eager voice he offered me a treat. “Be very still. Look over the edge and tell me what you see.”

I can remember trying not to make a sound as I bravely craned my neck to see what lay below the surface. It was a big, fat rainbow trout. I smiled and rolled over on my back and said in a whisper, “There’s a giant down there.”

“You saw it,” was all he said with a sly grin.

Walking along the dam was icing on an almost perfect cake. I climbed down the earthen dam after having my fill of the lake’s splendor. There was a foot wide path leading from the dam down to a fishing spot at the base of the spillway. A man and his woman friend caught fish after fish. They each wore brightly colored clothing in combinations of blues and oranges and pinks. The scene looked like the cover of a Jimi Hendrix album. In that moment I had accumulated everything I needed for one day.

I am including part of a blog written by former Marine Combat Artist and current embed with the Marines in Kandahar. This story is part of a five part series describing combat like few others I have read. Mr. Fay doesn’t color this in any way so brace yourselves for a powerful dose of reality. Ralph Starkweather sent me this link. I am grateful.

June 8, 2010, 9:41 pm
Drawing Fire: ‘Stay With Us’
By MICHAEL D. FAY Home Fires features the writing of men and women who have returned from wartime service in the United States military.
Tags:art, combat artist, Drawing Fire, Iraq, Marines, Operation Steel Curtain
This is the third installment of a five-part series. To read from the beginning, go to “Drawing Fire: Into Ubaydi.”
Part 3

Even as the last Iraqis were hustled off the stage, the curtain started to rise.
Between Second and Third Platoons, the first explosion shattered the air. A car bomb had detonated just 50 yards away, and thick, inky smoke curled up and over us from a dense bloom of orange flame. I was with Sergeant Duncan’s squad as we cut and peeled back chain link fencing to make a gap for our advance. From this point forward, knowing the insurgents had days of prep time, we needed to stay as clear as possible from normal routes through the homes and farms. Gates and paths were all suspect. The obvious, the regular and the predictable were now the enemy.

Micheal D. Fay Lance Corporal Dustin Barr’s Fire Team, Ubaydi.

As we advanced past the cut fencing I found myself studying and photographing the faces of the young warriors. They were timeless. They were the same faces that Ernie Pyle tried to describe in words in World War II and David Douglas Duncan in his Korean War photos. I pulled my digital camera out and started clicking just as the three squad leaders from Third Platoon drew out their maps and made final decisions in the face of the actual terrain laid out before them.

When I’m out on a patrol, or in actual combat, it’s very important that I don’t forget my primary mission as a Marine. Every jarhead is a rifleman, and there is no room to stop and sketch. Once, during my first trip as an artist to Afghanistan, I had paused to sketch, and when I looked around a moment later I found myself alone. Not a good move.

Home Fires

Drawing Fire

The Marine combat artist Michael D. Fay’s account of Operation Steel Curtain in 2005.
We advanced into the farthest home on the right of the company line, and the 40 Marines of Third Platoon took up positions in and around the house. A well-used dirt road came up from our right and made a hard left across our immediate front, running parallel to the other two platoons’ positions. Two tanks stood idling at the sharp right-hand turn and beyond lay a water plant and open desert. Before us stretched an open run of about 200 yards to one of the largest farm compounds in Ubaydi. The locals said it was lousy with foreign fighters. The compound ran across Third Platoon’s front for a good 100 yards with walls, out buildings and main structures. It was formidable.

Through binoculars and ACOG sights the Marines could see that the porch and window openings had been “sandbagged” with what was in all probability large sacks of rice, fertilizer and animal feed. The main building also had several second story structures with good command of the terrain we might have to cross under fire. Off to our immediate right, on the very fringe of town lay stack upon stack of dried sheaves of wheat, perfect for enfilading crossfire. Several of Staff Sergeant’s, V’s Marines raked them fore and aft at ground level with a hail of pre-emptive suppressive fire.

Up and down the line of advance, the distinctive whip-like snap of M-16s was suddenly overwhelmed by a violent explosion, followed by the deep-throated cracks of insurgent AK-47s firing at full auto. Death was now dancing from partner to partner to our direct left and front. Rounds flew everywhere, kicking up clouds of the talc-like dust. The orange flash points of AKs punctuated the compound to our direct front. Even I found it necessary to put down my camera and shoulder my rifle. We were in it now.

The Marines of Third Platoon, along with our Iraqi jundi, poured out onto the porch of the house and from prone positions, standing in doorways, from behind pillars and from the roof, unleashed a furious wall of lead to our direct front. During all this there was bizarre comic relief: snow-white chickens, despite the roar of rifle fire and exploding grenades, plucked and pecked at the ground not three feet away. They had sauntered across a small dirt road that ran perpendicular to our position to feed just inches below the deadly cone of fire. Above the deafening firefight someone shouted, “Hey, quick, find out why that chicken crossed the road!”

From my position behind a house pillar, I had emptied a full magazine at muzzle flashes in an opening of one of the second story structures at the center of the compound stretching across our front. I removed the spent mag and inserted a full one. Taking advantage of a momentary relaxing of fire, I retrieved my camera and wormed myself down alongside a small red pickup truck parked in the front yard. From this semi-exposed vantage point I could get shots of Staff Sergeant V, one of his squad leaders, Corporal Koppes, and several other Marines and Iraqis lying shoulder to shoulder.

Micheal D. Fay The firefight begins.

Ventrone was studying the ground in front of us with his binoculars and talking on the radio with Lieutenant McGlothlin over to our left when all hell broke loose again. The Abrams tanks, positioned slightly to our right, had been throwing rounds into the buildings and date palm groves, but now, suddenly, one belched a plume of exhaust, thundered to life and dashed directly across our field of fire towards Second Platoon’s position. For a few moments it stopped a little to our left, rotated its turret and blasted the long primary building in the sandbagged compound. A small five-man security detail, lead by Corporal Alvarez, was assigned to them.

Using the cover of the tanks’ engine area, they were firing to the front as well. Again the tank sprinted towards Second Platoon with Alvarez, grasping a handset attached to the tank’s hindquarters, wildly running with his Marines in tow, desperately trying to keep up. Staff Sergeant V yelled out over the mind numbing staccato of rifle fire and explosions that Second had taken two K.I.A.s. A moment later he lost comm with Lieutenant McGlothlin. Something bad, something very bad, was happening to Second Platoon.

Within moments Ventrone conferred with Lieutenant Voda about the dire situation unfolding off to our left. A decision was made in seconds. Staff Sergeant V’s shout of “Everyone up? Everyone up?” was echoed over the rising din of the firefight by squad and fire team leaders. Our dash to Lieutenant McGlothlin’s position began.

Under fire and across an expanse of over 100 yards, the Marines of Third Platoon ran to the aid of their beleaguered buddies. “Good dispersion, good dispersion!” was screamed over and over by squad and fire team leaders. Furiously snapping pictures and fumbling with my audio recorder, I found myself bringing up the rear as we crossed a corduroy-furrowed field at a full gallop. No one tripped and no one stopped. Marine training had imbued us with one thing for certain: run towards the sound of gunfire.

The closer we got the louder the firing grew. We poured through an opening in a low stone wall, into the center courtyard of the tallest building. The cream colored main house was three stories high with multiple roof terraces. A new sound was heard above the explosions and rifle fire . . . the screams of the wounded. Last Days were everywhere around us.

Lieutenant Voda and Staff Sergeant V quickly deployed their Marines into a hasty 360, securing the immediate casualty evacuation point in the small courtyard. The company’s mortar platoon poured up the front steps and into the dark belly of the house on their way to the roof. Captain Parrish was already topside waiting for them with his little command group of radio men. This was not the house where Second got ambushed. That home was off 25 yards to our right and a furious fire fight was still ensuing as the mortar men rapidly started laying in their 60s on the second floor’s open terrace.

The scene below in the dusty courtyard was singularly awful. Bodies lay everywhere.

A flurry commenced as Third Platoon secured the position and began administering aid to stricken comrades. Training was trumping thinking. One Marine, Lance Corporal Cooper, was screaming from the pain of a nearly amputated lower leg. Fellow jarheads held him as a single Navy corpsman worked feverishly to staunch the bleeding. The booted foot of his mangled leg was still attached, and twisted grotesquely to the rear as he writhed on the ground screaming “It hurts, it hurts!” Calming voices tried to reassure him that he was going to be O.K.: “Pain is good; pain lets you know you’re still alive!” There were several figures very close by that neither moved nor made a sound. Their pain was over.

Most of Second Platoon’s “docs” had already been wounded, so all Third Platoon Marines could do was administer the basic first aid learned in boot camp, until more help arrived from battalion. In an area no bigger than a kiddie pool lay 11 wounded and 5 dead. The medical training they had was enough for most, but not all. Corporal Deeds, a machine gunner, lay splayed out in the arms of a Marine like Michelangelo’s Pieta. His gear had been removed and cammie blouse torn open. Blood was everywhere. Just two days before I‘d taken a picture of him on a rooftop in New Ubaydi, manning a Gulf 240 machine gun with his best friend Lance Corporal Leary.

Deeds, a Mississippi native, always sported a dark pair of Gargoyle sunglasses. The glasses were missing. His blue eyes were fixed in bruised, swollen eye sockets. While one of Third Platoons docs frantically worked on him, buddies were talking with urgent encouragement. “Hang in there, hang in there, keep breathing. Stay with us!” The desperate inertia of camaraderie kept his friends going, reciting over and over the mantra of you’re O.K., you’re O.K., you’re O.K. A grim-faced doc, HM3 Cordova, informed them “he’s dead, stop, he ain’t coming back, find someone else to help.” And so they did.

Two of the K.I.A. were wrapped in their poncho liners. Beside them lay bloody gear and bandages, abandoned rifles and helmets. I lifted back one corner to see who it was. Beneath lay Corporal Ware, a Native American from Oklahoma. I later learned he was the first to go down. Ware always led his fire team from the front.

