There are only two days left to vote for your favorite military weblog at Milblogging.com. If you haven’t had a chance to vote, and you have about 90 seconds of free time, go by and cast your vote for 365 and a Wakeup. All you have to do is register on the site, click here, and then click “Add to Favorites”. It is completely painless, it doesn’t cost a dime, and it makes a pretty good New Year’s present.
Voting has ended for the "Best Military Blog" in the 2005 Annual Weblog Awards. Congratuations Blackfive! It was an honor to even be considered, and I'd like to thank every reader who took the time to vote.
And on the subject of voting.....
Ends up the Weblog Awards aren't the only Milblog contest, "365 and a Wakeup" is also in the running for a "Milbloggie" at Milblogging.com. All you have to do is register, click on my site link, and “Add To Favorites.” It takes less then 2 minutes (and for the record enlisting the aid of coworkers/family/friends isn't cheating) . You can't help Killer Company secure the Iraqi elections sites these next few days, but only you can make sure this election goes well!
After recent successes in our Company
Sector our AO (Area of Operations) was expanded to include some of the
scattered farms on the outskirts of our sector. After spending hours sitting down with our
key leaders and mapping out infiltration routes we set the plan into
action. The new area is a rugged mix of
fertile farms and pastures wrenched back from mankind’s guiding hand - all
interlaced with scattered homes, stagnant pools, and reed choked canals…
When I get all my soldiers home I will
start to fill in the blanks, how our soldiers rolled up sniper cells, coordinated
artillery and close air support, engaged in some of the fiercest fighting to
date, and foiled and survived the insidious IEDs laid in sector. But for now that will have to wait until the
endgame. Once the elections are over we
will start our transition home, ending an 18 month rotation. Rest assured I will fill in the blanks when
time permits.
Today was Veterans Day, and rather then bluster on about our daily patrols I thought I would post one of the most moving military poems every written. "In Flanders Fields" was written by MAJ John McCrae following the Battle of Ypres, but it could have been written about any battle in any war. It speaks to that small part of every combat veterans soul... the part that never makes it home.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, saw dawn, felt sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Yesterday I received a vile email that emptied self righteous wrath on both my soldiers and I. The rambling message started with a blanket accusation “you are heartless conquerors” and ended with the author reveling in the thought that “you will return home broken men”. I have heard these empty arguments bandied around before, but never with such vitriolic zeal. The email wasn’t an intellectual exchange on the pros and cons of this war, it was the virtual equivalent of a slap in the face. By all rights I should have been infuriated, but all I could muster was abject pity for the cowardly author. I have said this before, but it bears repeating so I will say it again. We didn’t come here to conquer, and we didn’t come here to hate. That may be difficult to understand for those simplistic minds that automatically equate military service with blind reptilian fury, but it is true nonetheless. The anonymous writer was wrong when he said we would return home broken, but perhaps he was using his own frail heart as a reference point. But to say we will return unchanged would be just as false..
One of the lies we tell ourselves is that this place won’t change us - but that is little more then an empty wish. Iraq has already changed us, and the men that reported to duty all those long months ago will never return. We will return in their place, and though we share common memories with those prior incarnations of self we will be different. In our absence the dense underbrush of petty rivalries, false friends and empty dreams will have long since burned away as surely as if the rugged landscape of our hearts had endured some great firestorm. In many ways it has.
But nothing is ever truly lost without something being gained, and we are no exception. Like the forest that is reborn in the ashes of a wildfire, so too will we grow amidst the scorched memories of pain and loss. And someday those interior slopes will again be fertile and speckled with a riot of new cares and concerns. To the casual observer we will look no different from any other person, just another gray face in a gray world. But to those of us who have endured the fires there will always be an unspoken bond, and we will recognize the faded scars of our friends as if they were our own reflections. There is no universal insight magically granted to those who have been in combat, but our time here will ensure one thing - we will never again be allied with those chill souls who risk nothing and therefore gain nothing.
The burning torch that plagued our days has started to sputter – the reign of summer has ended. The ebony ribbons of asphalt have lost their plasticity and solidified like black sheets of ice. Scorching fields of sand no longer send waves of heat rippling through the soles of your boots. And the shimmering blooms of heat that refracted light like dancing water have finally settled. The temperatures are still in the low triple digits, but after months of brutal summer heat that feels downright pleasant.
The best time of
day to be outside is still early morning, when the sun is still gathering
strength as it crests the horizon. In the
throes of summer the mornings weren’t cool, they just seemed that way compared to
the blaring heat of midday. Now the
mornings settle around you like a light winter coat, as if the air itself were
trying to apologize for months of thermal transgressions.
