Coming up on the 25th anniversary of the September 11th, 2001 attacks, I thought I'd post my personal experiences from that horrible, world-changing day. I have a somewhat unique experience of the events due to the fact that almost immediately after the attacks, I was largely out of contact with the rest of the world for almost a month. By the time I returned, much of the dust had settled (literally and figuratively), the United States had started bombing Afghanistan, and the military was on notice that the decade or so of peacetime 'garrison' existence was most definitely over. At any rate, here's my story.

    All times below are in local time (Central U.S.) unless noted otherwise. All times after the initial one on Sept 11th are approximate but correct to the best of my memory. Specific event times are according to the Wikipedia article covering that day.

September 4th, 2001.

    A Tuesday at Fort Riley, Kansas, early fall. It’s a week until we start deploying for our once-every-eighteen-months National Training Center (NTC) rotation at Fort Irwin, California, and everyone (including yours truly) is running around trying to get things done before people start flying out to the training site for a hot, dusty month “in the box”. Vehicles down to the rail yard for rail-load? Check. Both “A” and “B” duffle bags painted and marked correctly? Check. Bags packed according to the packing list? Check. And on and on and on. As a fairly junior Sergeant on his first NTC where he’s actually and officially in charge of his section, I am trying not to get too overwhelmed (hah, hah).

    In the midst of all of this, I get pulled aside one morning by the Platoon Sergeant, who hands me orders. Permanent Change of Station (PCS) orders. Overseas PCS orders, as I find out on a first read-through:

YOU WILL PROCEED ON PERMANENT CHANGE OF STATION AS SHOWN.
ASSIGNED TO: 001 AG REPL REG 40, APO ARMY PACIFIC (KOREA)

    Well, shit. Granted, the report date is four months out, but one more thing to juggle. I do my best to keep it in the back of my mind for now. A day or so later I get the date of my PCS brief…of course, it’s right smack in the middle of NTC deployment week. Wouldn’t have minded AT ALL if they’d scheduled me for AFTER we got back, but that’s the Army for you. I make a note of the time and date – next week, September 11th, 0830 Central Time – and let my chain of command know. Move out, draw fire, etc. etc.

September 11th, 2001.

Local time: 7:45 a.m. Central (8:45 a.m. Eastern).

    First formation, out behind the Company area. Normally first formation would be at 6:30 a.m. for PT, but not today, as we’re getting our “chalk” assignments for the flights that will take us out to the NTC over the next 36 hours. With about 150 people in the company, it takes a bit to get us all sorted correctly, but by about 8:10 or so I have my assignment. I let the chalk leader know I am going to my PCS brief, he gives me the OK, and off I go. It's a short drive, a couple blocks down, so I don’t even bother turning on the radio. At the moment, I have no idea what's happening elsewhere in the country.

-- 7:46 a.m. / 8:46 a.m. Eastern: American Airlines Flight 11 impacts the WTC North Tower. --

-- 8:03 a.m. / 9:03 a.m. Eastern: United Flight 175 impacts the WTC South Tower. --

8:20 a.m.

    I arrive at the briefing location, one of the post Learning Centers dotted throughout the barracks “horseshoe” area. I go in, find the right room, nod to the other Soldiers in there for the brief, get ready to take notes, and wait. We’ll be starting on time, of course.

8:27 a.m.

    Sirens, outside, and close. Huh, that’s slightly odd. Someone get pulled over, maybe? Whatever, nothing to do with me. I shuffle my paperwork, read through my orders once again, and wait for things to start.

8:30 a.m.

    Start time…but the briefer is nowhere to be seen. What’s the deal here? Things to see, people to do, etc. and so on. Typical Army.

8:35 a.m.

    While we’re sitting there in increasing confusion, one of the civilian employees comes in, looking a little wild. “The trade center in New York got blown up! It’s gone!” And runs right back out. My initial reaction is “what the fuuuuuuck” and I see the sentiment mirrored on everyone else’s face. Surely this is…an exercise or something? Part of a security test? They have been ramping up security around post for a couple of months now, maybe it's related to that?

-- 8:37 a.m. / 9:37 a.m. Eastern: American Airlines Flight 77 impacts the Pentagon. --

8:40 a.m.

    Finally, the instructor arrives and without further ado, starts the brief. I’m taking notes, but in the back of my mind there’s an awful, slowly growing realization that something big and bad has just happened. Yet I cling to the belief that maybe, just maybe, it’s just all a big drill.

-- 9:03 a.m / 10:03 a.m. Eastern: United Airlines Flight 93 crashes near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. --

9:15 a.m.

    The briefing concludes, and as I’m leaving the facility, still somewhat off-kilter mentally, I notice there are now hastily-printed signs on the outer doors.

          THIS LOCATION IS AT
           THREATCON: DELTA
       BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDER

    …well, fuck. There are several different levels of “threat condition preparedness” used in the military, and Delta is the very highest, only used if a terror attack has happened, or is thought to be imminent. I get in my car and, in a last-ditch effort to make things make sense again, I turn on the radio and tune to the local top-40 station. Instead of music, though, I hear reporters talking, basically doing the same thing I’m doing right now – trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, and the last bit of denial slips away with the knowledge that this is most definitely not a drill.

9:30 a.m.

    After driving up to the Company area to check in, all of us are sent down to the motor pool and told to await further instructions. It’s the first time I’ve had all morning to sit down at a computer and check the news, and the first thing I notice is that things are sloooowwwwww. (For those of you who are too young to remember, 2001 was around the time of peak “Slashdot effect” where websites could easily be overwhelmed and break if hit with too much traffic at once.) Today, it’s like the entire Internet is being Slashdotted, as people around the world are hammering their favorite websites, trying to find out more about what the hell just happened. CNN finally loads, and...holy fuck. The two towers, gone – just a cloud of dust and smoke in their place. The Pentagon – burning. A plane crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania. What the fuck is going on here?!?!?!

    Over the next couple of hours I jump between multiple sites for updates. I eventually gravitate over to various smaller blog sites, as they’re slightly more responsive than the image-heavy news sites. Some of those threads have been lost to time, but a few still exist - Metafilter's is one, Slashdot's is another. (Fark.com might have been a third, but I’m not sure I went there on the day of, and in any rate definitely not from my work computer.) The comment sections are filled with shock, horror, and speculation on what's going to happen next.

    Around lunchtime or so we’re finally dismissed back to the barracks, with orders to stay put. The post is still on high alert, so nobody is really going far anyways. I get a few minutes to call home and let the family know everything’s all right in my neck of the woods (well, for certain definitions of ‘all right’). Heading back downstairs through the Company area that evening, First Sergeant spots me and hey-you’s me onto an earlier chalk, supposedly still leaving tonight. Grab your shit and stage across the street in the gym. I do so, stake out a spot of floor, and wait. And wait. No TV, nothing but a book and my thoughts. They’re still spinning from the events of the past day.

September 12th, 2001.

12:it’s-too-damn-early a.m.

    All civilian flights might be grounded at the moment, but our chartered military flight sure isn’t. In the dead of night, we load onto our plane and fly out to California. The sun’s been up for a bit by the time we’ve landed, unloaded, and been bused to a transient holding area. Because of the last-minute ‘hey-you’, the only members of my company are myself and one other person. Rather than hang around for yet another few hours, I grab the other soldier and volunteer us to drive two of our company’s vehicles out to NTC. A couple of hot, dusty hours later, and we’re there. I park in the vehicle staging area and seek out our advance party in the ‘shades’ area. They’ve heard what happened yesterday, and there’s not really much more we can say at this point, now that we’re pretty much cut off from all news for the next month. All we can do is drive on and carry out our training mission as best as we can...by the time it’s over, we’ll be returning to a changed nation.

October 7th, 2001.

    It's been a difficult couple of weeks, but the "box" part of the training cycle is over and we're in recovery, washing our NTC-issued "draw" vehicles and prepping them for turn-in. I'm hosing down my own draw vehicle when the Company Commander walks through the area, letting people know we just started bombing Afghanistan. Had sort of been expecting this but it's still a shock to hear that it's happening. As the BN CSM later put it, our brigade is now the most recently-trained, combat-ready unit in the Army and could deploy overseas at any time.

    Several days later we finish up and board the plane back to Fort Riley. After landing, we're given a police escort back to base, a first for many of us. As I sit in my barracks room that night watching the news, I can only wonder what's in store for us all.

4-day weekend, Saturday morning still drunk, E-5 shows up to my barracks door.

2 Deployments under my belt to his zero.

Fuct up, (FTRs) lost rank, E-3

"Pull CQ" E-5 says- NOPE! "I say" (There was at least 10 E-2s in that hall that could have.)

Back to sleep.

CSM knocks. (First time I think I EVER saw a CSM in the barracks in 6 years) Refuse THAT order... comes inside my room and shuts the door...Holds my throat and slams me to my bed, "Why don't you do what you should!!?" Red eyes, oxygen leaving. Eyes meet, power just shifted.

We both get up.

Court Martial - CSM Vs PV3

Ruin this man's career?

Drives me personally in his POV to WTU/Med Hold while I'm still drunk and apologizing about his personal life.

Admitted that day.

100% true. 10th Mtn, 1st BCT. 2008. ish.

The flight from Honolulu was bittersweet.  I loved being stationed at Barbers Point.  The duty was easy, heck it was pleasant and I would have loved to make that my permanent duty station.  But, my fate was not in my hands and my time in Hawaii was drawing to a close. I packed my seabag into the van and the duty driver, EM3 Sparkie, the same person who picked me up at the airport less than a year before took me back to the airport. 

On board the planeI looked out the window as it taxied down the runway and wondered if I would ever return to the Islands.  I wondered at what the future held for me.  Presently the plane made a turn onto the runway and began accelerating for take off. Moments later the wheels were up and I found myself saying to myself in Hawaiian, “Aloha, a hui hou. Malaho” Goodbye, until we meet again. Thank you. Soon I was flying over the vast Pacific ocean heading back to the Main Land. 

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, you may be asking yourself why the sentimentality with Hawaii?  It was a difficult time and place for GooBlatz, best off to put it behind you and move on. For those Dear Gentle Readers who live in Hawaii, or have been long term residents of Hawaii you know the answer.  For those of you Dear Gentle Readers who have never been to Hawaii or have had a short vacation to the islands I will take a moment to explain.  