My attention was quickly drawn to another group of Marines gathered around a prone figure. One was kneeling, cradling the fallen man’s head. Several others were leaning in and talking to the motionless Marine. You’re going to be O.K., lieutenant. You’re going to make it. This time it was Lieutenant Ryan McGlothlin.

Ryan’s flak jacket was off and his blouse open, and from the waist down he was drenched in blood. His eyes were fixed, milky and filled with dirt. I almost didn’t recognize his ashen, drawn face. He had been wounded low, hit in one if not both femoral arteries and probably bled out quickly as his adrenaline-drenched heart pumped furiously in his final seconds.

Col. Bob Oltman, the C.O. of 2/1, told me later that almost all of Second platoon’s dead and wounded were shot this way. The insurgents had well prepared interlocking spider holes in the walls of the “death house.” The enemy knew where the Marines were the most vulnerable and placed firing apertures low, so their rounds would angle up and hit in the unprotected femoral artery area of the upper thigh. At close quarters nothing can compare with the wounding potential of an AK-47 round. They knew their weapons and how to employ them, even when making a last stand. The mujh weren’t stupid, nor were they cowardly when fighting toe-to-toe. They didn’t give quarter. They didn’t ask for mercy.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 71, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-10T13:57:00.000-07:00

After a brisk run through Bistineau, I showered, did some laundry, and was ready for the drive to Claiborne Lake State Park. The drive from Doyline to Homer, Louisiana was different from what I had seen so far. I ended up taking a logging road after ditching the Interstate. This part of Louisiana was definitely meant for the commercial exploitation of pine forests. I passed whole swaths of recently felled sections of land. I pulled over to the side of the empty road to see if I could catch a glimpse of any saplings. Sure enough, the timber company had replanted thousands of new trees where the former forest stood.

Intermingled among the stands of pines were well manicured cattle ranches and rolling hills that varied from green to gold in color. I stopped in at a gas station store to pick up some more flats of drinking water. That was just outside of Athens, a town that had all but been abandoned. The folks inside were as happy as can be for some reason. Everyone laughed and patted each other on the back; both black and white. The cashier talked on the cell phone to a sister as she checked my order. A man who seemed to be a spectator talked to her too as she held three conversations at once.

“It’s Bibby. I’m gonna see her tonight at Granny’s.” Then to the sister on the other end of the phone, “No, I was just telling Clarence that we was going to see you tonight.”

“Say hi to that pretty thing, Bibby.” The spectator told the cashier.

“Clarence says, hi.” She said as she handed me the credit card receipt for my signature. “Thank you, sir. You have a good evening.”

“You too”, I said. It was 9:00 AM but what the heck?

My next stop was Homer, Louisiana. There were two bridge reconstructions happening simultaneously so that there was only one way into the park from Doyline. I had to go back in time to the town of Homer in order to earn my way into the park. The center of town boasted a very proud Antebellum structure. It was the classic Southern Estate with aged magnolias on each corner. A plaque explained that the home was a perfect example of Antebellum design, using the most august aspects of Greek and Roman architecture to achieve what was on display today. Further, the plaque stated that this was the rallying point for the Louisiana Confederacy in late 1860 as the South prepared for war.

I walked around the town square where most of the businesses had long since vamoosed. I found a classic barbershop located in a building that had to have been built in the same year as the mansion. A man who said he had just turned ninety sat in the chair as the barber and he covered lots of family ground. They talked about the old man’s sister who was ninety-seven and a mutual friend whom the old gentleman had visited in the hospital.

The barber shouted across the room to a woman sitting quietly next to me, “Miss Daniels, you know Haddon Pixley? He just had the stroke.”

The woman answered quietly, “No, I never knew him. I know his sister Mae quite well, but not Haddon.”

“Well, he had a stroke,” he said, turning his attentions back to the man in the chair.

Having finished cutting the man’s hair, the barber turned to me and said, “Whenever you are ready.”

I turned to the woman seated next to me and offered her the barber’s chair. “No, sir, I am not in any hurry. You go right ahead.”

I sat in the chair and told the barber, “Number one all over, please.”

“Now, what brings you to beautiful Homer, Louisiana?” he asked as he buzzed slowly away along my scalp.

I explained my mission to which he gave no response. Rather he started in on a tale about his son in law who had moved to Northern California after a twenty year stint in the Air Force.

He went on about the man’s no account family who had all been sent to prison. “I never asked what they was in for. It could have been murder, armed robbery. I never asked. All I know is they live way up north where it snows.”

“It’s a big state. There are plenty of spots where it gets cold.”

“Well anyhow…” he continued but by that time I was thinking about a picture Kelly C. had e -mailed me of a sixty-five pound white sea bass he caught in San Quintin yesterday. I stepped out of the barber’s chair with a very tight buzz and thanked everyone in the room before I left.

Detour Route 146 took me straight to Claiborne Lake State Park. I didn’t get my walk going until 11:00 but the air was a breezy 87 degrees which was cool by all recent comparison. From today’s first look, I would say that this park is extremely well maintained with newish facilities for the campers and a definite focus on fishing.

It is a large lake of about seven thousand acres. I checked the wall photos at the Ranger Station and saw twenty different species available for the anglers to catch. Some humorist had even stocked the lake with walleye.

There were a few long trails, one of which I mistakenly took twice. But it was a lovely escape into the woods and full of the sounds of all my friends; avian and insect. The humidity was as close to one hundred percent as you can have without it pouring rain. Rain was in the forecast but all I felt was a sprinkle from time to time.

Throughout my walk I could hear children laughing and calling out to sisters and brothers to join them. There were beaches where you could easily wade out into the shallow, cool shoreline. From my campsite on a hillock I could see fishermen on boats. It is amazing how happy park visitors could be when there was actually water in the lake. I shared the collective mood of joy.

Many think he should have been awarded the nation’s highest medal for valor after giving his life heroically in order to save his Marine platoon in Afghanistan. This is a travesty that the U.S. Marine Corps, The President and the Secretary of Defense need to remedy today.

Kevin Freking
August 2nd, 2009
Lawmaker questions low Medal of Honor count

WASHINGTON — Nearly eight years of war in Afghanistan and Iraq have left 4,000 soldiers killed in action, more than 34,000 wounded — and only six considered worthy of the nation’s highest military award for battlefield valor.

For some veterans and members of Congress, that last number simply doesn’t add up.
They question how so few Medals of Honor — all awarded posthumously — could be bestowed for two wars of such magnitude and duration.

Pentagon officials say the nature of war has changed. Laser-guided missiles destroy enemy positions without putting soldiers in harm’s way. Insurgents deploy roadside bombs rather than engage in firefights they’re certain to lose.

Yet, those explanations don’t tell the whole story, said Rep. Duncan Hunter, R-Calif. Hunter sponsored legislation that directs the secretary of defense to review current trends in awarding the Medal of Honor to determine what’s behind the low count. The bill passed the House. If Senate negotiators go along, Secretary Robert Gates would have to report back by March 31.

“It seems like our collective standard for who gets the Medal of Honor has been raised,” said Hunter, a first-term member of Congress who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“The basis of warfare is you’ve got to take ground and then you’ve got to hold it. That takes people walking into houses, running up hills, killing bad guys and then staying there and rebuffing counterattacks,” he added. “That’s how warfare has always been no matter how many bombs you drop and how many predators you have flying around.”

Military officials said they welcome the opportunity to conduct an in-depth review of the award process. Still, they dispute Hunter’s theory.

“Nominations go through no more or less scrutiny than in the past,” said Eileen Lainez, a Pentagon spokeswoman. “The standard for the Medal of Honor is high, as one would expect for our nation’s most prestigious military decoration.”

AMVETS, a veteran’s advocacy group, said it supports Hunter’s efforts. It held a banquet for Medal of Honors in January, and the low number of medals was a big topic of discussion, said Jay Agg, the group’s communications director.

“They have expressed concern about their dwindling numbers and they’re wondering why there are so few Medals of Honor being awarded for current conflicts,” Agg said.
The Medal of Honor has been awarded 3,467 times since the Civil War. Almost half — 1,522 — were awarded in that conflict alone. The next highest tally came from World War II — 464. In the Vietnam War, 244 were awarded.

To get the Medal of Honor, at least two eyewitnesses have to view a deed so outstanding that it clearly distinguishes gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. No margin of doubt is allowed. Nominations make their way through military channels until eventually they’re approved at the highest levels of the Pentagon and then by the president.

Drew Dix, 64, of Mimbres, N.M., received the medal for actions taken during the Tet Offensive in Vietnam when he continually risked his life during a 56-hour battle to rescue civilians. He said he didn’t feel comfortable judging the current Medal of Honor process.

“We’ve trusted the military to fight this war,” Dix said. “We’ve got to trust the military in all aspects of it, including the awarding of medals.”

Jack Jacobs, 64, also received the award for actions taken in Vietnam when he returned again and again under intense fire to rescue wounded soldiers. He said the Pentagon’s explanation for the low Medal of Honor count is logical, but he would not rule out other factors because of the subjective nature of the award.

“I’m not a fan of single factor analysis,” Jacobs said. “There are lots of reasons why things occur and that is only one of them. Human attitudes also play a great role.”

Jacobs, a military analysis at MSNBC, predicted the war in Afghanistan will involve more of the kind of close combat that leads to Medal of Honors being awarded.

It’s unclear exactly how many soldiers have been nominated for the award from the two wars. But, seven have made it all the way to the secretary of defense, and six were approved. The exception is Sgt. Rafael Peralta of San Diego, Calif. Hunter said the Peralta case shows that a higher standard is being used for the medal than in previous wars.

Peralta died on Nov. 15, 2004, during fierce fighting in Fallujah, Iraq. The military’s investigation showed he was probably hit by friendly fire from a member of his unit as they engaged insurgents inside a house.

