365 and a Wakeup

SGT Arnold Duplantier II Memorial Fund

     In this small corner of the world the black rose of death blossoms every day.  When that sad bloom stems from one of our own the bitter thorns of pain and loss rend every heart.  Such was the case with SGT Arnold Duplantier II, beloved husband, father, soldier, and friend.  Dupe has left this bitter land and will never again have the chance to spend long, lazy afternoons with his family.  But his brothers in Charlie "Rock" Company have established a trust fund to ensure that they are provided for.  If you would like to assist the Duplantier family you can make donations to the SGT Arnold Duplantier II Memorial Fund at any Golden One Credit Union.  Donations can also be sent to:

The Arnold Duplantier II Memorial Fund
C/O Charlie Company 1-184
P.O. Box 709
Auburn, CA 95604

Dupe gave his life for our sacred freedoms.  This Fourth of July please consider giving something back.   

Rebuilding

Yellow Bracelet

My words fall flat on the living room floor

As we try to speak of shallow things

But the only thing in our minds is the unspeakable

Your pain makes this silence so heavy

Its breaking me down

You fidget with your yellow bracelet

A bracelet meant to represent hope

But now it only serves as a reminder of the emptiness of home

The price of freedom seems too much for you to bear

To you he is a father and a victim

To me he is a hero

            - Sommer Rees

     Sommer is best friends with SGT Ferguson's daughter, and shortly after his injury she penned this verse for to ease her friend's anguish.  Not all the casualties in a war occur on a battlefield - the second and third order effects often ripple through a community with the chill strength of a tidal wave.

     SGT Ferguson has slowly improved and was recently moved from Bethesda Medical Center to a veterans facility in Palo Alto, California.  But his ordeal, and that of his family and friends, is far from over.  While we labor to rebuild a country, they labor to rebuild a life.  Our jobs may be a little more dangerous, but theirs is just as difficult.  Please keep them in your prayers.

Tragedy

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Times is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today,

Tommorrow will be dying."

                                    - Robert Herrick

     One of our soldiers was murdered yesterday.   He didn't expire on the battlefield.  He didn't die here in Iraq.  He was back home in California for the birth of his first child. 

     Somehow that makes it infinitely worse.

     Please keep his family in your prayers.

Our Imbed

     One of the units in our battalion has an imbedded photojournalist by the name of Ken James.  Ken is a stand up guy who's photographic skills have captured both the triumphs and tribulations of our mission.  Ken sent me a few of his pictures and I've included them in a photo gallery (cropped and low resolution - he does make his living selling his photographs).  Even at a low resolution they are stunning.

We Few

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. Be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition, and gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves acursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks, that fought with us upon St. Crispin's day!

-  William Shakespeare

     This morning we held one of our planning meetings on the lopsided wooden deck we call “the veranda”. The grandiose title is an inside joke, the deck is little more then a collection of scavenged wood and shipping pallets lying in the broken shade of a camouflage net. But while the veranda lacks even the most basic amenities it is still an sunlit refuge from the cheerless flicker of the fluorescent lit TOC, so it is a popular meeting place for the battalion staff.

     As we gathered around to brief our individual responsibilities I looked around at the officers huddled around me - MAJ Hog, MAJ K, CPT Super Dave, LT Patch, LT Irish, CPT Winny and Chief Galapagos - and felt a sudden sense of awed respect.  Were it not for the deployment we would be scattered throughout California, each safely ensconced in a constellation of family and friends. Instead we were here in this shady alcove, 10 months and thousands of miles separating us from home. As I looked at each man in turn I thought that if there is a bright spot to this deployment it is the sinewy bonds of brotherhood that have entangled us like quantum particles.       

     When we leave these scorched gates we will all be slightly out of phase with the rest of the waking world, but eventually that too will pass.  What will remain behind is memories of the brave men I had the good fortune to serve alongside.  They say that a man can be judged by the company he keeps.  I can only hope that is indeed the case.

Short Circuiting Fate

We make our own fortunes, and we call them fate"

                                  - Benjamin Disraeli

     Today I was having dinner with LT Anger and as we were casually picking at our plates his fork stopped in mid air.  I picked up his quiet cue and asked him if anything was going on. He paused for a moment and then casually mentioned that his soldiers had to spend a good chunk of the morning pulling shrapnel out his vehicle.  I hadn’t heard about any IEDs, so I took the bait and asked him what had happened. 

     He settled in his seat and started to tell me his story from the beginning. Last night LT Anger was on patrol in our sector of Baghdad.  The mission lasted several hours, and the soft light of late afternoon had decayed into the smoky velvet of twilight by time his soldiers had finished their routine patrol.  In anticipation of their sprint back to the FOB the vehicles coiled into a staggered line, pausing long enough to let the gunners scrunch low in their armored turrets, and set off.  As they were driving through an unlovely stretch of land LT Anger was watching the vehicle directly in front of him, intent only on maintaining his position in the convoy.  And then the air itself flared into incandescense as a white hot gout of flame shredded the darkness.  LT Anger slammed on the brakes and brought the heavy vehicle to a halt before the HMMWV had even entered the roiling mass of dust, cordite and debris the explosion had kicked up.  Realizing that his vehicle was still in a kill zone LT Anger backed up a safe distance and then waited for word from the vehicles in the front of the convoy.  By time he had moved to a defensible position and confirmed there were no injuries - he heard the staccato beat of an AK-47.  Unable to communicate with the lead vehicles, and unwilling to drive through a kill zone to get to his soldiers the LT and his troops waded through a knee deep channel of sewage to perform a linkup.  By time they made it to the lead HMMWVs the fighting was long over and the sky was filled with the angry buzz of Apache gunships hungrily eyeing the battlefield.  Before he had a chance to get the words out his NCO answered his question – “everyone is alright sir”.

     As his story wound to a close he leaned forward as if he were about to release some great secret, dropped his voice and said “we got lucky”.  I leaned back, looked him dead in the eye and told him the truth, saying “Luck had nothing to do with it”. Because in the end what sway can fate have over a man willing to wade through a mire of putrescence so that he could fight alongside his soldiers?