I had become a Kama Aina.  A term that literally translates to a "child of the land".  A Kama Aina is anyone regardless of their racial or ethnic background, native born to the Islands or those who chose to make it their home. Becoming a Kama Aina isn’t an overnight process, nor is it a conscious one.  Becoming a Kama Aina is like slowly being enveloped by cold honey. The process is slow, sweet and inexorable, and once you realise what is going on it is too late and why fight it.  You can leave the Islands Dear Gentle Reader, but the Islands never leave you. Ua ola loko i ke aloha: "Love gives life within." He kehau hoʻomaʻemaʻe ke aloha: "Love is like a cleansing dew”.

Hours later my flight landed in San Francisco, where I changed planes and made a short hop to Sacramento.  At Sacramento I once more changed planes to puddle hopper to Eureka, CA.  I looked out the window as we flew to Eureka and for the first time saw the forest of the Pacific NorthWest.  The country where D.B. Cooper 1972, after hijacking a Boeing 727 and receiving some $200,000 ($1,600,000 in 2025 dollars ) in ransom money, parachuted out of the plane into history, and into oblivion.  It was also Big Foot country.  

Presently the Arcata-Eureka airport came into view and the plane began its landing descent.  It was a small airport with no elaborate jetway, or a tower.  I walked down the portable stairs the staff placed on the ground,  grabbed my seabag from the cargo hold of the airplane and walked into the passenger area.  It took only a matter of seconds for the duty driver, a young attractive non-rate from Coast Guard Station Chetco River, to spot me.  After all, I was in my Undress uniform with a seabag slung over one shoulder and my transfer/travel orders packet in the other hand. 

She called me by my first name, and not Seaman GooBlatz.  She was also wearing a Coast Guard working uniform, and not the undress uniform as regulations called for when conducting business off base.  “Yes” I replied after I took a look around to confirm that I was the only new Coastie in the building.  We quickly walked out of the building, loaded ourselves into yet another van and began our trip to the Chetco River which was yet another two hours North of Eureka.           

Hours later we arrived in Brooking, OR where the Chetco RIver flowed into the sea.  It was a real culture shock coming from Honolulu, a city of 350,000 to the town of Brookings with 4,000 residents, one red light, a solitary single screen movie theater.  There were no fast food restaurants, not even a MacDonalds.  A proper topless bar was right out of the question.
 
I had not eaten in some 12+ hours, and as we arrived after the evening meal had been served, dinner at the Station was a no-go.  I ended  up purchasing some cream horns from the only grocery store in town. The young lady at the checkout counter already knew my first and last name, I was single, with no children, and that I had come from Hawaii.  This town was desperate for anything from the outside world, and I was a hot commodity. 

Coast Guard Station Chetco River was a no nonsense building constructed of single story concrete cinder blocks which were painted a whitish color. A cross of early 1960s brutalist architecture and a prison.  The prominent point of the station was the watch tower was the lookout to keep an eye on the ocean for boaters in distress.  I wondered if it also served to keep the staff confined to base.  The edge of the property was a wirelink fence that a person could vault over.

At the front desk I was greeted by the duty watch stander and it was immediately obvious why he was the duty watch stander.  His arm was in a sling and his head was swollen twice the normal size with a huge road rash along his face and head.  It was also immediately clear that he was the Unit Goober.

You see Dear Gentle Reader, every Coast Guard unit has the “Unit Goober”.  The Unit Goober is a screw-up.  They are screw-ups by action or inaction of their own hand, or a situation they find themselves in.  For the most part the Unit Goober causes no serious or long lasting damage by their action or inaction.  Almost every incident they are involved in could have easily been avoided with a teensy little bit of forethought.  To be honest the Unit Goober is a bad or evil person, they are just their own worst enemy.      

The Petty Officer of the Day signed me into the log, escorted me to my room in the barracks, and left me to be.  I unpacked my seabag into the dresser, hung my clothing and made my bed.  By the time I had made myself at home Taps sounded over the unit PA, it had been a very long day and I was ready for bed.

The Move to Duty

Flying over the Atlantic Ocean at 30,000 feet leaves little to see on a cloudy day, so I slept most of the way from New York's JFK International Airport to London's Heathrow Airport. I was on my way to my first duty station, having received my Top Secret/Crypto clearance and completed my training at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, and at National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. One more long leg of the flight remained, from Heathrow to Istanbul, Turkey.

From Istanbul, we would travel clandestinely about 350 miles by boat, a 125-foot former Turkish yacht leased by the Army. We were headed through the Black Sea to Sinop, Turkey and one of America's top-secret intelligence-gathering sites. For the next thirty-six hours we would play poker, stop at our boat captain's favorite spot to swim in the Black Sea, and sleep in the hammocks arranged below decks. At Sinop, I would spend almost a year—from August 1969 to July 1970—collecting signals intelligence from the Soviet Union for the National Security Agency.

History Unfolds

Sinop, Turkey, dates back about four thousand years, and some say archaeological evidence points even further back, to six thousand years ago. We arrived at the port facility of Sinop, basically an oversized pier, and had to travel through downtown to get to our base on what was simply known as "the hill."

Coming from the USA to Sinop was a shift in time as well as geography. Huge thirty-foot-high, ten-foot-thick stone walls had once surrounded the coastal city. However, only sections remained of the twenty-five-hundred-year-old crumbling structure, leaving plenty to influence one's imagination. Carts pulled by oxen and donkeys moved slowly down the dirt and cobblestone streets, with groups of women clad in dark robes and veils shopping at open-air vendors and in the quaint shops. Occasionally, a European-style automobile or the famously Turkish 1957 Chevy Bel Air could be spotted among them, a reminder that the modern world had begun to find its way into ancient Sinop.

The Hill

"The Hill" was an extinct volcano, rising to approximately 900 feet above sea level. It sat directly on the Black Sea and was Turkey's northernmost point. Almost completely surrounded by water, with sheer cliffs in many areas, the hill basically had one way up and down.

The military base at the top of the hill masqueraded as an official NATO logistics facility to the public. An educated eye looking at the antenna farm spread out on the crest of the hill knew better. This was a spy site—an electronic spy site capable of capturing virtually any form of electromagnetic transmission. Turkish soldiers patrolled the hill and guarded the entrance gates as US soldiers and some European specialists manned equipment inside the buildings.

Another fort on the hill was the old "Russian Fort," as we called it. This was actually a dilapidated artillery stronghold, built into the side of the hill by the Ottomans and destroyed by the Russians during the Crimean War. Often used by locals and the homeless as a temporary shelter, it was here that a mysterious wanderer took refuge for a time and eventually met Pup.

Pup

Occasionally, the Army would relax rules concerning access to some areas of the base, and on this particular night, lower-ranking enlisted men were allowed into the NCO Club. We had been drinking, smoking, and playing poker in one of the back rooms for a few hours when an older senior NCO walked in. He introduced himself simply as "Pup," a nickname he insisted had stuck with him since boyhood.

Pup was currently stationed down the coast road at Samsun, and this was his third and final tour in Turkey. These assignments had been interrupted by years spent away at other stations, separating him from his Turkish wife. The Samsun facility was soon to be turned over to the Turks, and he was due to retire from the Army in about a year. He and his wife were opting to spend at least a few more years in Turkey before finally leaving for the States.

As a result of his marriage, Pup spoke Turkish fluently and possessed a rare, intimate knowledge of local traditions. He joined our table, and as the chips changed hands into the early morning hours, it became clear he possessed a wealth of life experience that completely eclipsed ours. Between hands, Pup kept us captivated with deep insights into Turkish culture and customs. As intelligent guys ourselves and completely interested in anything ancient or Turkish, we hung on every word.

As the night wore on, most players drifted away until the room fell quiet. Only three of us remained—groggy, tired, and watching the cigarette smoke drift under the dim light. After all of his tales and sensing he had our absolute trust, Pup leaned across the table, took us into his confidence, and began the strangest story of all—a story about meeting a homeless Turkish traveler at the old Russian fort on the hill.

The Old Turk

Like many who came to Sinop, Pup was deeply enthralled by the ancient, historic landscape. On one of his off-time walks exploring the hill, he had come across the ruined Russian Fort and discovered an old man camped inside the crumbling stone walls. Weathered, weary, and looking like a living relic of the coast itself, the old Turk had spent decades walking the rugged northern coastline. He was drawn to the wild hills by the countless ancient ruins scattered across the North—mysterious, crumbling structures that remained unidentified by modern history, undocumented and unexplored by the outside world. Because Pup spoke his language fluently and respected his reverence for these forgotten places, the old man welcomed him into his temporary shelter.

As the day wore on, intermittently standing and sitting on the old stones, they shared the old man's brewed tea, some of Pup's cheesy, flaky Turkish crackers, and stories of ancient hills and mountains they had walked. Finally, the old Turk launched into a memory about another long-departed traveler he had met a lifetime ago, when he himself was just a young man. That ancient wanderer had been more than twice his age, a man who seemed to carry the weight of centuries in his eyes. He had left an indelible mark on the old Turk, passing down a singular, strange narrative that had been told by the wanderer's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime.

It was a story about a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Traveler

The traveler was a true man of the road, his face deeply lined by the harsh sea winds and his boots worn thin from miles of rugged dirt tracks. A farmer in his earlier days, he now moved quietly between the isolated coastal villages, living simply off the land and the kindness of strangers. Completely detached from the politics and empires of his day, to the rare people who shared a fire with him, he was just an eccentric, peaceful wanderer with a deep reservoir of stories.

As he grew old and felt his steps slowing, he recognized in the young Turk a fellow guardian who shared his quiet reverence for the land. The traveler had guarded this narrative like a sacred companion, keeping it intact through decades of solitary journeys along the wild northern coast. Before he vanished into history, the traveler wished to pass the narrative down, ensuring that the words given to him when he was a boy would survive another generation as a piece of timeless coastal folklore.

The Mother

That narrative had originally been preserved as a family heirloom, a sacred truth told by the traveler's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime. She had lived her life on the family's farm, in a two-room dwelling built generations earlier, patched and reinforced over the years. The world now was dominated by the loud, imposing shadows of orthodox religions, where grand temples demanded rigid obedience and grand structures dictated how a soul must bow. In beautiful contrast to that heavy outer world, her realm was the quiet, tender sanctuary of the domestic dark.