Witnesses said Peralta, a Mexican immigrant who became a U.S. citizen while in the Marines, fell to the ground face-first after being shot in the crossfire. A fleeing insurgent threw a hand grenade into the room, which bounced off a couch and landed near Peralta’s head.

“Sgt. Peralta grabbed the grenade and pulled it underneath him while we took cover,” said an unidentified soldier whose name is redacted as part of the investigative file the military released publicly.

Peralta’s nomination was sent back for further investigation after a preliminary autopsy report stated the head wound would have been immediately incapacitating and “he could not have executed any meaningful motions.”

In the end, Lt. General Richard F. Natonski, stuck with his recommendation: “I believe Sergeant Peralta made a conscious, heroic decision to cover the grenade and minimize the effects he knew it would have on the rest of his Marine team.”

Gates assemble an independent panel to review the nomination — something he did not do in the other six cases sent his way. The reviewers included a former commanding general, a Medal of Honor recipient, a neurosurgeon and two pathologists.

“The reviewers each individually concluded that the evidence did not meet the exacting ‘no doubt’ standard necessary to support award of the MOH,” Gates said in a letter to Hunter.

Robert Reynolds, a lance corporal at the time, was about three to five feet behind Peralta when the grenade exploded. He has no doubt that Peralta purposefully attempted to place the grenade underneath himself to save others.

“It wasn’t just something he barely did. He physically reached out and pulled it into his body,” said Reynolds, 31, and now a corrections office and father of two daughters in Ritzville, Wash.

In the end, Peralta received the Navy Cross, the branch’s second highest honor. Several California lawmakers have petitioned President Barack Obama to order a review of Peralta’s case. AMVETS said all recipients of the second-highest honor for bravery for their branch of the military should have their case reviewed to determine if their actions merit the Medal of Honor.

Hunter said he’s also concerned that no living soldier from Iraq or Afghanistan has earned the Medal of Honor.

“Having fewer of them is like depleting our national treasures,” Hunter said.
But there are also concerns that meddling by Congress could lessen the significance of the medal.

“You don’t want this group here determining what’s courageous and what’s not,” Hunter said, referring to his fellow federal lawmakers. “You want that left up to the military. The problem is the military is not stepping up on this.”
On the Net:

Medal of Honor Statistics: www.history.army.mil/html/moh/mohstats.html

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 70, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-09T17:04:00.000-07:00

My friend, Linda W., used to travel all over the country in one of those living rooms on wheels. She had years of experience and knew the little tricks required to drive the country’s back roads. Things like having a spare fifty foot electrical cord and keeping handy wipes for unforeseen occasions and having a small fan for the interior of the truck. She was skeptical about my original plan to walk out the door, taking obscure pedestrian routes of my design, all the way to Georgia. “Pushaw!” I replied to her nay saying.

It wasn’t that her many ideas of what I would encounter were wrong, it was more that they weren’t my ideas. I operate under the maxim, “Never take advice from anyone.” Or it seems that way. I knew myself and I understood that eventually I would figure out what was required to advance toward my goal. I am reminded of that saying, “The definition of insanity is repeating the same mistake over and over, expecting different results.” Just in case that truism is valid, I brought along the seventies' bible for groovy, get in touch with your inner celebrity book, “The Principles of Self-Actualization”. “Ham nyam nee ringy kyo,” I chanted after a particularly long walk. I may get that Escalade after all.

I got some advice from Melissa the Ranger. “You don’t want to walk out of the park to get to Area 2.”

“I don’t?” I asked, waiting for the punch line.

“No, you want to take the path through the staff quarters and turn right at the old wooden gate.”

I actually took that advice yesterday. But something gnawed at my inner fool just the same. Today I headed out the gate at Area 1 with the town of Doyline as my destination. Somehow Doyline had managed to survive since its founding in 1843. It was not clear to me what that survival has meant.

The walk from the park is a path worthy of my interest. Doyline was almost exactly the right distance away from the park to reach my allotted mileage for the day. I will say that the words, “I’m headed into Doyline today” are not often spoken by people outside of Webster Parish, Louisiana.

No, life is messy and I prefer the trial and error method. In this fiasco down a hundred and twenty miles away from my current position, the media jumped all over the engineers trying a "fix" at stemming the flow of oil with that “kill cap” thing. Engineers have to monkey around with parts and theories and practical folly before they can get a fix just right. I’m all for allowing everyone in on the act. Invite Kevin Costner and James Cameron, that farmer who wants to cover the gulf in hay, all of them. We need that kind of trial and error and folks not willing to listen to the advice of “experts.”

That Parish President who with Mr. Costner, wants to vacuum the oil using port-o-potty suction devices has a good idea. The hay idea is a good one. Hell, I think my nephew, Bud, ought to be unleashed on the problem. He can fix a Ducati using discarded wire from a 1970 Electrolux. I just know there are a bunch of guys in their garages working up fixes right now. The President ought to say, “Come on down!” to all of them. Trial and error is the way of successful invention. It is messy and there is a lot of failure going on but it is how every engineering problem gets solved.

I digress but that is my prerogative. Walking the road to Doyline allowed me to solve most of the world’s problems along with many of my own. There is no freedom quite like the one you give yourself. I smelled the horse farm up the road just as I was getting our men honorably and properly out of Afghanistan. I reluctantly but resolvedly authorized the drilling in Alaska so that we wouldn’t have to rely on our enemies to keep us in energy. By the time I reached the town of Doyline I had increased the size of the Peace Corps to one hundred thousand, and included returned volunteers in the new G.I. Bill of 2010.

As I admired the Polled Herefords I figured out a way to stop the credit card companies from charging Americans 30% and how to make the banks start giving loans to us with twenty percent down again. I determined that the fence ought to be finished along the Arizona border, not to keep out the Mexicans but to keep out the crazed version of Yemenis, Saudis, Somalis and Pakistanis who have been sent here on a mission with fake I.D.’s and enough money to build a bomb. It was a very long walk from the park to Doyline and back. I fought many battles, not the least of which was against a herd of horse flies that was determined to get a pound of flesh from the infidel.

I love all people of the world but I am not so naïve as to think there are not large numbers of them who would froth at the chance to blow us up. I’ll keep walking the walk on roads like that one to Doyline, Louisiana. I wish you could join me if for no other reason than to smell the honeysuckle as a light rain cooled your inner fool. There is no freedom quite like the one you give yourself. But don’t take my advice: you’ll have to discover that on your own from countless trials and errors.

By the time I reached the gate at Area 1, Bistineau Lake State Park, I would have thought I had arrived at the Pearly Gates. I was a mile from my campsite and a shower that spelled salvation. Actually a shower wasn’t necessary as I had walked through the heaviest rainfall of my life. It was fun except for the lightening that struck all around. I will see more of it.

A Reserve Combat Engineer arrived in theater four days before the harriest episode of his life would test is mettle. Training and a strong constitution carried the day as he did his job courageously and professionally. Another average Joe shone when the time came for him to do his job under fire.

US Army Corps of Engineers

Engineer Soldier receives Silver Star

What goes through a Soldier’s mind when he’s fighting his way out of an ambush?

“Not a whole lot, actually,” said Spc. David Hutchinson. “I was operating on pure adrenaline, doing what we had trained to do in Wisconsin. It was pure muscle memory.”

Hutchinson, an Army Reserve Soldier with the 420th Engineer Brigade, received the Silver Star on June 6 for his actions during an ambush in Afghanistan. The Silver Star is the nation’s third highest medal for valor after the Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Service Cross. Hutchinson is the fifth Army Reservist to receive the Silver Star since the beginning of Overseas Contingency Operations.

May 21, 2008, was beautiful weather in Afghanistan – 89 degrees with unlimited visibility. The 420th Engineer Brigade’s personal security detail consisted of 17 Army Reserve Soldiers traveling in a convoy of four up-armored HMMWVs (High Mobility Multi-purpose Wheeled Vehicles).

Hutchinson, then a private first class and just 21 years old, rode in the third HMMWV manning the MK-19, a belt-fed automatic grenade launcher -- essentially a machine gun that fires 40mm (1.5 inch) rifle grenades.

Hutchinson’s unit had been in Afghanistan only four days. “You train for everything you can think of, and you’re expecting to come into contact with the enemy, but not the first time you roll out the gate.”

They were not expecting trouble. This was supposed to be a simple ride to get acquainted with the sector around their new home, Forward Operating Base Sharana. “Based on the intel we were given, there hadn’t been any activity in that area in the past 13 months,” Hutchinson said.

But someone forgot to tell that to the enemy. As the Soldiers rounded a sharp curve in the mountains and started down a short straightaway, about 20 insurgents attacked with rocket propelled grenades (RPGs), AK-47s, sniper rifles, and a PK machine gun (PKM) from fortified positions 50 to 70 meters (165 to 230 feet) away.

Hutchinson heard the gunner in the first HMMWV open fire with his .50-caliber machine gun, and immediately responded with the training his unit had received
during mobilization at Fort McCoy, Wis.

“I couldn’t see what the first truck was firing at, but I instantly remembered my training and chambered the ‘ghost round’ (a necessary step in firing the MK-19),” he said. “Then I scanned my sector.”

Hutchinson’s sector was the “three o’clock,” the right side of the convoy. He immediately saw five insurgents in foxholes firing RPGs and rifles. He also saw the PKM, a Russian-design 7.62mm (.30-caliber) machine gun, hidden among the rocks just below the five insurgents.

Hutchinson opened fire with the MK-19, destroying the machine gun nest and killing at least five insurgents. His shooting was so effective that the remaining insurgents concentrated their fire on him and his grenade machine gun.

Hutchinson held his position under intense fire. Later, his buddies counted more than 100 bullet holes in the turret of his HMMWV. He stopped firing after destroying the PKM because the rocks and dust kicked up by the MK-19 rounds made it almost impossible to see where the insurgents were.

