Open Writing

Well I’ll stand up next to a mountain; knock it down with the edge of my hand . . .!

17 September 2005 Dryer Airfield, Fort Campbell Kentucky – D-Day

Start Point.

The rucksack was an awkward one hundred odd pounds across my shoulders and I was not a large man to begin with. What complicated matters further was it was not compatible with the armor I was wearing. The only way to keep my arms from going dead was to shift the load around every few paces. Combine this with a full load of ammunition and mission essential equipment and I was far from the Light, Mobile, always on the Move! Infantry the Pentagon was obsessed with boasting about. It sucked the life and will to live from the very marrow of one’s bones, earning it the moniker The Green Tick. Among others far less civil.

And fully half of this kit was stuff I would never use.

A ragged line of these Green Ticks waddled and swayed awkwardly along the tarmac, all destined for one aircraft or another. Some were nearly bursting from their poorly packed contents, some did. My ruck was compact and tight, no bulges, nothing in a compromising position, I had made sure. This had led to accusations I had shorted the packing list until I had proven otherwise. Twice. It was a critical skill carried over from my days as a Paratrooper, where a sloppy pack literally had the potential to get one killed when exiting an aircraft in flight.

I had been a Sky Soldier in the 173d Airborne. Now, I was a Screaming Eagle in the 101st. Or was I one of Marius’s Mules?

Whatever the case, I was an American Soldier.

Originally in the September of 2000, there was no war. It was not even on the horizon, beyond an abstract concept. I was just a fool idealist, wanting to serve his country and prove his mettle to the world and most of all, himself. It was as far away from my college training as was humanly possible.

I was a cartoonist, with a Bachelor’s Degree in Illustration.

Five years later, I was a combat veteran, and I was going back to war.

On the simple wooden desk, I placed my Social Security card, my Selective Service Registration card and my college ID and said the words that would forever alter the course of my life: “Hello, I’m very much interested in enlisting in the Infantry.”

The Staff Sergeant seated behind the simple wooden desk, a fit man who looked like he had played football in his younger days, gestured to an equally simple chair. “Please, sit down, won’t you?”

I marched around the disemboweled carcass of a rucksack on the ground and the support Soldier having a fit over it. The boy could not figure out how to carry his payload in addition to his CD player, headphones a sonar man could use to hunt an enemy submarine, large pillow, and a civilian knapsack packed with whatever else he decided he could not go without. I ignored the fool, heading for the bird.

The bird was an L1011, a study in white and gleaming steel, the third in line of nearly a dozen waiting aircraft. The howl from the idling compressors and squat green auxiliary power unit was harsh, but I had inserted my earplugs before leaving the terminal. I knew about aircraft and about flying. Landing was still a rarity for me, even after a year with the unit. I still considered myself a Paratrooper, yet here I was, boarding a plane without a parachute.

Near the tail of the aircraft there was a conveyer truck where a detail of drafted individuals was engaged in loading rucksacks. Without sparing a glance or ounce of sympathy towards those miserable wretches, I dumped my Green Tick in a pile of others and continued on my way. No one had ever looked at me with kindness when I had been one of them. I had more pressing concerns to focus on while I waited to board.

I was a small individual, compared to others. Five foot, eight odd inches, one hundred thirty pounds, narrow shoulders, angular features and a metabolism that burned far too fast for my liking. I had a hard time convincing others I was an Infantryman, let alone a man who had seen The Elephant once already. The men who had seen me fight, the men who had seen me kill, were no longer the ones I worked with; I was no longer with that Battalion. Even after a year with the Company, there were still those who did not believe I had ever been there.

Certainly, they did not believe in Santa Claus or the clockwork of the universe, either.

I had to accept it as another one of my numerous flaws, trying to earn the respect of those who were not worth the aggravation or energy. Half of them had proven to be fools, one of them proudly proclaiming he had never fired his weapon in anger, not once. He had failed in his mission as far as I was concerned, that was our sole purpose, it was what we did as Infantry: close with and destroy the enemy through fire and maneuver and close combat.

According to official doctrine at least.

Crossing the threshold of the hatch, the interior of the airliner looked like any other, with padded seats, overhead compartments and flight attendants. I made my way down the portside of the cabin, intent on a window seat. I found one to my liking, with a view of the trailing edge of the wing. I quickly settled in while others wasted time bickering over who sat where, who had which movie, or some other stupidity. I would not have called them Soldiers. The air was rife with profanity. I sat, waiting for the engines to spool up for take off.

The adventure to start all over again.

I raised my hand and with my heart bursting with pride, repeated the words presented: “I, James Peter Citizen, do solemnly swear, that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States . . .”

I’ll wait for you in the next world . . . and don’t be late . . . don’t be late . . .! - Voodoo Child from The Jimi Hendrix Experience by Jimi Hendrix