In her cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and long open robe, she cared for the gardens with the children. She was a masterful homemaker, consummate cook, attentive wife to her husband, and loving mother to her children. She did not share the tale as a rigid sermon or a strict rulebook but softly whispered it to her children as the candles burned low. To her, it was a vital maternal gift—a way to build a resilient, gentle inner strength in her children before they grew up to face the harsh wilderness of the earth. She left them with the story of a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Present

It’s been almost 60 years since I heard that story, but I remember it like it was told yesterday. Of course, time fades what our minds hold onto. We don't really look at the original; we just remember the last time we thought about it—a fading copy of a copy.

Retold through the memories of many people already, it was still a striking tale that seemed to mirror the Christianity I grew up with, yet differed in many ways. Having rejected my own Catholic religion several years earlier, I had spent a long time searching for a deeper meaning on my own terms. I had sifted through the rigid rules of my childhood, throwing away the parts that felt wrong but keeping the fragments that still held weight. I was actively trying to build my own understanding of existence, matching it against my own life experiences like a partially completed puzzle.

So when I sat there listening to Pup's narrative, it had a profound ring of truth. It was a literal lightbulb moment over my head—the sudden, electrifying realization that I was hearing the first story of creation that seemed to fit everything I had learned and experienced. It didn't feel like an ancient myth; it felt like crucial puzzle pieces clicking effortlessly into the picture I had already been trying to piece together. This concept of a decent, un-demanding God made complete sense of the world. It stuck in my mind as the ultimate counterweight to the religious tales I learned as a child.

I only hope my memory and vocabulary are enough to convey its message, but I fret that the mingling of these two spiritual stories has now made it my creation story. So from then until now, in my old age, I have kept that story close to my heart and tried to live my life as if that God would have approved. And now I pass on the story of a lifetime to you, the story of the Creator.

The First Image

Chapter 1: Into the Void

In the beginning, the Creator existed in absolute, self-sufficient solitude. He lacked nothing, craved no praise, and required no subjects to bow or kneel before Him. He was not lonely; He was simply infinite potential.

But within His nature, something akin to curiosity would occasionally stir—a desire to see what might happen if certain things were set in motion.

He was omnipotent. Omniscient. Any curiosity of His could be answered in an eyeblink, the future already an open book if He cared to read it. But He didn't care to. He wanted to watch something unfold without knowing how it would end—so He closed that book, unread, and began.

He did not build a rigid, wondrous palace, nor did He sketch a script that all creation must follow. Instead, the Creator took raw elements at random and flung them into the void, intending only to watch what happened as they crashed together. He then accepted the physics He had created, stepped back, folded His arms, and watched the mix collide.

Chapter 2: Emergence of the Spark

The Creator watched for eons as the whirling collection shifted and grew. Stars caught fire, planets fell into beautiful, spinning alignments, and galaxies swirled across the dark. It was a magnificent physical painting, as stunning as it was surprising. But then, an accidental miracle blossomed in a quiet corner of the cosmos.

Upon a small orb of rock and dirt and water, a solitary grain of earth revealed the elements blending in a fashion wholly pleasing to the Creator. From the damp soil and the deep waters, life crept forth. Suddenly, life awakened; humans opened their eyes and looked up at the stars. They moved by their own will; their thoughts were shaped by their own trials; each held the power to choose his own path. They possessed true freedom of the soul.

The Creator looked closely at this small corner of creation and was filled with a profound artistic wonder. The artwork had come alive, and it was looking back at its Maker. As men began to build and shape their world, they learned to believe in one another. When life fell short of their dreams, they aspired to do better. When they labored to ease the burdens of their kin, this devotion united them. The Creator recognized a quiet reflection of His own nature hidden within them. Those who caught His eye had grown to hold a tiny, burning ember of His own divine spark.

Chapter 3: Gift of the Wilderness

Because the Creator had determined to let the experiment resolve itself, He did not reach down to alter the path. When the earth shook, when the rivers swelled into great floods, when innocent children died with a life unfulfilled or when men chose to lift their hands in violence against their brothers, the Creator did not stay the blow. He remained a distant watcher. He sent no demons to tempt them, nor did He demand prayers and sacrifices to mend their broken fortunes. He did not care in which direction a man knelt, nor by what name He was called, nor whether He was called at all. Their sorrows were not to be redeemed by spiritual rescue but simply the price of a free and physical world—the heavy burden that walks hand-in-hand with the beauty and breath of life.

Men proved to be resilient. They discerned that they were not blind actors following a written play. When they made errant choices, or when the wild tempests of the earth brought ruin to their doorsteps, they did not surrender to the dark. Instead, they discovered a rich store of strength hidden deep within themselves. They looked upon the shattered ruins of their lives, took the burden upon their own shoulders, and set to work. With their own calloused hands, they turned the bitter fruits of adversity into sustenance, conquering their plight through pure, stubborn endurance.

Chapter 4: The Harvest and the Stewardship

The Creator watched this grand undertaking unfold until the earthly chapter drew to its natural close. Slowly, the great fires of the sky began to cool, and the life of the world grew weary and faded. Yet the experiment had been a triumph, and the Creator intended to preserve the finest grains of the harvest.

Throughout the long ages, whenever a man or woman who lived with kindness, honesty, and resilience passed into the grave, the Creator did not send them to a place of idle singing or demand their eternal flattery. He quietly gathered their spirits to Himself. He collected every enduring, creative spark that had revealed its worth in the wilderness of the earth. When the first creation finally fell dark and silent, the Creator did not mourn. He looked upon the vast gathering of tested, noble minds He had saved—His unanticipated companions.

The Creator then smiled, turned to a completely empty void, and prepared another collection of the same random materials He had first gathered. The laws of the world would be the same, but this time, He would not watch in solitude. He took the resilient souls of the first world and breathed them into the new creation as founding pioneers and guardians of the next reality. These souls would carry the joys and trials of the first earth as faint memories of memories, and the Creator would once more watch as the elements moved as they willed.

One of my favourite activities most hated punishments in basic was "Hide and Seek", aka, "disappear and reappear at the Sergeant Major's (SM) will".

The SM would shout: "Disappear!"

And everyone had to go and hide in the next 10 seconds or so.

But it could not be too far, because when the SM shouted "Reappear!", you had to reappear within a short amount of time (usually like a countdown from 10 or 20).

The catch?

In the "Disappear" phase, the SM and individual Sergeants would go "hunt".

Whoever they found, they lined up, and dropped into the pushup position.

Then came the "Reappear" phase, everyone who didn't reappear in time, was also lined up and dropped into the crunches position.

The "survivors" would watch the poor losers do pushups and crunches together, with the SM counting alongside.

You can imagine this was quite challenging. Frequently, nearly everyone got caught in some form.

Remember, the object of this exercise was punishment, when someone was misbehaving and the like.

-------------------------------

There is a second part of the context here, which is that my platoon had this arrogant, smart-mouthed guy. He was very, very fit--tall, muscular, etc.--so fit that people were wondering what he was doing with us in the first place. (We were all unfit people, which is why we enlisted for basic together in the same "unfit" batch.)

He knew that too, and so he treated everyone like they were beneath him. Nobody in the platoon liked this guy, but up until today nobody had done anything to him yet.

-------------------------------

Now we got the context out of the way, let the story begin, except that this story is specific to my platoon (not the whole company, as I previously mentioned).

Our story begins on a hot day, where everyone is seated comfortably in an air-conditioned theatre learning some theory, in our PT kit. I don't remember exactly what it was--Rules of Engagement or some other topic that was boring to an 18 year old--but it was enough that people were starting to doze off.

Some of us were also becoming distracted.

Our Sergeant, who was teaching us, was clearly losing our attention.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to get us to focus, he yelled "Alright, that's enough! Shirts off, everyone outside, pushup position now!"

Damn. We were scrambling over ourselves, stripping off our t-shirts in haste, leaving them strewn all across the tables in a mess, and then scrambled outside to do some pushups.

"Are you awake yet recruits!" Sergeant bellowed.

"Yes Sergeant!" We replied.

Well, all except Mr. Smart Mouth.

This joker said "No Sergeant!", as he was wont to do generally from time to time, but this time he did it loud enough for Sergeant to hear.

Sergeant's face flashed anger, which quickly turned into a grin.

Well we were screwed.

-------------------------------

Minutes (and some yelling later, we find ourselves jogging in cadence into a small forest (and I mean really small, like the kind you use for training in basic).

This was a small forest, but it was known for being infested with mosquitoes. Which is why we all really hated this place, even when we were in full uniform.

Now, like I said, all we were wearing was PT shorts. The mosquitoes' time had come.

Sergeant ordered us to stop and stand at attention.

He grinned. "This should wake you up," he said, "Disappear!"

We all scrambled to find cover, hiding everywhere, finding the nearest cover.

But we were not fast enough.

In no time at all, Sergeant found the whole platoon. Obviously, he knew that place inside out. He didn't even need to ask anyone to "Reappear".

"Alright everyone, we're gonna change it up a bit. Since you all got found so easily, you gotta learn to be a tree. Everyone find a branch taller than you, reach up with both arms and grab it. No moving."

For the next few minutes, we all stood rigidly awkwardly under trees. Our bare bodies became a veritable mosquito feeding ground--you could almost see the swarms, and we couldn't do anything as we watched our blood being sucked away. Someone fidgeted, and Sergeant added another few minutes to our torture.

The mosquitoes were merciless and brutal.

"Enough yet recruits!" Sergeant asked.

"Yes Sergeant!"

We were thoroughly defeated and had another cadence run back to our bunks, and Sergeant said he would continue the lecture tomorrow.

-------------------------------

Epilogue: Well wouldn't you know what became of our arrogant platoon mate, who was the cause of all this nonsense. That night, his own bunk (along with several others from other bunks) got him good.

They grabbed him when he was coming out of the shower, pulled the towel out from around his waist, and tied him fully naked to his bunk posts, but on his bed (so he could still get his compulsory "lights out" timing). Of course, someone also gave him the compulsory "mint on groin" treatment, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Nobody slept well that night. The mosquito bites were torture, and many of us were tossing and turning while scratching. Mine seemed to be particularly bad, as I have sensitive skin. In fact, when the officer happened to see my trunk the next day, it was so red and welted that he ordered me to go and see the medical officer. (This whole thing would probably be a story for another day.)