He noticed that he had fired almost an entire can of 40mm ammo, and at that moment two RPGs struck the HMMWV. Hutchinson woke up lying on his back in the crew compartment, smelling smoke and the vehicle’s Halon fire-suppression system.

He tried to get up, but his body was numb from the waist down. When he rolled over he saw his first sergeant with blood all over the front of his vest and Kevlar helmet from shrapnel wounds to his face and head.

“It was obvious that the first sergeant’s injuries were much more severe and life-threatening than mine,” Hutchinson said. “I knew I was injured, but I could tell my injuries were not life-threatening. So I just did what had to be done.”

Hutchinson took the compression bandage out of his first aid pouch and tried to stop the bleeding, and told another Soldier to man the MK-19. With total disregard for his own injuries, Hutchinson calmly administered first aid to the first sergeant.

His actions controlled the bleeding while the convoy rolled out of the danger area.
They moved about two miles down the road to link up with medical evacuation. When the medevac helicopters arrived, despite his own serious wounds, Hutchinson refused to use the only litter so that the first sergeant could be carried on it.

Thanks to Hutchinson’s firepower and first aid, not one American life was lost during the firefight. “It was the MK-19 machine gun,” he said. “I think anyone could have done what I did, but without the MK-19, it would have been a whole different ending.”

Hutchison had taken shrapnel in the back of his right leg in two places. He was treated in Afghanistan for four days (that’s right…Hutchinson was in-country just eight days), then evacuated to Landstuhl Army Medical Center in Germany.
His final destination was Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio for surgery where “they took about a dip-can of shrapnel out of each of my legs,” and six months of rehabilitation therapy.

Today Hutchison can walk without a limp, but “I have nerve damage in my right leg,” he said. “I can walk, but the doctors say that if it recovers completely, it will take a couple of years.”

The reservist is now 22 years old, works for AT&T in retail sales, and will marry his girlfriend Jenny this month. On June 6, Hutchinson was awarded the Silver Star in a ceremony at Simpson Drill Field on the Texas A&M University campus in Bryan, Texas. Maj. Gen. Paul Crandall, Hutchinson’s commander in Afghanistan, pinned on the Silver Star while a crowd of Hutchinson’s family and friends looked on.
Hutchinson has also been awarded the Purple Heart, the Army Achievement Badge, the Good Conduct Medal, and the Combat Action Badge.

Despite the firefight, the injuries, the medals, the Silver Star, and a fiancee, “I would go back to Afghanistan in a heartbeat,” Hutchinson said. “We’re a tight family in this unit, so I’d go there to make sure everyone came home safe.

“I’m not going to let this experience give me a negative outlook on my service with the Reserves,” he added. “I joined to serve, and I knew there was a chance something like this might happen. I’m not going to let this change my reasons for serving.”

© 2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 69, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-08T16:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up refreshed and ready for the forest at Lake Bistineau. Leaving the bustle of city life gave me cause to rejoice. The morning temperature seemed to moderate some and that was good news. I knew that by midday it would be hot and humid so I made sure to get a 9:30 start. Even though I retraced my steps of the previous day, the landscape looked fresh and new. This time I sat at a railroad crossing and waited for a train towing more than a hundred tank cars. On the other side of the tracks lay the town of Doyline.

I said hello to Miss Ranger, aka Melissa B., and received instructions for walking through the park to an adjacent park, Area 2. I was staying in Area 1 where the lake used to be. I got a good look at the lakebed again. Melissa had told me that the state biologists were going to spray herbicide to kill any remnants of the Salvinia plant that had invaded the lake in recent years. She had told me, “I’m not so sure about those guys.”

I asked her what she knew about the lake’s fishery before its ruin. “I fished in several bass tournaments. It had some huge fish before the lake got choked off by the plants. It got so thick at the end, you couldn’t even move across the lake in your boat.” Then she pointed to a bulletin board with photos of lunkers caught on Lake Bistineau during its halcyon days.

I had already spent yesterday walking on nature trails and on every road in the park. Since I was taking a new trail that wasn’t on the map given to me, I wanted to know what kind of critters I could expect to see. “So when I’m back in the woods, away from everybody, what kind of animals should I watch for? “

“Well, I can tell you that the last Black Bear seen in these parts was twelve years ago. But we have a ton of dear and we have a few bobcats. There aren’t many pigs anymore. Those are the biggest mammals out there. Of course you always have to look out for snakes.”

“When there is water in the lake do you have water moccasins?”

“Oh, yes. They try to get in your boat. I don’t know why but they will climb right in if you let them.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It is scary but I don’t know anyone who has been bit by one.”

“I haven’t seen any dear yet. I would like to.”

“You will for sure. You know that area by the equestrian center? The big field?”

“I do. It’s really spectacular.”

“It is. Well, in the winter I hear there will be thirty or forty of them at a time grazing there.”

“So, if you’re a hunter, Webster Parish is a good place to be?”

“It is one of the best for hunting. I kill, clean, and skin all my own meat. I haven’t bought meat at the store for five years!”

We could have talked for quite a while but I was anxious to get into the walk and she had to answer the phone. I waved to her as she disappeared behind the sliding glass.

Instead of heading directly over to Area 2, I descended onto a path that was not listed on my sheet yesterday. It was just a few feet east of the entry kiosk. The sign said 4.2 mile nature trail. I followed it on a loop that took me into a fragrant opening where the light rushed in as if it was taking advantage of a rare opportunity.

The soil was a sandy loam which provided a welcome cushion for the soles of my feet. I am accustomed to walking alone as I have mentioned. Today I would find a spot on the trail and stop to listen to life in all its amplitude. There was such a variety of insect life, I had not seen since walking the clay paths of the Woleu-N’Tem Province of Gabon. I stood quietly, fully expecting to see a mandrill saunter by.

There was a cardinal who lit on a branch right near me. Against the back-drop of solid green the bright red bird looked like a ruby hung on a Christmas tree. I saw no snakes except for a dead rattler someone had crushed into a paper thin impression in the sand. Decaying trees emptied their cores out onto the forest floor as ants and termites and beetles carried away all signs that the thing had ever lived. I think the horse flies have confused me for a palomino they once knew.

There is no mold for the heroic warrior. Here is a wonderful story of a soldier's courageous action. This particular soldier is a pharmacist from West Virginia who found himself and his Army Reserve Unit in a very dangerous place. He saved the day and deserved to be recognized.

First Reserve Soldier Receives Silver Star for Valor in Afghanistan
Oct 15, 2007
BY Donna Miles

WASHINGTON (Oct. 15, 2007) - When Staff Sgt. Jason Fetty put himself between a suicide bomber and the bomber's intended targets at the grand opening of a new medical facility in Khost, Afghanistan, he wasn't thinking of the strategic, or even tactical, importance of his actions.

All he wanted was to protect his fellow soldiers, the Afghan people they were helping and the new emergency room his provincial reconstruction team had spent months working to make a reality.

Today, the 32-year-old pharmacist from Parkersburg, W. Va., is becoming the first Army Reserve Soldier to receive the Silver Star for valor in Afghanistan. Staff Sgt. Fetty's commander said his actions went far beyond saving "countless, countless lives."

"His actions, along with the actions of others on the team, really prevented a strategic catastrophe," said Navy Cmdr. John F.G. Wade, who commanded Joint Provisional Reconstruction Team Khost during the late-February incident.

Provisional reconstruction teams serve a vital role in Afghanistan, Cdr. Wade explained. They complement maneuver forces in separating the enemy from the people, connecting people to the Afghan government and helping the government meet the needs of the people.

"We truly are deployed to contribute to the betterment of others," Cdr. Wade said. "But that is a threat to the enemy, because what we are doing is giving hope, providing opportunity, creating a better future for the people of Afghanistan."

That makes the 25 PRTs' achievements in Afghanistan -- including the opening of a new emergency room for almost 1 million Khost province citizens -- prime targets for terrorists, he said.

That's exactly what happened when members of the Khost PRT joined officials from throughout the province to celebrate the facility's opening Feb. 20. "We were all there to celebrate the fact that we had come together, worked together as a team to achieve a common desire, and that was to help the people," Cdr. Wade said.

But among the medical professionals who had come from all corners of Khost was a man in a doctor's lab coat nobody else recognized.

Staff Sgt. Fetty, a PRT member who was pulling guard duty outside the building alongside the newly arrived 82nd Airborne Division, watched as a sea of white lab coats came rushing out of the building and past him. After more than 10 months in Khost, Fetty had worked closely with the local medical community and recognized each doctor's face.

He turned to ensure the 82nd Division troops didn't fire and cleared them from the area, noting that "those guys had no way of knowing these were actual doctors. I was the only one who knew they weren't bad guys."

When Staff Sgt. Fetty turned back toward the building, the "bad guy" was standing directly in front of him, disguised as a doctor. Fetty had never laid eyes on him before and immediately knew something was wrong. "He was crazy in the eyes. He looked like he was on drugs, and he was acting very erratic. He definitely didn't look right," Staff Sgt. Fetty said.

"Every Soldier who has been in combat or been downrange knows when something is not right," he continued. "You can feel it. You can see it. It's a general sinking feeling that things are not going to go right. You feel it in your gut."

Staff Sgt. Fetty's military training kicked in. He began going through his "escalation of force" commands: "Stop. Get down." The "doctor" ignored him, and tried to grab him.

Staff Sgt. Fetty wanted to fire a warning shot, but feared it would ricochet and hit the hospital or someone gathered in the crowd around it. The suspect continued to close in on him and grabbed the barrel of his rifle. At this point, Fetty started to fear the worst. "I was pretty sure he had a (suicide) vest on under his lab coat, but I still didn't know for sure," he said.

Rather than shirking him off, Staff Sgt. Fetty used the distance his weapon created between him and his attacker to his advantage. "I knew that if he grabbed hold of my armor or my person in any way, I was toast," he said. "There was no getting out of it at that point. I wouldn't be able to stop him from detonating himself."