On cool mornings like these Iraq becomes a very different place, if only for a few minutes. As the sun breaks the horizon the cool glare blots out the scattered debris and wind woven mats of junk. What it leaves behind is a scene softly shaded by the tangerine glow of morning. A landscape as blurred as an impressionist painting, and almost as lovely.
These moments never last longer then a handful of minutes, and as the morning star climbs higher into the sky the collective waste of a metropolis once again become the focal point. It almost feels like watching a time lapse movie of rust corrupting a piece of iron. Sometimes it seems like nothing will ever change, but then again there is always tomorrow morning. And the one after that. And the next. And then tens of thousands more following in an unbroken chain. And if we succeed here one of those mornings the sun may rise on something brighter then this blighted land. Hope springs eternal…
Present suffering is not enjoyable, but life would be worth little without it. The difference between iron and steel is fire, but steel is worth all it costs. Iron ore may think itself senselessly tortured in the furnace, but when the watch-spring looks back, it knows better.
-Maltbie Davenport Babcock
I once read that when Japanese artisans’ repair shattered items they fill in the cracks with whisper thin lines of gold. They make no attempt to return the object to its earlier incarnation - the resurrected piece forever carries a tracework of golden lines. At first blush the painstaking process might seem like a colossal waste of time and treasure, but there is a subtle lesson to be learned from the artist’s careful labor. When the Japanese see the subtle web of golden lines crease an object they see the damage for what it really is – the physical manifestation of the items unique history. And it is that history that makes the object rare and beautiful.
A few days ago my path seemed brilliantly clear, but as sometimes happens a fork appeared in the road. At first I was stunned that the map I was following no longer matched the terrain. Anger followed a half step behind, and for a few hours I silently raged with a fury that matched the superheated atmosphere. What quenched the flames was a simple but universal truth - sometimes you can’t have what you want. When that happens you can succumb to bitterness and screech at the heavens at the change in circumstance or you can pick up the pieces and move forward. Since I’ve never been big on wallowing in pity I decided to move out. I’m not sure where this new path will lead, but if I fall again I’ll just get back up and continue forward.
When we leave this careworn outpost I imagine more then a few hearts will carry shimmering veins of gold. I know mine will. But that won’t necessarily be a bad thing. It just means we will be unique. And beautiful.
Today the wind returned, a stifling current of air that flowed through the FOB like the hot breath of some infernal entity. By midmorning the air was little more then an overheated conduit of raw energy. As I walked across the FOB I closed my eyes for a minute and felt like I was standing behind a jet turbine spooling up for takeoff. By early afternoon the thermometer that hangs outside our building was no longer a reliable gauge, the mercury had already pushed past 120 degrees.
I don’t know if the shimmering heat magnified my sense of smell, or if the baking temperatures triggered some strange chemical reaction, but the FOB was redolent with a witches brew of scent. In one area the noxious smell of burning plastic seemed to soak into my uniform, until it was replacesd in turn by the sickly sweet smell of diesel fumes. In another areas all I could smell was the foul stench of boiling trash - a corrupt odor that seemed to poison the very air. In still another area the only smell was the cloying scent of radiator fluid, a smell so strong and overpowering I expected to find an army of overheated vehicles around the next bend. The smells came one after another with such piercing clarity that at some point my nose just shut down. What can I say - the heat can do strange things out here.
Happy Birthday my love. I wish that I could watch you blow out those candles...
Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great.
- Christpher Marlowe
The eyes of the world are still riveted on Iraq. It isn’t just idle curiosity - the next chapter in America's history will be written in these blazing sands. I can’t imagine what the situation in Iraq looks like from outside eyes, I have a feeling the answer depends on how many sources of information you tap into. For the troops here on the bleeding edge of America's bright sword there is no overarching plot, just the sense that there are many more chapters yet to be written. When you are submerged in the turbulent confluence of death, desolation, hope, and honor you quickly lose sight of the big picture and learn the importance of focusing on your specific mission.
But a strange thing happens when you focus to narrowly - lines blur, time splinters, and direct paths seem to follow great meandering loops. When that happens everyone has to have a refuge, a safe harbor to regain their bearings. Some Soldiers immerse themselves in video games; others click on their DVD players and lose themselves for a few hours.
I just write.
And miss my wife.
You might think that against the backdrop of this war – a war that will determine the future of nations – everyday life would seem bland and unimportant. But you would be wrong. I’ve spent a hundred evenings dreaming about leaving work and coming home to my loving wife. The brightest part of my soul never made it to Iraq, it is back in California with my better half. And I do mean better half – every quality I possess she eclipses a thousand-fold. That’s why I married her. A year ago today. Happy Anniversary my love. You are my… everything.