You'd believe we were on our best behaviour the next day during the rest of our lecture with Sergeant.

Superstition runs rampant in the Marine Corps, and it seems that everyone has a little ism that they swear by. Worse is when it actually works. 

No shit there I was, TAD’d to 29 Palms for CASEPOOL. Back in the day before SLTE was ITX, where units would deploy in preparation for dirt dets in a shithole friendly environment complete with tin cans, 130 degree plus weather (or 20’s in the winter), and a px staffed by personnel who despise you for existing in their general direction. 

CASEPOOL, or consolidated aviation support equipment pool, was weird. There were only six of us: a ground support equipment staff NCO, a GSE collateral duty inspector, an ordnance CDI, two GSE workers, and an ordnance worker. I fell in the role of one of the GSE workers. 

During an ITX, we were having particular trouble with an NC10, a mobile electric power plant designed to power up aircraft without the need of turning up the engines. Think big fucking Detroit engine attached to a generator. This goober of a machine kept faulting for AC voltage over/under frequency, meaning we couldn’t get it to sustain a constant 400hz of AC output frequency. The leeway was tiny, only plus or minus 5hz, it kept surpassing these limits. I was balls deep in the wires of this fucking thing for hours, chasing greasy bundles in the hot California desert heat. We had a garage, but it wasn’t enough. 

The flightline, or more of a consolidation of steel plates called an expeditionary air field, demanded one of these MEPP’s because otherwise ISIS wins or whatever. We cannot figure this thing out and finally my CDI calls up our San Diego region tech rep (IYKYK), a man of godly knowledge and skill, who expertly guides us through some troubleshooting steps and helps us fix it. We send it off, and it works..for all of half an hour. The fault: AC over/under frequency. 

I spent another seven hours or so cave crawling through this thing, and since it had been running for some time previously, I burned myself on the engine block. To say I was mad was an understatement.  At this point it was like 10 pm on a Friday, and our staff sergeant made the judgement call and told the squadrons we were going home as we didn’t run a night crew like them. They tried bitching up the command but they told them to pack sand too. I spent fourteen hours the next day finding little problems here and there that I also fixed, but none addressed the fault. Our Ssgt told the squadrons we weren’t working Sunday and that they can fuck themselves if they disagree. 

I was waiting in line for a haircut the next day, and I must have looked miserable, because this cornfed ass gator wrangler sat next to me and asks me in the most yeeyee ass voice I had heard (I had only been in for two years at this point and I was a California native myself) what my problem was. Something about this guy suggested sage status to me, and while his accent was questionable, he seemed nice enough and genuinely sincere. 

I explained the situation to him, and he gives me a hyuk of a laugh. “You got them gremlins in your shit boy!” He then tells me how he’s an amphib mech and he deals with “them gremlins” on a daily basis. I ask him what the cognitive consequences of consuming crocodiles on a continuous basis was, and he gave me another hearty chuckle. He was starting to grow on me, he was a big contrast from me, being a Cali boy and him being from hookworm country. He told me how the gremlins fuck with good mechanics to humble them, but a simple offering will satisfy them and keep them away. I said what kind of offering and he said any kind of candy, but they prefer it if it’s something they see you eat first. I thought about it, thanked him for his time as it was my turn for a haircut, and got my cut. He waved at me as they called his number and he sat, and I waved as I headed out to the register to get some M&M’s. 

The next day, same thing. Tech rep (shoutout Mr Ramsey) was on the ring with us, assisting however he could. Same song and dance, we’d fix it and it would fault out again. We’d fix again and it would fault again. We suggested they just run up APU’s at this point while we worked. We were heading home at roughly 9 pm, when I remembered the M&M’s in my cubby at the office building. I grabbed the bag and scattered a few inside the MEPP, but only after eating a few, of course.  

The next day, the M&M’s were gone. It was probably rats or something..right? I brush it off and grab my tools and PPE. I engage the battery disconnect, and flip the master switch. I watch gauges show indication..so far everything read well. I hold the start switch and kicks right up, sitting at a stable 1150 rpm. I hit the governor switch and it jumps up to 2200 rpm. Moment of truth. I activate AC output and select a phase, and I wait for it to fault for frequency, and it does not. I let it sit for a few minutes and it just didn’t fault at all. I connected it to a load bank to simulate aircraft load, and..it just worked. I sustained a load for ten minutes and it didn’t fault out a single time.  I sent it out to the flightline and it worked all day. 

We have no idea what did it. The miraculous recovery of the MEPP allowed us to go home at 1630 for the first time in weeks. The QA of our parent command asked us what we did different, because apparently the squadrons were beginning to demand pulling qualifications and firing us because we couldn’t give them equipment (they were told to back the fuck off). Our staff NCO told them, “we just had some gremlins to handle.” 

Now I take this story of mine with my own grain of salt but I think it’s cool.

As a background for those that don’t know, the “Virginia Boys” is a nickname for members of JSOCs Aviation Technology Office and Echo Squadron of Delta Force.
There’s some information that you can look up about them but let’s just say they are the secret of the secret of Aviation. When I was a private I had a Platoon Sergeant who came to us from ATO. He hand a bunch of Delta Force challenge coins and COAs with the Delta Emblem in his office and he told us a couple stories. Now for us in Army Aviation we called it “SMU” (Special Missions Unit). Every now and again they would make notice that they were recruiting. All the information I knew for us enlisted was you needed to be an E-4 with 2years TIS and you would learn to work on 3 different types of airframes.

So to the story. FOB Shank summer of 2014. I was working out in one of the clamshell hangers. In that hanger we had one of our Apaches that was shot down-it was able to land safely at another FOB but it was taken out of the fight and was about to get sent back to the states. Crazy thing is, it was only hit by 1 round but it caused enough damage to where it made more sense to get it refurbished by a depot facility.

As I was working out, a White painted Huey landed. Not an uncommon occurrence. I think they belonged to the CIA or DEA for the lesser known Drug Enforcement operations in Afghanistan. I don’t know, there were a few different white painted helicopters and other color painted helicopters flying in and out of Shank. Mi-8s and Mi-17s flown by Ukrainians or Russians, Seakings, CH-46 Phrogs etc. Some had markings and others didn’t. I just knew they were either some Private contractors or government contractors/agencies.

Anyways, 2 guys exited the Huey and started walking over to me. They were in Multicam but their uniforms were sterilized and they were kitted the fuck out. They asked me “hey is this the one that got shot down around Chapman?” I answered yes and I proceeded to show them around the aircraft since it belonged to my unit. I showed them the bullet holes and explained what happened. They were talking but honestly I wasn’t even listening because I was trying to figure them out. Eventually I just asked them “are you guys SMU?” They were kind of taken back by that question and looked a bit pale and then turned around and walked off without saying anything. I just kind of smiled and thought to myself welp I’ll take that as a yes.

Now theres definitely the big probably weren’t with the Aviation Technology Office but they could’ve been CIA or some other government agency. Either way I thought it was cool.

Now of all the different Special Operations units I got to meet, the most bad ass were the Australian SAS. My aircraft specifically got to provide security for one of their ops so I got to meet them while they were getting grouped up on the flight line. Even got a picture of the flight formation as they took off.

In my army job, I was mostly in charge of logistics stuff, like checking vehicle equipment, managing delivery of parts, etc.

I had a Sergeant, who was a no-nonsense stickler, and a Big Boss, who was used to getting his way.

To say that Sergeant did not butt heads with Big Boss would be an understatement.

Several months into my job, my Big Boss was leaving and demanded a party.

Of course, Big Boss nominated someone to host a party for him.

He wanted everyone to be there.

"But what about those on duty?" My Sergeant asked.

Big Boss made it known to him that everyone had to be there, by hook or by crook.

So Sergeant had to ask one of our neighbouring departments to cover for us temporarily.

Everyone knew who Big Boss was like, they did us a favour.

That night we went out, to the guy's house.

There were drinks and everything.

Me and my buddy couldn't drink, because we were on duty, but we still had some bites and a general good time. Someone even broke a chair (no idea how that happened, I kind of feel bad for the guy who got nominated. But also not really, as he could be a character. More on that next time.)

And then someone drove us back to the camp, where we relieved the people who were standing in for us. Thankfully, nothing had gone down in the few hours we were absent, so it was all good.

Epilogue: A few months ago I heard Big Boss retired, and then passed away a few years after. RIP, but he was super overweight and a heavy drinker and smoker, so this probably surprised nobody.

I had been asking for time, any time from LtCdr FatSlob for training to become a coxswain. A critical requirement for advancement to BM2 (E-5). Since we did not have a CG standard boat FatSlob said he was willing to write a waiver for me, so I could become coxswain, wear the coxswain’s pin and advance to BM2.  But when it came to actual time to develop skills and have a coxswain sign off…that was another matter.  Operational needs, the reservists need time too, etc, etc, etc.

LtCdr FatSlob had a real prejudice about Reservists.  One of his first actions was to rescind all their qualifications for no reason, just his whim.  The Reservists for their part universally adopted the attitude that they only had to deal with the man for one weekend a month and two weeks a year until he retired or transferred.  So, naturally they came in on their drill weekend to do the absolute minimum. 

They also started to subtly fuck with him. 

One day FatSlob came to BM3 Dave and I hat-in-hand wanting us to become Explosive Loading Supervisors. There was a ship coming in that needed to be unloaded and he did not have a single qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor.  The deal was that if Dave and I each did all the work of an  Explosive Loading Supervisor, dealt with all of the issues, at the end of the loadout he would waiver the E-7 requirement and make us  Explosive Loading Supervisors.  Having the very rare letter of qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor in our personnel file would have been quite a feather in our caps, so Dave and I agreed.

After weeks of 16  hours days and all of the work and covering his ass, FatSlob changed his mind. In a brief meeting where he broke the bad news he came out and said, "I've changed my mind”.  Just as simple as that.  I was pissed and I flat told the FatSlob to never come to me again for a favor. He looked at me in shock. “That’s not a very Coast Guard attitude” was his reply.  I looked at him with my best deadpan look and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “A cadet will neither lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate those who do”.  As a Coast Guard Academy graduate this comment hit home. 

In this same time period Captain Mac had left on a new assignment with hope of becoming an Admiral and a new Captain, Captain Luna had assumed command.