He slowly maneuvered toward a clearing between the hospital and the nearby administrative huts, away from the crowd. "I figured that if I stalled him long enough, everyone else would do their job and get the area cleared," he said.

Staff Sgt. Fetty kept his eyes locked with his attackers'. "The last thing I wanted him to do was lose focus on me, because he didn't want me," he said. "The governor of the province was there, and he was the primary target. Suicide bombers rarely attack Americans; they want government officials. So I had to keep his focus on me."

As the struggle continued, Staff Sgt. Fetty recognized he probably wouldn't survive. "You resign yourself pretty quick. You just stop thinking at that point about yourself," he said. "It was either going to be me or 20 other people back there. ... Suicide bombers are next to impossible to stop. All you can do is limit the damage that they can do."

The chain of events "becomes sketchy" when Staff Sgt. Fetty recalls what happened after he maneuvered the attacker around the corner from the crowd. "Things happened very, very quickly," he said. Friends told Staff Sgt. Fetty he tackled the attacker, but he doesn't remember that. He recalls hitting him with the butt of his weapon, then firing warning shots at the ground near his feet.

The attacker came at him, so Staff Sgt. Fetty fired into his lower legs, then his kneecap. "He stood back up, even though I gave him a crippling wound," he said. "He got back up and tried to come at me again."

Staff Sgt. Fetty said he remembers hearing the blast of weapons from other members of the security team firing at the attacker. He shot again, at the man's stomach. He'd heard that it's safe to fire into a suicide vest, but didn't want to test his luck by firing into the attacker's chest. "That's a bad way for me to end up in a bunch of pieces," he said.

Then the attacker looked at Staff Sgt. Fetty with "the scariest face I've ever seen." The standoff had turned personal. "Earlier, he just looked crazy, but now he wanted to kill me," Staff Sgt. Fetty said. "I knew what his intent was, and I abandoned all hopes of killing the guy before he would explode."

Staff Sgt. Fetty took three steps before making a "Hollywood dive." The blast came as he hit the ground, peppering him with shrapnel in the face, leg and ankle. All that remained where he had struggled with the attacker was a big hole in the ground.

For several months after the incident, Staff Sgt. Fetty second-guessed his actions. He fretted that several other soldiers and an Afghan security guard had received shrapnel wounds. Should he have shot sooner or done something differently? "Maybe I could have done it so nobody got hurt, or at least just I got hurt," he said.

In the end, he accepted that he'd made the best of a bad situation by limiting collateral damage as he applied the training that had been grilled into him. "We train hard," and for every imaginable scenario, including dealings with a suicide bomber, he said. "You go through your rules of engagement and pray that it all works out the way it's supposed to. This time it happened to work out."

Although he's proud to receive the Silver Star, Staff Sgt. Fetty said anyone in his shoes would have acted the same way. "I don't really believe in valor that much," he said. "It's more like the set of circumstances you're put in. I think there are plenty of people over there who are just as brave as I am, who fortunately never found themselves in that situation."

He said he's convinced that everyone possesses traits of heroism. "It's in every human nature to protect someone else," he said, particularly those they've bonded with through hundreds of combat missions and countless hours of ping-pong. "It's a combination of training, loyalty to your friends and basic human nature," he said.

Still assigned to a medical holding company at Fort Bragg, N.C., Staff Sgt. Fetty said he looks forward to getting back to his troops to instill some of the lessons he's learned. "You stick to the basics," he said. "Always have a plan, stick to the plan, but be prepared to change the plan when you need to."

Looking back, he said he's glad he felt compelled to volunteer for duty in Afghanistan, even changing his military specialty so he could deploy as part of the civil affairs team.

He's convinced the PRTs are making "a huge difference" in Afghanistan. "It's absolutely vital," he said. "We build roads, build bridges, improve health care. The Afghan government doesn't really have the means to fix itself by itself."

Working among the Afghan people was "amazing," he said. "Every time we'd go and stop someplace, people were happy to see us. Kids knew 'PRT' meant that we were going to fix something. We were going to improve their life in some way."

Cdr. Wade said Staff Sgt. Fetty's actions during a celebration of a PRT milestone "exemplified what we are trying to achieve." By standing firmly in the face of danger, Staff Sgt. Fetty demonstrated "that we really are there to help the people of Afghanistan," he said.

Staff Sgt. Fetty's actions had a ripple effect in Khost province, he said. Furious that terrorists would try to undo the progress being made, local leaders and mullahs staged a peace rally following the would-be attack. They decreed acts of violence "unIslamic," Cdr. Wade said, and helped get word out to the people "that the United States and coalition are truly here to help."

Cdr. Wade said he's glad Staff Sgt. Fetty is being recognized for his actions, "and for the tactical and strategic impact he had."

"It was an incredible honor to have served with him," he said.

(Donna Miles writes for the American Forces Press Service)
© 2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 68, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-07T19:37:00.000-07:00

NINETY-NINE AND A HALF (WON'T DO)
(Pickett / Cropper / Floyd) Excerpt

I got to have all your love, night and day.
Not just a little part, but all of your heart, sugar.

CHORUS:
Ninety-nine and a half just won't do.
Oh, no, no, just won't get it.
Don' t be led in the wrong direction.
To start this thing off right, a man need a little love and affection. Yes, he do, now…

It was important for me to reach the solitude of rural Louisiana. Bossier City presented a challenge that could not be overcome so I went back to the forest where I could hear the birds sing again. Lake Bistineau State Park is about forty miles to the south and east of Shreveport. I had drawn a circle around the lake on my map a few days before not sure if I would ever see it.

Driving on Interstate 20 was not much different from a drive on any interstate. The trucks flew by as did the non-commercial traffic. I annoyed the herd as usual by driving a comfortable sixty miles per hour. The one redeeming feature of the drive was that it was so green with its tree lined borders I could almost tolerate the raceway antics of the other drivers. The turn off for Lake Bistineau took me over a series of neglected country roads and across rail road tracks that seemed to disappear into the woods. There were great pastures and a thick forest that stood behind everything like a big brother.

By the time I approached the park entrance I was in a kind of happy stupor. I envisioned the shimmering waters of Lake Bistineau where the fish are jumping, don’t you know my darling, and the cotton was high. All the signs were there: Well groomed farms all the way along the route, Polled Herefords here, Channon’s Horse Ranch there. I heard Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony and Paul Robeson bidding me to come closer.

I parked the car in front of the gift shop. No other vehicles were in the lot and I wasn’t even sure that a ranger would be in the kiosk. I walked up to the sliding window and saw a young female ranger watching some kind of daytime variety show on a flat screen TV. I could see however that her tiny kiosk was nothing like the posh facilities at Wright-Patman. She slid the glass open to hear what I had to say.

“Good morning. Welcome to Lake Bistineau State Park. How can I help you, sir?”

“Hi, I would like a day pass to do some hiking. I'm going to be tenting here tomorrow, but today - I'm only hiking.”

“Sure, that’ll be a dollar please.”

“Sounds like the best deal in town,” I said and I meant it. “Could you please give me a map of your trail system too.”

“Of course,” the ranger said. “It’s not a very complicated map. There are only two trails. One is a little over four miles long. The other is like one and a half mile long.”

“Are they catching any fish in the lake?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“No. What?”

“The lake is empty,” she said with a smile that hinted at an apology.

“The lake is empty?” I echoed her words in disbelief. “Why?”

“There was an infestation of some Brazilian plant called Salvinia. They had to drain it because everything else failed.”

“So, is the park nearly empty?”

“It’s pretty darn empty, that’s for sure. There are a few campers with R.V.’s but you will be the only tent camper. If you like to hike you are going to love the park with nobody in it.”

“That’s the plan. Thanks very much.”

“You have a nice walk, sir. Thank you.”

Miss Ranger suggested I park down by bike rack near where the shoreline used to be.
It was a perfect spot because I could see the truck from a mile away in three directions. First thing, I walked the trails and then to dead ends in the north, south and east of the lake. Then I went back and repeated the trails to log as many miles as I could under the cover of the forest. I was in familiar surroundings where the light falling through high limbs changed colors over and over before it reached my shoulders.

The insects provided percussion and the birds sang melody. When I started my walk across the country I could not have conceived of having entire state parks to myself for hours on end. I have come to expect solitude among unspoiled forest and wildlife that seemed to accept me as a resident with odd looking feathers. Unlike my previous experiences when park employees passed by me in their trucks, the driver’s faces where obscured by dark glass today. I tipped my hat or waved out of habit.

I finally took an opportunity to pay homage to the empty lake. I stood on a peninsula that would have interested me as a place from which to catch fish and I imagined what the lake would look like with water gracing her curvy shores. What remained was a basin of thick, tall grass and stately cypress trees that stood naked to the root. Draining the lake, eradicating the Salvinia notwithstanding, was the best thing the Fish and Game could have done to revitalize its health. Lake Bistineau will rise again.

Louisiana took no half-measures to repair the majestic lake. Sometimes ninety-nine and a half percent just won’t do. Sometimes you have to crawl on your belly for two hundred feet beneath a hail of machine-gun fire to get the job done.

Master sgt. gets DSC for Afghanistan bravery
By Gina Cavallaro - Staff writer
Posted : Monday May 12, 2008 14:20:05 EDT

In a battle that would last more than 17 hours, with intense gunfire popping all around, then-Sgt. 1st Class Brendan O’Connor stood before an open field and considered his options for reaching two soldiers who lay wounded in a vineyard on the other side.

A 14-inch ditch ran almost the length of the 200-foot agricultural field. He saw a slight elevation toward the end of the ditch that he knew would force him to stand up and run for it.

As he slithered forward on his belly, ignoring the bullets grazing the grass above his head, his body armor began gathering dirt and raising his profile.

“All my ammo and magazines and grenade pouches were like a plow, I couldn’t get low enough to the ground. So I crawl back to cover, remove my body armor and crawl across and made that last dash once the ditch ran out,” said O’Connor, now 47 and a master sergeant. He was senior medical sergeant with Operational Detachment Alpha 765, 2nd Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group (Airborne), at the time of the battle.

His team, their attachments, interpreters and dozens of Afghan soldiers were in a relentless, complex fight on June 24, 2006, against more than 200 Taliban fighters who had ambushed them from multiple positions starting the night before.
The 7th Group soldiers were near Pashmul in the Panjawai District, to capture or kill a Taliban commander, the objective of Operation Kaika.

O’Connor reached the wounded soldiers and rescued them. Then he was faced with the death of his team sergeant, Master Sgt. Tom Maholic, who was killed in another part of the sprawling farm village while O’Connor was crawling across the field in the dusky late afternoon.

O’Connor took over for Maholic and, from his isolated position away from the rest of the team, coordinated medical treatment and evacuation for the wounded, organized the movement of ammunition from a re-supply aircraft and eventually led the team to safety several hours later under the cover of darkness through Taliban positions.

Almost two years later, on April 30 at Fort Bragg, N.C., O’Connor was recognized for his gallantry in battle with a Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second-highest award for valor in combat.

Soldiers with ODA 765 were also awarded four Silver Star medals, four Bronze Star Medals with “V” devices and three Purple Hearts.
Reflecting on the meaning of his prestigious award, O’Connor said that strong bonds in battle transcend the ordinary things most people know.

“In that time and that place, there’s a great intensity of emotion in friendships that are formed in combat,” he said.
He hadn’t known Maholic very long, O’Connor said, but he did know that Maholic “was kind of a warrior poet.”

“He and I shared a love of music, we talked about our families, we were both from the north, he was from Pennsylvania, I am from New Jersey. So it’s not the amount of time I knew him, but the quality,” O’Connor told Army Times. “He was a truly quality, quality person. He is missed sorely by his friends, but mostly by his young son and beautiful wife.”

© 2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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Day 67, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-06T16:54:00.000-07:00

Last night I made plans for a pre-dawn insertion into downtown Shreveport. Greenwood had stimulated my senses in ways I hadn’t anticipated so it was very important to get ahead of the potential for a break in my concentration. The friendly waitress at the truck stop restaurant plied me with a bucket’s worth of delicious coffee and a pile of pancakes to help me jump out of the starting blocks.

Two men sat near me drinking coffee after coffee and going over notes they had scribbled about an athlete they were recruiting to Old Dominion. They wore identical golf shirts with the school colors and OD embroidered on the chest. I thought of Old Dominion as a basketball school that occasionally sneaked into the tournament but these men were stocky and looked like a hundred football coaches I had seen before.

It was still dark when I left for Shreveport. When I arrived there was a shroud of warm fog barely enveloping the tallest buildings. It didn’t last long but the light remained gray and gave the whole of the downtown area a solemn face. First, I drove around the city on as many streets as I cared to go down. The empty city drew me close.

At 6:30 I found a vacant parking lot across the street from the Greyhound Bus Depot. I parked in the center of the lot, paid my five dollars and took a few minutes to lace my shoes and pack my ruck. There was a disheveled man with his sweatshirt falling off one shoulder that skidded across the lot without looking up. The middle "t" on the neon sign of the depot restaurant flickered in the thinning haze. I set no course but my plan was to see as much of the city as I could before it woke up.

I walked slowly down an alley with a five story wall of exposed brick. The fire escape was so rusty that it looked like it would crumble at the first suggestion. But the alley was clean as were all of the alleys in Shreveport. Nor was there any sign of trash or litter anywhere. I noticed that even around condemned or abandoned buildings there was nothing that could be called debris. Shreveport had set some sort of example of urban fastidiousness.

During almost four hours of scouring the city streets I counted at least three buildings that had “Court House” engraved in their marble or concrete façades. Below the city’s main statue, in front of City Hall, lay a man who wore a nice navy blue sweater and a white dress shirt. I thought he was sleeping, but I watched him for a while to make sure. The words engraved on the statue said, “Lest we forget” and then below in larger letters, “Confederate”.

Art was everywhere in this city of contradictions. There were wall murals depicting happy dancing couples and folk art displaying the primitive but beautiful paintings of young artists. Someone had a brilliant idea of placing brightly painted lamp shades over the outdated street lights. Small parks had been maintained to break up the visual pattern of encroaching high rises. I began to fall in love with Shreveport.

I walked up one of the streets with the wall art. The street rose to an intersection. There stood a perfectly proud and stately building. It was the First Methodist Church of Shreveport. By 8:45 AM church goers began to park across the street. Most of the people I saw in attendance were in their seventies and eighties. They said hello and good morning to me as I walked by in my cub-scout uniform: shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes. A police car parked on the sidewalk across from the church and remained there until the parishioners had all enetered the building.

There were a few buildings that had no apparent commercial use and no plaques or signs to identify who might be on the other side of the elegantly appointed entries. Each had a different motif but it was clear that someone had paid a lot of money to create a private place in the midst of the city. There was one mystery property that had an alcove set behind antique wrought iron with French doors leading somewhere behind lace curtains. A block away from the urban hideaway was a night club called, “The Noble Savage”.

Down on the water front of the Red River I found the casinos. The river seemed more important to me so I walked along the western bank as far as I could in each direction. Access to the gently rolling waters of the Red River was restricted there; otherwise I would have been tempted to swim a back stroke passed the baccarat window.

I found my motel after passing it several times. The owners had recently changed the name on the marquis without informing me. My walk through Bossier City, across the river from Shreveport, was almost identical to my experience walking through a tired section of Tucson. There was a jumble of overhead wires, disappearing sidewalks, and enough fast food outlets to feed Ohio.

Despite the imagery of cracker box neighborhoods and dilapidated metal storage sheds, and the lack of any real terrain upon which to walk, the people of Bossier City waved to me and handed out, “How you’s?” like candy. I continued to walk at a fast pace and glided back into my motel room drenched in sweat and feeling good.

Sometimes when the battle is at its meanest pitch, the man without the gun keeps everyone else brave and strong, and alive. I have included one such story of a man who brought the hand of God to the battlefield. I thank my nephew Will for bringing this story to our attention.

Hall of Heroes

Fr. Vincent Capodanno

Servant of God Vincent Robert Capodanno (February 13, 1929–September 4, 1967) was a United States Navy chaplain and a recipient of America's highest military decoration - the Medal of Honor - for actions during the Vietnam War.

Vincent Capodanno was born in Staten Island, New York, on February 13, 1929. He graduated from Curtis High School in Staten Island, New York and then attended Fordham University for a year before entering the Maryknoll Missionary seminary in New York. He was ordained a Catholic priest in June 1957.

Father Capodanno's first assignment as a missionary was with aboriginal Taiwanese in the mountains of Taiwan where he served in a parish and later in a school. After seven years, Father Capodanno returned to theUnited States for leave and then was assigned to a Maryknoll school in Hong Kong. Father Vincent Capodanno's relatives now reside in Delaware & Florida, the youngest known is his great nephew who is a successful banker in Florida Ross Capodanno.

In December 1965, Father Capodanno received his commission as a lieutenant in the Navy Chaplain Corps. He was assigned to the First Marine Division in Vietnam in April 1966.

At 4:30 am, September 4, 1967, during Operation Swift in the Thang Binh District of the Que-Son Valley, elements of the 1st Battalion 5th Marines encountered a large North Vietnamese unit of approximately 2500 men near the village of Dong Son. The outnumbered and disorganized Company D was in need of reinforcements. By 9:14 am, twenty-six Marines were confirmed dead and another company of Marines was committed to the battle. At 9:25 am, the commander of 1st Battalion 5th Marine requested further reinforcements.

Father Capodanno went among the wounded and dying, giving last rites and taking care of his Marines. Wounded once in the face and having his hand almost severed, he went to help a wounded corpsman only yards from an enemy machinegun and was killed. His body was recovered and interred in his family's plot in Saint Peters Cemetery, West New Brighton, Staten Island, New York.

On December 27, 1968, then Secretary of the Navy Paul Ignatius notified the Capodanno family that Lieutenant Capodanno would posthumously be awarded the Medal of Honor in recognition of his selfless sacrifice. The official ceremony was held January 7, 1969.

Father Capodanno's official Medal of Honor citation is as follows:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as Chaplain of the 3d Battalion, in connection with operations against enemy forces. In response to reports that the 2d Platoon of M Company was in danger of being overrun by a massed enemy assaulting force, Lt. Capodanno left the relative safety of the company command post and ran through an open area raked with fire, directly to the beleaguered platoon. Disregarding the intense enemy small-arms, automatic-weapons, and mortar fire, he moved about the battlefield administering last rites to the dying and giving medical aid to the wounded. When an exploding mortar round inflicted painful multiple wounds to his arms and legs, and severed a portion of his right hand, he steadfastly refused all medical aid.

Instead, he directed the corpsmen to help their wounded comrades and, with calm vigor, continued to move about the battlefield as he provided encouragement by voice and example to the valiant Marines. Upon encountering a wounded corpsman in the direct line of fire of an enemy machine gunner positioned approximately 15 yards away, Lt. Capodanno rushed a daring attempt to aid and assist the mortally wounded corpsman.

At that instant, only inches from his goal, he was struck down by a burst of machine gun fire. By his heroic conduct on the battlefield, and his inspiring example, Lt. Capodanno upheld the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the cause of freedom.

On May 19, 2002, Capodanno's Cause for Canonization was officially opened, and so he is now referred to as a Servant of God.

In May 2004 the Initial Documentation was submitted to The Congregation for the Causes of Saints with CatholicMil acting as Petitioner and Father Daniel Mode named Postulator.

On May 21, 2006 a Public Decree of Servant of God was issued by the Archdiocese for the Military Services, USA. The statement was made by Archbishop Edwin F. O’Brien in Washington D.C.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
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Day 66, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

John Muir said, “Trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!”