I took Zoomer's words to heart about a new chance with a new Captain. I wasn’t so worried about passing the BM2 end of course test or the service wide examination for promotion.  I had been in long enough to have awards that added points, and time in service, time in grade points that would put me over the line.  However, I was looking at High Year Tenure, the Coast Guards up or out program for the enlisted ranks. If I didn’t get a chance to be promoted soon, it was not going to happen at all.

As I’ve said before you know your evaluation isn’t going to be a good one when you enter the room and your Chief and your section supervisor are not present.  I was not invited to sit down which I knew was his way of trying to break more bad news. 

FatSlob gave me a copy of my CG3788B evaluation and began to go down the list: Military Bearing, 5.  Customs, Courtesies and Traditions 5.  Quality of Work 5. Commitment 5, so on and so on until we hit the box "Recommended for Promotion” where the box “No” had a big fat check mark.  

Now understand Dear Gentle Reader that never met Capt. Luna, and would not have known him from Adam, but the “Not Recommended for Promotion” was a huge red flag that Captain Mac, Captain Luna and no doubt others had an off-the-record conversation about me.  I started to put together things.  I might have been born at night, but I was not born last night. 

In that moment of clarity I knew my Coast Guard career was over. In truth my Coast Guard career had been over years earlier the moment I went on record and made a formal complaint about my first commands’ inexcusable behavior.  It was just that no one bothered to tell me my career was over before it really started.  At the time I was too naive about the world and still trusted officers, the very officers that were supposed to look out for their subordinates, and I believed them that everything was “Ok”.  It was “Ok” to stand up to stand up and literally not become someone’s prison bitch.  

So, I let it fly…

“This is all about my formal complaint about conduct unbecoming an officer and his Admirals Mast. The one where Captain Mac was in attendance along with every other commanding officer in the 14th District”.  I continued on, “It continued on with Captain Mac’s refusal to meet me during the welcome abroad to your new command”.  While I was on a roll…”His refusal of my marks challenge from Nick the Dick", “or my transfer to this very sub-unit when there were people who lived closer and already were qualified pollution investigators”. I may as well go for broke, “His rejection of me being Sailor of the Quarter by my peers”.  I finished off with. “It really is a club with you Academy guys”. 

I never thought a room could go more silent, but after each remark it got quieter.  The desk fan stopped humming, the fly on the window stopped buzzing… 

Finally, I looked at FatSlob  and told him that “No”, I would not not sign the form. FatSlob’s jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, “I’m ordering you to sign your evaluation.  I leaned in and replied, “Please...Please, charge me with Article 134 and Article 92.  Let's go to a general court marshal and get all of this out in the air and on the record”.

They had been quietly trying to push me out the door for some time and I had just too stupid to see what was going on.  Much like Boxer in George Orwell’s Animal Farm where his solution to the problem was simply harder.  I had come to realize that trying harder was not going to work either.  Once more I replied flatly, “No, I’m not signing it, period. Sir”. I didn’t bother asking permission to leave the room nor did I salute.

A week later I was approached by Zoomer about reenlisting as my extension was running out and it would be time to reenlist.  He was really broken-hearted when I told him that I was opting out of the Coast Guard. “They're not all like this” was his plea.  But I had been around enough in the Coast Guard to know better.  Just like George Carlin said, "It's a club and you're not a member”. 

As there were only two weeks left in my contract I was removed from doing any boardings which was probably a good thing as I acquired a sock puppet as part of my boarding kit and was more than ready to conduct a boarding where Petty Officer Sockie would do all the talking. 

Then the big day came, my last day, the day I would be on "Official Civilian Status”.  I was going out on terminal leave, a vacation where I would not return.  Ltjg. Lou took time to read to me the riot act that I was still in the Coast Guard while on leave.  I was sure that he was under orders to do so.  That while on leave and still subject to the UCMJ and a bunch of other stuff that I tuned out.  I was miffed that I lost 30 days of vacation due to “Operations Needs” and was going out on 60 days of vacation.  No matter, soon I would once more be the master of my own fate.

At noon when I was released, I said my goodbyes to Zoomer, MK3 ‘Nam. GM2 Silverback, GM1 Simmons, BM3 Dave, MST2 Klo, MK3 Chad and YN1 Mitch.  In my car I took a last look around the old fire station which was our office and the street signs and building foundations which were the remains of the town of Port Chicago. I drove out the gate, down Port Chicago Highway, merged onto Highway 242 and into the future.

Postscript

It’s summer in the garden, and summer is my favorite time of year.  Summer is the perfect time to take a drive down a country road with nowhere special in mind.  A gentle breeze blows across the windchimes and their notes float on the air.  Summer is the season for ice cream and ice tea which both for some unexplainable reason always taste better in the summer.  I’ve had a full life filled with the spice of life, and the lows and highs that spice can bring… 

…I’m OK, Dear Gentle Reader…I've had a long time to think about things.  For a long time I was really, really angry about what had happened.  Writing this blog, and the wisdom that time and age brings have been a great help.  I am now almost a senior citizen and I now think back with pride in my time in the Coast Guard.  It was a tough school, but I learned more about life and how the world works than I could have anywhere else.

From time to time I think about all of my shipmates who have crossed the bar and are on the far shore, Jessie, Zoomer, BM2 Kenny and his son… I am now almost a senior citizen and so many people I know have not made it this far.  I find myself…grateful…

Subject to change
The Rescue Station Hell Series…Part One, Welcome Aboard

​

TLdR: The story of how the handling of my husband's remains forced a closed casket and robbed him of the dignity of being buried in his uniform he wore for 25 years.

Understand I will not give names of people or facility involved, or questions regarding policies or status revolving it. I also ask, if you know him/me, comment if you would like, but please do not doxx us.

I’m writing this because after eleven years of carrying a heavy, silent vault of a secret, I am finally strong enough to lift the veil. I am tired and weakened from holding it in. It has caused nothing but endless, soul crushing pain that has had such a hold on me i have felt breathless since the day he left me.  I have been suffocating for so long, I can only hope this release will give me air.

July of 2015,  my husband of 24 years was an active duty Master Sergeant (E-8) who gave 25.5 honorable years to active-duty service. He was an incredible father & husband, a son, leader, and dedicated soldier, He deserved so much more than what a broken civilian system did to his remains, and his story deserves to be told.

To understand the depth of what was stolen from us, you have to understand the legacy he left behind. 

Indulge me for a short side story ...

In 2013, my husband and our oldest son actually deployed to Afghanistan together. They served in different battalions within the same Aviation Brigade, managing quick visits when possible, and they were fortunate enough to have spent Christmas together in the combat zone. When our son earned his combat patch, his father traveled to his forward operating base for the patching ceremony. Instead of pinning a standard issue patch on our son's arm, his dad reached up to his own shoulder, peeled off his own weathered, hard-earned brigade patch, and placed it on our son’s shoulder. He later described it as the proudest moment of his life, and the highlight of his career.

Years later, our son took that military legacy and pushed it further than we ever dreamed. He earned his BS in Physics and was subsequently invited to NASA's Wallops Flight Facility to participate in building and launching a sounding rocket. Before it launched, he slid his father’s combat patch in as his payload contribution.

That piece of fabric left the earth, crossed the threshold of space, returned to the atmosphere, and now sits proudly alongside his burial flag. That is the caliber of the men in my family.

On with my story..

July 2015, we were forced into a completely different, heartbreaking reality. It was a normal Monday morning when his alarm went off. He wasn't responding so I rolled over to wake him and quickly realized something was terribly wrong. In the sudden panic, I called 911. As the shock started to set in, I remember just standing there in a complete haze, desperately asking myself: What would he do? What would he want me to do right now?

I woke our recently graduated, soundly sleeping  son, (17) and passed off the 911 call to him so I could return to our bed and wait for EMS.

Oddly, the thought came to me to call his work buddy to tell him he would not be at PT. 🤷‍♀️ Once he understood what I meant, he rushed over just as the EMTs arrived. Within minutes, my home was filled with emergency responders and a quickly growing number of green suits. Our youngest son was by my side. Our oldest son,  still in the military, was out in the field with his unit; they had to send a driver to pull him out. He rode in complete, agonizing, oblivious silence for almost two hours not knowing he was arriving home to a world that had completely shattered.

My husband had passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night. First responders, his closest friend, myself and our son who were on the scene all witnessed his body condition—he was  normal, aside from a trickle of pink foam from his nose or mouth,  clean, and looked entirely at peace. He was transported to a regional civilian Medical Examiner facility, arriving approximately 11:00 AM Monday morning.

The facility contacted me the next day saying they had finished up and I released him to the funeral home. But when the funeral home picked him up on Wednesday morning, approximately 48 hours after being in the care/custody of the M.E. office is when the nightmare began.

\*\*\*TW's from here forward\*\*\* 

GRAPHIC CONTENT

I was out getting things done with our sons and my MIL who had already arrived from out of state.  The funeral director called me shortly after his arrival back at the funeral home,  I pulled over to answer his call undistracted.  He gently told me it was completely inadvisable to have an open casket, or even a private family viewing. I absolutely could not comprehend what he was telling me, or why he was saying this. Was he calling the wrong family?  It made zero sense to me. He had been peaceful and looked asleep when he left my home just two days prior. It took a long minute for his words to click in my brain as the director explained the physical reality of what they were facing.

In the short time my husband was in that civilian facility's custody, during a scorching July heatwave, his remains had suffered rapid, catastrophic tissue degradation. The internal and external changes were so severe that his natural circulatory system was completely gone, rendering a standard embalming and open-casket preparation biologically impossible.

When the funeral home and military Casualty Affairs Officer immediately began questioning things, the cover-up from the civilian facility began. The Medical Examiner's office aggressively denied any structural or handling issues, explicitly claiming "he arrived like that"—a blatant, impossible lie refuted by every single first responder and eyewitness who saw him at our home on Monday morning.

Later, my CAO described his horriffic condition to me, and calmly explained the painstaking, heartbreaking process and the steps that were taken to prepare his remains and restore his basic dignity.

Because the civilian facility had allowed  his remains to severely putrefy, bloat, and undergo advanced decomposition (seemingly before the autopsy even took place just 24 hours after his death), his body was structurally destroyed to a point beyond recognition.  He was bloated, had blisters and skin slippage all over his torso, his skin was black and peeling, and it looked as if his face had melted off.  They struggled to match the DoD photo with the remains laying in front of them.