I woke up determined that I would get in a fast march before leaving Texas for Louisiana. I arose earlier than usual at around 3:30AM. I drank my habitual overdose of coffee and made a quick circuit from the motel along Highway 59, to Queen City and back. The truck traffic wasn’t as bad as it would be later in the morning and the strip malls and businesses were still asleep. The only activity I could see was at the Pitt Stop 24 HR Diner.

Walking on that stretch of highway, at that unearthly hour, brought a new appreciation for what that valley once must have looked like prior to the plan to pave it. I could imagine cattle grazing freely on the soggy grass and I could see a rivulet that had to have meandered through it since the last Ice Age. Now, the highway split the pastures of Atlanta in two and smashed any poetry that could have been written to honor it. The wild flowers whose petals remained closed under a warm mist had been planted on either side of the busy road by felons on a work furlough program, adding to the sense of commercial destruction of the once fertile landscape.

I returned to the motel with an enormous appetite stirring as always. By seven o’clock the breakfast room next to the lobby was open for business. I reached for more coffee and poured the batter into the do-it-yourself waffle iron. The technique was to pour the batter in, close the flap, then rotate the contraption 180 degrees and wait for three minutes. As I waited, a gentleman who described himself as a grandfather, started a conversation. We were the only ones in the room except for a hotel worker who feverishly attacked the crossword puzzle as she stood sentry in a corner of the spacious room.

“You were out early this morning for a little exercise?” He said seeing the sweat continuing to drip from my eyebrows.

“Every day,” I said once again as I had so many times explained before. “I try to walk twenty to twenty-four miles a day.”

“You can’t be serious,” he proclaimed.

“Oh, but I am,” I said defiantly. Then I described my project to him. He seemed too like the idea.

“But how do you do it? I mean how do you walk the miles by yourself when you have a car?”

“The car stays put where I parked it. I use wherever I sleep as a base and walk from there in all directions. I always come back to the car.”

“So, in other words, you see the same territory twice each day.”

“I do, but when I walk, I rarely feel it as something repetitive. Let’s say that I try to choose places to walk that please me so walking it twice isn’t boring.”

The man sipped his tea and seemed to be imagining what it would be like to do such a thing. “I’m Joe D. I am waiting for my grandson to join me. He graduated last night from high school. They had one of those all-nighters.”

“Oh yeah, the high schools do that in San Diego too.”

“You’re from San Diego. I trained out there on North Island during the Korean War.”

“I know it well,” I said. “I used to wake up to the sound of the jet engines on North Island as a teenager,” I said as my mind conjured up a vivid picture of the island which I could see across the bay from where we lived.

“Of course now they have a bridge to Coronado Island. We used to take the ferry. We called it the nickel pincher.”

“I never heard that one. The ferries were great fun to ride,” I added, my head full of memories.

“I live in Waxahatchie, Texas.”

“It’s the funniest thing but my old neighbor was raised there.”

“Well isn’t that a coincidence. It’s a small world,” he said with a wistful smile.

Just then Mr. D.’s grandson arrived, groggy and happy from a night of playing pin the tail on something. We introduced each other. The big kid wished me well as did his grandfather. I wished the fresh graduate good luck in his new life as a student of aircraft mechanics and parted company with the friendly men.

I have begun to enjoy the act of doing the laundry. The motel had a spotless laundry room that was available to guests. I was the only one using the facilities this morning. As the machines did their work, I was busy tidying up my room and making sure I had packed everything away in its rightful bag. Once the laundry was done I drove quickly south toward Waskom, Texas. My main thought was to get to a town where AT&T Wireless had a signal. At that moment every other consideration was secondary.

The R.V. Park at Waskom was a bust so I drove on into Louisiana unannounced. I landed like a Martian in an alien land. Somewhere beyond the limits of Greenwood, a truck stop motel beckoned. I chose it as a potential “Ranch House” from which to launch my clandestine forays into the bowels of its badlands. It was all badlands and bowels. Forty freight haulers parked in front of my motel room within thirty minutes of my arrival. I think they knew I was coming.

Without delay, I packed my ruck with water and ran down the lane as if I knew where I was going. A lesser alien would have cried out at his misfortune. I laughed in the face of this utter disaster. Soon, my laughter turned to flowing streams of sweat as I veered down this street and that road looking for a place to roam without being overcome by an odor which could faithfully be described as essence of Bamako. The air was thick and moist like an excretion. I walked until I couldn’t stand the mixture of petroleum and under-treated sewage. I asked the High Command for a new assignment to a far away forest. I thought of tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Few battles in American history were as vicious as the Second Battle of Fallujah.

In the months after the fall of Saddam Hussein in 2003, Fallujah was one of the most peaceful areas of the country. There was very little looting, and the new mayor of the city, Taha Bidaywi Hamed, selected by local tribal leaders, was staunchly pro-American. However, events were soon to heat up to the boiling point.

On April 28, 2003, a crowd of 200 people defied a local curfew and gathered outside a local school to protest the presence of foreign forces in the city. The protest escalated as gunmen reportedly fired upon U.S. troops from the protesting crowd and U.S. Army soldiers from the 3rd Battalion of the 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division returned fire, killing 17 people and wounding more than 70 of the protesters. There were no Army or Coalition casualties in the incident. U.S. forces said that the shooting took place over 30–60 seconds, however other sources indicate that shooting continued for half an hour.[citation needed]

In February, 2004, control of Fallujah, and the surrounding area in the Al-Anbar province, was turned over to the 1st Marine Division; the Army's 82nd Airborne Division was relieved of their command.

On March 31, 2004, Four American Blackwater USA "contractors" were ambushed and killed in the city. Images of their mutilated bodies were broadcast around the world.
Within days, U.S. Marine Corps forces launched Operation Vigilant Resolve (April 4, 2004) to take back control of the city from insurgent forces. On April 28, 2004, Operation Vigilant Resolve ended with an agreement that the local population would keep the insurgents out of the city. The Fallujah Brigade, composed of local Iraqis under the command of Muhammed Latif, a former Baathist general, was allowed to pass through coalition lines and take over the city.

Insurgent strength and control began to grow to such an extent that by September 24, 2004, a senior U.S. official told ABC News that catching Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi, said to be in Fallujah, was now "the highest priority," and estimated his troops at 5,000 men, mostly non-Iraqis.[15]

Marines from Mike Battery, 4th Battalion, 14th Marines an activated reserve artillery unit, operate the 155 mm M198 howitzer in November 2004. The battery was based at Camp Fallujah, Iraq and was supporting Operation Phantom Fury.
Before beginning their attack, U.S. and Iraqi forces had established checkpoints around the city to prevent anyone from entering the city and to intercept insurgents attempting to flee.

In addition, overhead imagery was used to prepare maps of the city for use by the attackers. American units were augmented by Iraqi interpreters to assist them in the planned fight. After weeks of withstanding air strikes and artillery bombardment, the militants holed up in the city appeared to be vulnerable to direct attack.
Insurgent forces

In April Fallujah was defended by about 500 "hardcore" and 2,000+ "part time" insurgents. By November it was estimated that the numbers had doubled. Another estimate put the number of insurgents at 3,000; however a number of insurgent leaders escaped before the attack[17]. There were significant numbers of "part time" insurgents out of that 3,000 that stayed behind to fight the Marine and Army Forces.

U.S. military officials estimated that 70-90% of the 300,000 civilians in the city had fled before the attack.[17] Intelligence briefings given prior to battle reported that Coalition forces would encounter Chechen, Filipino, Saudi, Iranian, Italian, and Syrian combatants, as well as native Iraqis.[18]

Ground operations began on the night of November 7, 2004. Attacking from the west and south, The Iraqi 36th Commando Battalion with their U.S. Army Special Forces advisers and the U.S. Marine Corps 3rd Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, reinforced by Bravo Company from the Marine Corp Reserve's 1st Battalion, 23rd Regiment, and supported by Combat Service Support Company 113, from Combat Service Support Battalion 1, captured Fallujah General Hospital and villages opposite the Euphrates River along Fallujah's western edge[19].

The same unit, operating under the command of the U.S. Army III Corps, then moved on the western approaches to the city, securing the Jurf Kas Sukr Bridge[19]. These initial attacks, however, were little more than a diversion, intended to distract and confuse the rebels defending the city.

Subsequent to Navy Seabees from NMCB-23 shutting off electrical power at the substation located just northeast of the city, two Marine Regimental Combat Teams, Regimental Combat Team 1 (RCT-1) and Regimental Combat Team 7 (RCT-7) launched their attack along the northern edge of the city. There were also two U.S. Army heavy battalion-sized units, the 2nd Squadron, 7 Cavalry Regiment, and 2nd Battalion, 2nd Infantry Regiment(Mechanized). These two battalions were to be followed by four infantry battalions that would clear the buildings.

The Army's mechanized Second Brigade, First Cavalry Division, augmented by the Marine's Second Reconnaissance Battalion and, for a few days, the 1st Battalion, 5th Infantry Regiment [Stryker], was tasked to surround the city[20]. The British Black Watch Battalion patrolled the main highways to the east.

The six battalions of Army-Marine-Iraqi forces, moving under the cover of darkness, began the assault in the early hours of November 8, 2004 with an intense bombing followed by an attack on the main train station that was used as a staging point for follow-on forces. By that afternoon, under the protection of intense air cover,

Marines had entered the Hay Naib al-Dubat and al-Naziza districts.The Marines were followed in by the Navy Seabees of NMCB-4 who bulldozed the streets clear of debris from the bombardment that morning. Shortly after nightfall on November 9, 2004,

Marines were reportedly along Highway 10 in the center of the city. While most of the fighting subsided by November 13, 2004, Marines continued to face determined resistance from the enemy in and around the city.