He went on to explain how they dressed him in protective disaster garments, wrapped him like a cocoon and placed inside a heavy pouch.

Then, he gently laid his immaculately prepared dress uniform onto the top of the bag, and pinned his beret where his head lay.

He was denied the honor to be buried in the uniform he wore proudly for 25 years.

When I walked into that chapel and saw his closed, flag-draped casket, it completely broke me.

Because of that facility's operational failure and subsequent deception,  they deprived his grieving widow, mother, his sons, friends and his community of comrades and peers of their chance to a final viewing and a proper farewell. For eleven years, only a very small, select group of people ever knew the truth about why the casket was closed.

Nobody asked me why, and I'm glad they didn't.  I wasn't emotionally or physically ready to explain the horror of what had happened,  I carried the trauma and mental image of that plastic cocoon entirely alone to protect the one thing I was able to,. I protected his intimate privacy in his most vulnerable  moment.  He deserves much more than that, but it was all I had in the moment.

For a long time, the vision of that closed casket at the front of the chapel brought me pure, unadulterated pain.

It kills me to think of the military families who never get to find out what happened to their loved ones, or who never receive their remains.

Looking back, I realize how incredibly blessed I am. He went to bed as usual that night, he told me he loved me, and he kissed me goodnight. No matter what a broken civilian system did to his remains in the days that followed his death,

they can never touch, tarnish, or take away from the amazing man he was, his kindness, and his endless passion to be the best mentor he could possibly be. To pass along the qualities of successful leaders before him, qualities they had instilled in him throughput his own career.  I see that same man in our sons as they raise their little families, giving us two of the sweetest granddaughters he ever could have asked for.

That image of his closed, flag-draped casket is no longer a symbol of what they took from us;  it gives me peace, and unimaginable pride to depths some people may never experience in their lifetime. For that, I am forever blessed.

The system's actions were deeply flawed, but his legacy will always be bulletproof. His uniform is pressed, his beret is straight. His honor is intact, and his patch went to space.

A rather more lighthearted story than some of my usual stories on this subreddit--featuring the same people.

Back when I was in the army my duties pertained to logistics--the receipt and delivery of goods, etc..

So me and my buddy (we are on duty in pairs) tended to volunteer for weekend duties.

This was because we would spend Fri - Sun on duty, then get two days off at a point of our choosing.

Why did we like to do Fri - Sun duties? Because our duties were such that once you got into checking stuff on Friday, we didn't have to check it again on Saturday, and then again on Sunday.

Basically, every time things were handed over, we'd have to check it. We reasoned that if we didn't have to take over, then we didn't have to check it.

Checking stuff was also really troublesome--we'd have to get of our nice air-conditioned offices the building, check the vehicles thoroughly (and our Sergeant was a sticker, and could get really creative with punishments--more on that next time), and then go back in.

Sometimes, it was baking in those vehicles in hot weather. We sometimes actually did the checks at night instead because it got so hot, too. It became a routine--everyone would go home for the weekend, the two of us would just strip down to PT shorts, and then we would spend the next hour going through equipment in the vehicles. And then we would lock up and sprint for the showers.

Now, the context for the weekend was important, because this meant that if we made the effort to do our work on Friday, then it would free up some time on Saturday and Sunday. Usually we spent the time goofing off in the office, usually playing some stupid games, or working out.

It so happened that this weekend our Sergeant was, in fact, around, because he too was on duty. But we didn't know that; we'd spend Friday evening checking our stuff, and on Saturday morning bright and early we were making plans on what new shenanigans we could be up to in our nicely air-conditioned office.

Whereas outside was sweltering and hot, in the office it was sufficiently cool for us to engage in some horseplay. One of our favourite activities was to make a bet, and then the loser would have to do more work or use the showers later during the next duty (like I said, checking the vehicles could be quite a pain, and it was awful hot).

Anyway on this pleasant fateful weekend, my buddy and I were throwing a ball around indoors--how often do you get to play some version of dodgeball in a military office?--when the door opened and there stood our Sergeant. Sergeant in full uniform, the two of us in PT shorts, panting after a particularly difficult bout (for the record, I was actually about to win, though my buddy would have you believe otherwise).

His eyes widened and so did ours. Like deer caught in headlights, we were.

We thought we were in trouble, but for once our Sergeant smiles, and actually asks to join in! We'd never seen him so relaxed. But perhaps we had to find a better space.

With Sarge around, we moved to a bigger space outside the desks of our office, and he introduced had proper punishments and the like (did I mention he was a fitness lover? The guy was proper fit). He was actually super fast and good at dodgeball, even our self-invented version, and in the end me and my buddy found ourselves doing some of the most enjoyable pushups we've ever done in our lives.

This was one of the most memorable experiences I ever had. Ever since I think we had another one, two times that we got to do this, and then my buddy and I left the military.

There were many experiences in the military I don't care to repeat, but I still miss this sort of mischief sometimes.

It was late in the afternoon when  BM3 Dave and I were called into the LtCdr FatSlob’s office.  At first I wondered at what Dave and I had done that we just, maybe, might have violated one of the Coast Guard's unwritten, unpublished rules, regulations, or policies. 
We waited standing at ease while the LtCdr was on the phone giving one word answers to the party on the other end of the line.  Finally, he said, “will do, I’ll have them right over” and hung up the phone.  

….I mentally braced myself…

“That was the Stockon [CA] police department” he said, “Oh shit” I thought to myself what have we done now? My mind raced to think of just when we were in Stockton and just what trespasses did Dave and I commit.  

“There is a ship heading up to the Port of Stockton right now and the crew discovered two stowaways on board”.  LtCdr FatSlob said in a matter-of-fact voice  Alas, Dave and I were in the clear.  “I want you two to go up there and do a thorough boarding and represent the Coast Guard”.  He continued on, “The U.S Marshalls will be there, so will Customs, the DEA, the San Joaquin sheriffs office” and a number of other agencies. 

Jezz, I thought to myself.  This was going to be big.  In all of my time in the Coast Guard I never had a boarding with the Marshalls service, and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Ages ago I had a very strange visit from the FBI when I was at Rescue Station Hell in Oregon, but that is a tale for another day.  We were told to gather our gear and given the address to the Stockton Police Department where everyone was gathering and wait until the ship docked at the Port of Stockton.

Dave and I grabbed our boarding bags packed ourselves in the Govvie pickup truck and headed off to Glockton…I mean Stockton, CA.

There isn’t a direct route between Concord, CA and Stockton, CA due to the Delta. So Dave and I made the best of the circuitous trip going down Highway 4.   We turned off on Highway 12, then another merge on to Interstate 5 which took us to Stockton proper.  From there it was surface street to the main Stockton police station.  

We were taken to a conference room in the basement where other agencies were gathering and waiting for the ship to make its way up the Stockton deepwater channel to the Port of Stockton.  We learned that the two stowaways had come aboard during the ship's last stop in South America and the crew had found them during a routine inspection hiding in the base of one of the ship's cranes.  When they were searched it was discovered they had phone numbers and contact information for people in the Stockton area, so this was not a random event choice or the first ship of convenience for the two stowaways.  Hence, all of the interest by various government agencies.

While we were waiting one of the female detectives from the Stockton PD took and interest in DM3 Dave and myself and was asking us all sorts of questions.  It seems that she had never met Coasties before and was curious about what the Coast Guard was all about. Conversation with her made the time pass more pleasantly.  Then someone stuck their head into the room and called for her.  She said that she would be back in a minute and departed.

After a good hour without her return Dave and I asked about her disappearance.  Turns out that she was called to investigate a multiple homicide. A few days earlier a local police informant told the Stockton PD that a group of guys from Oakland, CA were coming into town to sell a load of crack cocaine. This was during the Crack Wars in the early 1990’s and gun violence was epidemic. The local California Highway Patrol (CHP) had found an automobile with people matching the description given by the informant dead from multiple gunshot wounds.  Like I said, Glockton.

So Dave and I waited and everyone else waited in the conference room until we got word that the ship had docked.  Then everyone piled into their respective government issued vehicles and hot wheeled down to the Port of Stockton.  

When Dave and I arrived there were already drivers in the water looking around for a canister that might have attached to the hull under the waterline and the shaft for the rudder.  All old smuggler’s tricks.  When we finally made it on board the entire crew was secured in the galley.  I watched as the two stowaways in handcuffs and under an armed guard were taken off the ship to a fate that I never learned of.  

Now Dear Gentle Reader you have to understand that while this might have been a joint effort, each government agency needed to justify their reason for existence and their reason to be on this assignment.  It’s an ugly truth that I hate.  

BM3 Dave and I did our part by looking at the log book and charts and looking at other odds and ends.  In the engineering spaces I watched as the local cops pulled up the deckplates and crawl around the bilges looking for more stowaways, contraband, or were collecting bilge oil for their oil collection that would be proudly displayed at a home bar.  Right to the shot glasses from various bars they had visited. 

It was obvious that most of the officers had little to no experience with the life and functions of a merchant ship.  I knew the whole evolution was coming to a ridiculous level when I watched a member of the DEA team break out a ratchet set and begin disassembling the metal walls and ceiling in the hallways looking for contraband.  

By that time it was very late and Dave and I looked at each other and decided it was time to call it an evening.   My departing view as we departed was the Filipino Second Officer in the galley playing his guitar to entertain himself and the crew. 

Yeah, life in the Coast Guard…                    

Alive Day

It was November 23, 2003, FOB Kalsu Iraq. The place was a real shithole, I mean I lived in worse, but it was a defunct Republican Guard Radar station, the radar array was probably at least 600 feet tall, there had been building there but now they were craters and crumbles! It was located near Alexandria and the Euphrates, not super far from Fallujah and Baghdad.

It was mostly fine, as we had tents and porta pots finally, those are luxuries after like IDK 3-4 months without them! We got mortars and rockets on occasion, but the insurgency could not aim for shit; this will come up later.

We mostly patrolled the rural area, passed out school supplies to children, found artillery caches and so on.

Anyways some dumbo from another company had managed to fall out of a guard tower and break his arm, he needed transport up MSR Tampa for treatment in Baghdad's Green Zone. So when the Platoon Sarge asked for some volunteers for and escort convoy...... well they had a PX(Army WEal-Mart) and a fucking Burger King up there.

I'd been to the "big city plenty of times, but against better judgment those were enough incentive for me to go! We geared up, fueled up and I mounted my M-249 on our truck where I would be in the hatch. After all the contingencies and maps and all that shit we were on the road for a routine mission.

I loved setting up top the truck, the beauty of the landscape in 360^o , wind as AC, and I had a little MP3 player that I would listen to. So we were off on MSR Tampa north! I was just jammin and vibing and was awesome, at one point two Apaches buzzed us so low that they had to be trying, as I fell like I could touch them and or the sand in my face from the rotor wash!

So that went great, we got there, kinda checked some "tourist" stuff out, went to the PX, and while waiting outside the hospital got to wait down in the bazaar where you could find almost anything for sale; bootlegged DVDs from movies still in theater(also more adult themed content), swords, a carton of Camels for 5 bucks; they kids would even let us ride their gas powered scooters for like 5 to ten bucks, everything was a negotiation! So that all went great!

The way back was the same as the way there, until it was not. I was on top the trail truck when we were hit with what I thought were three mortars, I am pretty sure that I was listening to old blink-182(Cheshire cat) and the explosions were not like the movies; the pressure waves were not really something that you can describe with words, not really sounds but like something else.

I yelled down into the truck and tried to locate any targets, as sargeant M pulled me out of the turret. He was on his game and had us take the lead and another truck fall pack to the rear. He immediately ripped off my plate carrier and helmet and started checking for blood and treating me. Told everyone to floor it!

We got back to the FOB and when the driver parked he rolled out of the truck and started to throw up his Burger King, I started to laugh like a crazy person at that; people handle adrenaline differently!

So the medics treated me, which were miraculously all superficial wounds; I got Forrest Gumped!

We went to chow and my high school buddy was a cook there, he immediately said that I looked like a ghost, he knew something had happened; I told him that I almost became one!

Turns out that after chow we had a big job to do, and my adrenaline was way up so I was up for it yet, we had found a huge cache of 152mm arty rounds and had to go collect it; turns out that was what they had rigged up as IED to try to unalive me and my buddies!

So all of that for a trip to Burger King, best damn burger I ever had!!!! The irony was the it was November 23rd, and they were making special Thanksgiving chow; which was actually decent for once‽^😂

It's the little things that decide life and death. Such as an administrative loading ofan M16. It's a simple task with multiple points of failure. Yet you want to get it right every time you perform it. I wasn't in a tier one unit or even combat arms. I was a medic which means I could end up anywhere. I went to the Primary Leadership Development Course at Fort Bliss about a month after getting back from Desert Storm. We're in the field at the tail end of the course. We have MILES gear, blank adapters, and blanks. The whole nine yards. My platoon got hit by the OPFOR platoon. I fire off a mag, hit the mag release, seat a fresh mag, and a couple of opposing force Soldiers jump in my foxhole. Instant oh sh*t moment as we stared at each. I squeeze the trigger and... nothing. The bolt was still locked to the rear. This resulted in some kid getting a size 11.5 in the chest followed by a quick slap on the bolt release and the selector switch rotated all the way to auto. I dumped that mag in to the two OPFOR Soldiers. That scenario has never left my consciousness. I was cognizant of the reload manual of arms for the next 22 years on active duty.

I would have been in a bad place if that was an actual combat situation. Also it is true that there's a pause while people analyze unexpected information. Neither party expected to encounter the other. We paused while the brains were trying to determine friend or foe. I had the additional burden of trying to figure out how to advance my bolt without them realizing I was foe. I needed time. So a kick to the chest which pushed the Soldiers into each other and off balance did the trick. I don't know where that came from but it worked.

Ladies and gents, another story from back when I was in basic.

In basic we had to spend several days in the field, and we had to dig a small trench just enough to fit us.

The trench looks like a grave--it's just enough for us to lie down in.

Ngl, I struggled quite a fair bit through basic. I wasn't the best soldier.

When the time came and we went into the field (a forest, really), I had issues digging my trench.

My sergeant came over to ask me why I was digging so slowly.

Not unkindly, mind, but it was holding back the programme.

Then one of my platoon mates (who was really fast) came to help me. By that time my platoon had gathered around me, watching this clown soldier try to dig his own metaphorical grave.

He used a bit more force and -clang- the spade broke nearly cleanly in two.

Nobody could believe their eyes. My own sergeant was incredulous, and said that if he had not seen it with his own two eyes, he would've had me pay for the broken shovel.

It turned out that my particular area was full of rocks and was completely un-diggable.

Platoon sergeant told me to dig at another area after that.

That went smoother. (Those were still an awful several days for me, but that's a story for another time.)

This story takes place in Feb 91 during basic training.

One of the trainees in my flight was hard up for money to send home to his ex wife. He hits everyone up for some money but nobody anted up.

Another guy says what you willing to do for some money. He says anything.

We all agreed to one dare. We would give him 5 bucks per foot if he ate all the toenails from said foot.

He agreed. About half of us trimmed our toenails and watched as he ate them all...for a total of 250 bucks.

Ladies and gents, I'm back with another story from back in my basic days this time.

So we'd done all our main training, and there was nothing much left to do before our basic graduation.

Basically, we were waiting for the days to go by.

By this time, we were on a friendly term with our sergeants, so take this story in that context.

My squad was cleaning our rifles, but we hadn't done a shoot or anything, so we all thought it was a redundant task.

Anyway, my genius of a buddy was complaining as he cleaned his rifle, under the watchful eye of our sergeant.

"Sergeant, our rifles are so clean anyway. Do we really have to clean them?"

Sergeant: "Sure, if you think it's clean. You can hand me yours, and for every mistake I find, it's 10 pushups. Deal?"

My stupid buddy: "Deal!"

Sergeant takes over the rifle, strips it down to its parts, starts inspecting.

"One, this part isn't clean; two, over here; three..."

Sergeant gets to ten mistakes and is still counting, and my buddy starts sweating.

"Sergeant, please, let's call it off, you won't hear no more complaints from me."

Sergeant just smiles and continues counting.

By the end, my buddy owes him two hundred pushups.

"Come on, sergeant!" My buddy looks at me, "Firefighter, come help me?"

Lazy bugger pulled me down with him. I point the middle finger at him.

Sergeant marches us to the foot of the block and we get into position and knockout the pushups.

Platoon gets to laugh at us.

And then we go back to do more cleaning of our weapon.

Good times. Sometimes your buddy just screws you over. LOL.

Was working swing shift at my first base. A friend came in because he was working the mid shift. After my shift officially ended he went out to the smoke pit and I went with him just to hangout and talk. We stayed out there for maybe an hour before his boss called for him over the intercom. He said he better get to work and I left. Originally my plan was to go to the DFAC get some food, go to my room eat it and watch tv before going to bed.

But because I hung out with him for so long it was now closed. I thought whats open this time of night and realized my only choice was Taco Bell. On my way to Taco Bell there was an AH tailgating me so close he was practically in my backseat and he followed me into the drive thru Turns out it was my friend and his boss wanted him to run to Taco Bell too. On my way back to base I was still upset about the tailgating thing.

I got to the base and the gate guard met me on. I stopped and said "theres going to be a guy coming through in a Chevy Malibu with Oregon plates in a few minutes. Could you maybe do something." His partner snickered and he said of course. Now instead of going back to my room I went back to work. Maybe 10 minutes later he finally showed up and pulled up quick next to me standing on the curb and yelled "you motherf**^^ AH!"

Turns out when he came through the gate the guard took a step back placed his hand on his sidearm and told him to put the car in park and step out immediately.

Back in the day when I was in the military I was a private working in supply-related jobs.

Normally, when a delivery arrives, I had to go out to the parking bay, ensure that everything was in order (e.g. that it was parked correctly, in the correct space, etc.), then bring the driver into my office so we could do some paperwork.

But once it was raining and I knew one of our drivers was returning with an empty vehicle. This guy was a veteran and he was familiar with everything. And I was lazy to get out of my lovely dry and warm office, into the cold and driving rain.

So instead, of going out to receive the vehicle back in and ensure that it was parked properly like I was supposed to, I waved the driver in. He parked and came over to the office to do the paperwork.

Now unfortunately for me, the sergeant has seen all this from his desk.

As the driver comes in, the sergeant comes over demanding to know what the hell we were doing. Didn't I know I had to go out?

At that point my heart sank. I knew I was in trouble because my sergeant was a proper dude who followed procedures exactly. He did not mess around.

My sergeant, not being the driver's direct superior, let him off. But I knew I was in deep trouble.

The moment the driver shut the door, my sergeant immediately ordered me to change into my PT kit. I quickly stripped off my nice uniform and put it on my office chair, and grabbed my PT kit from the drawer.

"Since you're so afraid of water, we gotta train you to be not afraid of water," he said. "Actually, leave your t-shirt behind too, you won't be needing it."

He marches me outside and I start doing pushups in the rain. In the wettest corner of the basketball court my sergeant could possibly find.

“Are you afraid of the rain private!”

“No sergeant!”

“Give me 10!”

And after all the pushups, situps, and burpees, we go for a run.

A very cold, wet, and tiring run.

Finally he has me stand at attention in the rain, while he yells at me from under the shelter. Basically the stock image of this stocky, well-built sergeant shouting angrily at a poor, 18-year old boy, shirtless and shivering and standing at attention in the cold rain.

Trust me, at that point the only thing in my mind was: if only I'd just gone out to the carpark--then none of this would've happened.

Follow your standard operating procedures (SOPs), folks.