By November 16, 2004, after nine days of fighting, the Marine command described the action as mopping up pockets of resistance. Sporadic fighting continued until December 23, 2004.

Despite its success, the battle was not without controversy. On November 16, 2004, NBC News aired footage that showed a U.S. Marine, with 3rd Battalion 1st Marines, shooting dead a wounded Iraqi fighter. In this video, the Marine was heard claiming that the Iraqi was "playing possum". U.S. Navy investigators NCIS later determined that the Marine was acting in self-defense.[21] The AP reported that military-age males attempting to flee the city were turned back by the U.S. military.[22]

By late January 2005, news reports indicated U.S. combat units were leaving the area, and were assisting the local population in returning to the now heavily-damaged city.

The US Army's 2nd Battalion, 2nd Infantry Regiment was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for actions during the battle[23] Additionally, Operation Phantom Fury yielded a nominee for the Medal of Honor, Sergeant Rafael Peralta who was a Marine with 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines. Sgt. Peralta was later awarded the Navy Cross, the second highest award a Marine can receive.[24]

This article was an excerpt found in a longer piece from Wikipedia 2008.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote'
All Rights Reserved

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Day 65, Walk for Warriors

2010-06-04T17:49:00.000-07:00

At The Cannon's Mouth
Author: Herman Melville
Destruction of the Ram Albermarle by the Torpedo-Launch.
October, 1864. (Excerpt)

Palely intent, he urged his keel
Full on the guns, and touched the spring;
Himself involved in the bolt he drove
Timed with the armed hull's shot that stove
His shallop--die or do!

Into the flood his life he threw,
Yet lives--unscathed--a breathing thing
To marvel at.

He has his fame;
But that mad dash at death, how name?
Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy
From the martyr-passion? Could he dare
Disdain the Paradise of opening joy
Which beckons the fresh heart every where…

The morning started out with a gentle mist that quickly transformed itself into a wave of increasing heat. My destination was the quaint downtown area of Atlanta, Texas. After walking along the highway, I first headed north and then after sweeping around the town, to the south. But the meat of the walk was found in the heart of this sturdy micropolis.

I spoke to a friendly postal clerk who had just helped an elderly woman sort out her mail. She made change for the woman, who had trouble hearing her, with so much care and empathy I stood and watched in the otherwise empty room.

When it was my turn, the postal clerk, with her pink cheeks and round face, smiled and continued in her polite and genuine manner. She moved to the pace of her village and exhibited the kind of warmth and generosity I have been shown during every moment of my journey. My image of the ordinary postal clerk rose in stature today while I bought stamps and sent letters off. I know with confidence that my letters will arrive at their destinations.

Most of old Atlanta’s buildings are vacant now. You could see that an effort had been made to retain its original character; a place where the butcher and the pharmacist, the florist and the baker had their designated addresses in the heart of downtown. That day has long since passed and the town had to settle for a few fancy new bank buildings, the robust post office building, and a rehabilitated structure that now houses the Atlanta Historical Society Museum.

The library looked to have been a stately home on a corner eighty years ago. When I entered the grand, old wooden structure I found ten children being read to by a man, who would best be described as the town’s resident poet. I listened out of view.

After a lap that included a visit to Atlanta’s high school I meandered back into the downtown. Flags flew all along the streets. A stranger would have said that every day in Atlanta is Memorial Day. I would guess that at least eighty percent of all vehicles in the county proudly have those yellow ribbons saying things like, “God Bless Our Troops”, and “I Support Our Troops”. Political relativism is a far away concept taught at the university, not a construct easily borne by Atlantans.

After about five hours of steady paced walking the heat index was somewhere near the million something, something mark. I stumbled onto a corner where a sign read, “Soda Fountain.” It was as if I had rolled down a dune smack dab in the middle of an oasis. A nice looking woman in her twenties washed windows outside.

I entered the worn-out building to find a rather whimsical set up with clothes for teenage girls. There was an old-fashion soda fountain counter and some booths to one side. The rest of the interior had racks of clothing. There was a display of knives under glass for the men in town.

I sat at the counter and ordered a vanilla malt. The young man didn’t blink at the order. He began to prepare my sugary, malted drink as I watched. I received a glass of water to tide me over until the arrival of the object of my deep desire. I noticed an elderly woman sitting by herself in a dark booth near the back of the room. The man preempted my question, “It’s a family run business. That’s grandma and she is my sister,” he said pointing to his sister who by then washing the inside of the windows.

The malt arrived in a twenty ounce Styrofoam cup with just a dribble running down its length. Time stopped and all I could hear was the rhythmic cycle of the ceiling fans as I took the first sip of the perfectly crafted drink.

A girl of ten hid behind some inventory trying to get the attention of the sister who stood in front of me. “So, are you from L.A.?” She asked before turning her attentions to the little girl. “I see you Amanda. Come over here.” Sister retreated to the far end of the counter.

I could hear Sister say in a whisper, “You are too young to wear make-up, honey.”

“I just want a little around the eyes like yours. Would you put it on for me?”

“Okay, maybe a little but that’s it.”

Sister came back to the place behind the counter in front of me again after pointing to where the ten year old girl should position herself for the make-up party.
I answered her question, “I’m from San Diego.”

“How about you?”

“We’re from Vivian but we bought this store three years ago.” She said as she joined the girl.

It was all right. I knew Vivian, having driven through the town in thirty seconds five days ago. Brother approached. “San Diego is nice. We went there as kids. It had very nice beaches.”

“They are nice.”

I sipped on my malt slowly and often, but it seemed to take a very long time to reach the bottom of my Styrofoam cup. My body had cooled sufficiently to finish the final three miles of my walk. I said goodbye to brother and sister and wished them good luck. Brother offered me a bottle of water from his cooler. I thanked him but said that I had six bottles left in my ruck. He shook my hand and said, “I hope you’ll come back soon.”

The story of Sgt. Jason A. Baldwin is an amazing account of bravery and steadfastness in the face of an overwhelming enemy force.

Awarded for actions during the Global War on Terror

The President of the United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress July 9, 1918 (amended by an act of July 25, 1963), takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star to Specialist Jason A. Baldwin, United States Army, for extraordinary heroism in action while serving as Mortar Gunner with Company C, 2d Battalion (Airborne), 503d Parachute Infantry Regiment, 173d Airborne Brigade Combat Team, in action at Ranch House in Nuristan Province, Afghanistan, on 22 August 2007.

Specialist Baldwin's gallant actions and dedicated devotion to duty, without regard for his own life, were in keeping with the highest traditions of military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army. NARRATIVE TO ACCOMPANY AWARD: On 22 August 2007, at 0455L, the Ranch House Outpost at Aranas, Afghanistan, was attacked from all sides by a company-sized insurgent force, simultaneously engaging every post in the perimeter by multiple RPG and small arms fire.

Specialist Baldwin was serving as 60-mm. Mortar Gunner for Company C, 2d Battalion (Airborne), 503d Parachute Infantry Regiment. On that morning he woke up to the sound of intense small arms fire and RPG explosions. When he moved outside his quarters he came under effective small arms fire and he saw Afghan National Army (ANA) and Afghan Security Guard (ASG) forces fleeing from their post, which had swiftly been overrun by insurgents. He took cover by the ASP and moved to the Aid Station where

Staff Sergeant Phillips was getting his gear on. Staff Sergeant Phillips and Sergeant Baldwin then moved to the mortar pit to provide fire missions in support of Post 3. The mortar pit continued to receive effective small arms fire and RPG fire. The enemy at this point had overrun the ASG and ANA Post and were directing fire at the TOC, the Aid Station, and the mortar firing point from it.

The enemy had now advanced to within ten to twenty meters of Specialist Baldwin's position. He threw hand grenades and fired all his weapon systems to suppress the enemy and protect the Platoon Leader, First Lieutenant Ferrara, so he could maintain communications with the company. Specialist Baldwin, with no instructions from his leaders recognized that the ANA and ASG positions had been overrun and began to fire his 60-mm. mortar in handheld mode at an 80 to 100 meter range at the advancing enemy.

With no regard for his own safety he alternated from throwing hand grenades at the insurgents ten meters from the mortar pit and conducting fire missions with his mortar system on enemy positions. Specialist Baldwin fired about 20 rounds that greatly affected the enemy advance onto Post 2 from Post 3 and the enemy stronghold and breach of the Ranch House wire at the ASG OP.

Specialist Baldwin's mortar fires on the enemy kept them from reinforcing the element that was firing at him from 10 meters away and disrupted the enemy advance preventing him from overrunning the platoon leader's position. Without Specialist

Baldwin's quick thinking and proficiency on the 60-mm. mortar system the enemy advance would have continued. He acted without regard for his own life but with incredible courage and quick thinking that destroyed a quickly advancing enemy force just 10 meters from his position. This allowed the platoon leader to call in CAS to destroy any enemy that remained at the stronghold near the ASG and ANA posts.

Through his quick thinking and total disregard for his own safety, Specialist Baldwin used precision hand-held 60-mm mortar fire and disrupted and destroyed the quickly advancing enemy. His actions prevented the Ranch House Outpost from being overrun by an enemy force that had superior firepower and was three times larger than the U.S. force.

His quick decision to employ all available fires protected the Platoon CP from being overtaken, allowing external assets to be employed against the enemy and defeating them. This action against the enemy yielded invaluable intelligence with the death of HVT Hazrat Omar and at least ten of his fighters, as well as enemy video tapes of attack plans, pictures of insurgents, and payroll documents utilized by insurgent commanders. Battle damage assessment showed evidence of the precision of his fires.

Action Date: 22-Aug-07
Service: Army
Rank: Specialist
Company: Company C
Battalion: 2d Battalion (Airborne)
Regiment: 503d Parachute Infantry Regiment, 173d Airborne Brigade

Note: Sgt. Baldwin has been nominated for the Medal of Honor for his courageous actions that day.

©2010 John Van Dyke Cote'
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