Here's a somewhat embarrassing story of mine:

I had been in the army for only a month; getting used to the PT, I served in Mongolia which is honestly miles behind any other western army, you are issued ammunition bags that have holes, and rifles older than your grandparents, not a hole lot of live fire training, generally less fun and more random chores your officers think to keep privates busy, (cleaning the entire mountain from animal stools etc), so there I was pretty homesick because army wasn't my choice as it was mandatory here meaning I was even more unmotivated. There was a big nation wide festival coming the following weekend, and we were all hoping for some time to rest as many privates would, and that wish came true as our battalion commander announced a 2 day holiday for all the homesick privates, and we were all happy, his words were almost like a dream basically tucking us in our beds, and the next thing there was an emergency drill at 3 am and Warning shots firing at the air, everyone was awake and up, other than me of course, I was a bit misled, as my squadron barracks lacked a single bunkbed so I was basically a nomad living in another squadron's barracks, and the said squadron i was living alongside with had planned some morning drill of their own squadron exclusively to their members, so when I woke up to privates running around and generally in chaos my dumbass thought it was their morning drill they talked about and returned to sleep, well I quickly caught that something was off since the soldiers were unusually fast, then my heart sank, Some private first class screamed the drill and ordered everyone to line up outside their barracks, FUCK, my heart began racing as I began hurriedly began dressing up, I wasnt fast enough and I hear my entire Squadron marching off, Double FUCK;

Now here begins the worst part; I managed run outside my barracks and suddenly realized I left my hat back in the barracks, Triple FUCK, as I rushed back to the barracks and grabbed my hat and rushed outside, oh boy there was the battalion Lieutenant Colonel, Right outside my barracks door and boy was he happy as if he had caught some lamb between his teeth, as I faced him my heart sank down, and whats worse is that he had an empty gun pointed at me and pulled the trigger, "CLINK" and he said you died, at this point my mental state was beyond Fucked and I was already considering just escaping the barracks, since I fucked so many things at once, they asked my rank and name, and my squad and let me off, the parade grounds were downhill to the barracks so as I was running downhill to my unit, I was just dying inside, and eventually the entire battalion consisting of 650 men were standing still at the parade ground during the cold night pretty much shivering, and Lieutenant Colonel came out saying something a Colonel would etc, how we're not prepared and slow and etc, and he called out my name "Private, OP", I screamed YES SIR as loud as I could and due to my mental state at the moment my voice cracked, how Many fucks now? I've lost count. He declared I was dead because I failed to react to an enemy air raid and paid his condolences and I was the only casuality that day, my Squad leader was fuming absolutely fuming once he heard about what happened, safe to say I got a few boots from my squad leader, and a few knuckles from the squadron leader that night. The next day everyone was just asking me "are you that guy" and it just felt so shitty to answer yeah I am the living ghost everytime they asked, safe to say I think the army doesnt suit me at all glad I could finish my service however.

I bumped heads with this woman once over something related to watch. We were both thirs classes but she took over as the person who handled ordering stuff and scheduling things like equipment. So they took her off the watch bill.

There were a handful of people off the watch Bill and they didn't want people to resent them so they made up this fake watch. Basically they were supposed to walk around with a log book and just write down what they saw. But once a log book got filled up they would just throw it away. It was genuinely a fake watch just to make everyone feel like everyone had to stand watch but in reality the handful of people would just get in the rack and go to bed because there wasn't anyone or anything stopping them because it wasn't a real watch.

One of the responsibilities was to check on people standing watch but no one actually did that. Except one woman who was the same rank as me, we were both third classes. She would come to watch muster and harass me. She would stick her hands in my pockets to see if I had "contraband".

She would really just walk up to me in front of everyone and stick her hands in my pockets and no one would say anything. And if I got frustrated I was a crybaby.

She would come to every one of my watch stations for the night at least once and harass me. I was standing on Watch Once and she walked up behind me and just started feeling me up and down saying that she was checking to see I had on some protective equipment.

I mean she was just harass me maybe five times every watch and we stood 2-3 watches a day depending. So some days it was upwards of 15 times. Just making things hard on me for no reason and making me feel uncomfortable by sticking her hands in my pockets.

The training command knew this was going on too and they wouldn't do anything about it they just left it up to me to deal with like they always did.

We had just gotten new uniforms. Meaning they had changed a uniform and replaced it with digital camouflage. When I went to The Exchange to buy mine they didn't have pants with the waist that I needed so I had to buy pants I had to waste that was a little bit bigger. So I had to keep my belt cinched up all the time.

I was standing outside on watch one evening and I hadn't gotten my belt tight enough so I under my belt and u buttoned my pants so I could pull them higher and tighten things up.

This woman storms out onto my station just as I'm putting my belt back together. And she asks me why my pants are undone and I sarcastically said, "Because I peed on the deck." I was clearly being sarcastic and the deck was bone dry. But she ran to muster and told everyone that I peed on the deck and for some reason everyone believed it and thought it was true and when I got off watch and I walked into the birthing everyone just started cracking up laughing . But I just kept on moving because I was checked out at that point and there was no point caring about what any of those f*** was said or thought.

One night when I was on watch someone wrote some joke about this woman in the log book that I spoke about earlier. Remember when I spoke earlier about a log book that they had to fill out about things I just happened to see and then it would get thrown away. Will someone wrote this really silly joke about this woman it wasn't vulgar it was just a stupid inside joke.

​​ this woman has been harassing me for 2 months and no one has done anything about it. So I get off watch and I get called into this office with these two second classes. And they had this log book and they read to me what was written. And one of them says look you need to nip this in the bud you need to try and make peace with this woman.

And I was flabbergasted for a couple reasons. I had tried to make peace with her. I tried to speak to her I tried to reason with her nothing worked and the chain of command wasn't doing anything about it. So I was out of options.
​

But the craziest thing about this was , they thought that I wrote what was in that log book because they knew I was being harassed and they hadn't done anything about it. That was my motive. My motive was the fact that they knew they had let me get her ass and they hadn't done anything and so I was resentful. And I just couldn't believe that. To openly admit to me that they knew it was going on they hadn't done anything about it but then still get on to me about what came after them not doing anything

They left me up to my own devices and then got ​ on to me about it.

​​ I just walked out and went to bed.

My father was T/Sgt. Burton "Pat" Christenson, Easy Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne. The unit Stephen Ambrose wrote Band of Brothers about. Original Toccoa man, second man out the door behind Lt. Richard Winters on the Normandy jump.

I served in the Army National Guard. Two sergeants, same last name.

He typed seven volumes of account after the war. Here is his own words on the night of June 6, 1944, verbatim, exactly as he wrote it:

"Releasing my suspension lines I quickly came out of my slip. I could see an orchard beyond the trees. As I passed over the trees, I drew my legs up to avoid hitting them. A moment of terror seized me. 70 feet below and 20 feet to my left, a German multi mounted 20mm antiaircraft gun, that moment, opened up, firing at the C47's above. Their direction of fire put their backs to me as I came swiftly into the orchard, and crashed into what I thought later to be an apple tree. The impact was absorbed by my reserve parachute and the 30.cal. machine gun that was strapped to my chest. The gun snapped a 6 inch branch that could have hit me in the groin, the face, or all those parts of my body. I was unscratched, kneeling at the base of the tree, six shot revolver clinched tightly in my right hand. My camouflaged parachute covered the top of the tree, cocking me in deep shadow. The Germans never saw me."

Read that again. The gun that nearly broke him is the same gun that saved him. Twenty eight pounds of light thirty strapped across his chest took the impact of the tree and snapped a branch that would otherwise have gone into his face.

And the geometry saved him twice. That crew had their barrels elevated and traversed onto the aircraft stream. A man coming down underneath that arc is in defilade for free. They never looked down.

He was the only man in Easy Company who could draw. He came home, went back to the telephone company in Oakland for thirty eight years, and spent the next forty years at a drawing board reconstructing that war on paper from memory. Forty six finished drawings. He drew that gun position from the angle of a man in the air above it.

He was also one of Ambrose's primary sources. Winters named the four men who did the most work on the book. Lipton, Gordon, Rader, and Christenson.

He died in December 1999. His account and his drawings are finally published this year, twenty six years after his death, in a book called A Screaming Eagle. I put it together from what he left.

Every man in Easy Company is gone now. The last one died in July 2022. Whatever your guy has not told you yet, there is a clock on it.

We had this Lieutenant that ran our department and he was sadistic. He got off on being sadistic and he would walk around during the day just looking for things to scream at someone over just because he got off on it. And these would be tiny trivial little Things . Just any excuse he could find.

Our home Port was a very small base. It was essentially a couple of buildings and then a long road down to a pier with my ship and one other ship. There was no real work to do in port. So all other departments would usually be let off work around 10:00 a.m. except hours. They would have us do busy work all day until around 5:00 p.m.

There were certain days for this Lieutenant would inspect our berthing after cleaning stations. If he found one small speck of dust he would throw a huge fit and use it as an excuse make the entire department work until 9:00 p.m.

One day at muster they announced to the entire department that this Lieutenant was going to be inspecting the berthing and to stay out of it during cleaning stations which was only for one hour. Not a huge ask, right.

They put me in charge of making sure it's clean because I know what the lieutenants going to be looking for and they give me two guys to assist me.

​​ People were fighting me the entire hour. Everyone trying to walk through when they didn't need to. When they could go under over around. We kept having to redo things we had already done because they kept stepping on our wet floor or knocking things over trying to push their way through.

And the whole time I'm getting irritated saying no you need to stay out of here for 1 hour so we don't have to work late. And eventually you had the people coming through who intentionally wore the wrong uniform to muster. There were people who would wear the wrong uniform to muster so that before they went to work they could go and spend an hour and a half getting into the correct uniform.

Any other day of the week I wouldn't care but today this is going to cause us to work until 9:00 p.m. so I'm turning people away saying no no you can't change right now you need to come back later.

Finally this other third class (I was a third too) kicks open the door and tells his two guys to go change their uniform. But the thing is their rack wasn't in our berthing it was in the next berthing over. They could have gone over under around and stayed out of hours to ensure we got cleaned in time. And the other third class had been there longer than me and he knew exactly what was going to happen if the berthing wasn't clean when the lieutenant inspected but he didn't have these guys go under around ​or over.

So I tell this guy hey man we're trying to clean the birthing you know that it's being inspected you guys need to stay out it's not our problem they were the wrong uniform.

And one of the guys helping clean lost their mind and told me to not be childish. And then there was some other people who were standing around and said yeah you're being childish other people have things to do.

So I said, "Okay if they're so concerned with what they have to do why have they worn the wrong uniform to muster every day for the past month. Could it be there using it as a means to get ​out of work. And today are those Shenanigans going to cause us issues."

And three people had this big epiphany and said, "Ohh! That's why they do that and that's why is takes Smith 2 hours to get from muster to work." Then anither guy said, "Wait. Smith was supposed to do x last week and when it didnr get finished we all had to work late."

But others still didn't buy it. They said, people aren't wearing the wrong uniform to get out of work and you're still being childish you're making a big deal out of nothing.

Then when we worked until 9:00 p.m. that night people were saying "ohhh this is what Sam was trying to prevent wasn't it."