This story is dedicated to all mothers, my mom Sandy, my mother-in-law Marty, and most importantly to my bride and mother of our 4 beautiful babies. I love you Teresa!
I was away at school when I got the call,
"Are you sitting down?...We’re going to have a baby," she said.
I knew then and there she would be the perfect mom.
Her belly grew, she went to the classes, I shared from afar.
She got sick, read all the books, and prepared.
There were days that she didn't like the way she looked,
But to me she was more beautiful than ever and I knew she was the perfect mom.
I was there for the birth of our baby boy, but gone soon again,
And several more times over the next two years.
She played games, taught him to read, and made him laugh.
I marveled at what a natural she was, and held back the tears.
Soon our second child was conceived and we could not wait,
To see what special gift God would soon bring.
She was alone again as I went out to sea.
Soon a second child she would bear, a lullaby she would sing.
For the next three years I watched and I learned.
She took them on walks, bathed them, read them books,
Patched up their knees, dried their tears, baked them cakes.
She held them during the storm, sewed them costumes,
Played trucks in the sand, and watched their favorite movies.
She was a nurse, a teacher, and a protector.
She was their guide, their conscience, and their confidant.
Son number three came along and she did not skip a beat.
Though I was there to help, she was already a seasoned pro.
She taught them to ride bikes, signed them up for sports,
Volunteered in their classrooms, always, always on the go.
She cleaned up their messes, went to their baseball games,
Played in the rain, took them to the beach, and taught them to fish.
I left her to fend for herself and the babies yet again,
And yet she did not complain.
I was away on deployment when I got the call,
"Are you sitting down?...We’re going to have a baby ," she said.
I knew then and there she was the perfect mom.
Her belly grew, she went to the appointments, I shared from afar.
She got sick, still took care of the kids, and prepared.
There were days that she didn't like the way she looked,
But to me she was more beautiful than ever and I knew she was the perfect mom.
I was there for the birth of our baby girl, but gone soon again,
And several more times over the years.
She has been on the PTA, served on the school board,
She was VP of their soccer club, and coached their teams.
She's been the Team Manager, the Class Mom, and volunteered for everything under the sun.
Her love for them is unconditional, unbounded, and unwavering.
Over the years I have watched and admired her.
I have seen first hand the magic and joy she brings to their hearts.
I hope they know just how lucky they are,
How lucky they are to have the "perfect mom."
Happy Mother’s Day my love.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Twenty Years Ago (Continued)
Letters to and from home were our only connection to the world we once knew. Today things are much different for me. I have daily access to the internet here in Afghanistan and can pick up the phone at a moments notice to call home. It's not that way for the Marines just a short distance from here. Out in the villages Marines are still living in fighting holes or at best on Combat Outposts. Every now and again they get the opportunity to call home on satellite phones, but for the most part, they communicate like we have during wars over the last couple of centuries. So there we sat in the middle of the Saudi desert, a few days removed from our last opportunity to phone home, our last hot meals, and our last showers.
We moved from position to position on a pretty regular basis during those six weeks leading up to the ground war. Each time we moved, the drill was the same: set up camouflage netting, dig fighting positions, clean weapons, and wait. For days on end we waited; we waited for the word that we were moving to border, to stage for the final assault on Saddam's regime. I don't remember exactly how I felt then, but I don't recall being afraid. Maybe anxious is a better word to describe it. We never really talked about it; it's not really normal for guys to talk about our feelings. If we were afraid, it would have been a normal response seeing as how none of us had been to combat before. Most of us weren't even old enough to drink. The only one in our platoon with combat experience was Gunny Clark, my best friend's dad and our platoon sergeant. Gunny Clark spent multiple tours with Mike Force in Vietnam. He knew what he was doing and had trained us well.
When we weren't performing gun drills or participating in Division level manuevers, we sat around and told stories of home. You could tell that it made guys happy to talk about home and that special girl they left behind, happy and homesick at the same time. Everytime I talked about Teresa, it reinforced in my mind what I already knew in my heart, and that was that I loved her with every ounce of my being. I had to get through this war and get back to her. I had to make sure she knew how I felt about her. And just when I thought I would go crazy thinking about her, a package showed up. I remember like it was yesterday. It had been raining for some time and the box was delivered in a battered state, yet still in tact. I recognized Teresa's hand writing right away and immediately tore into the package. I don't remember all the different treats that were in there, but I do rember a tin of white chocolate covered mini pretzels. Underneath it all, there was a letter. I held it to my face and took a deep breath...it smelled like her. In an instant I could see her face and as I read it I could hear her voice in the back of my mind. In the letter were two photos of her in a prom dress taken a couple of years previously. She was absolutely gorgeous. It was one of my most memorable moments of that deployment.
Over the next several weeks, the letters and packages would continue to come in. I would read (and smell) her letters every night until the next one came in. We had our last mail call somewhere around the 20th of April. I remember that because it was the same night we received our operations order for the ground assault to come. The next few days were spent conducting detailed rehearsals on large scale mock ups of the breaching sights. As an attachment to Weapons Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, we got to listen as the Battalion XO told us to "look to your left, and to your right. One of you won't be here tomorrow." We were expecting upwards of 30% casualties. That was when it became real for everyone. We were to cross the line of departure at 0430 24 February 1991. The evening prior we sat around in relative silence. Our thoughts were of home, our families, and our loved ones. Those last few hours passed fairly quickly and before we knew it, the war was on.
The Mother of all Tank Battles lasted only 100 hours and almost immediately we were greated by thousands of Kuwaitis cheering us on and waving American and Kuwaiti flags. It was almost like a scene out of a WWII movie. Within a month we were back at Camp 15 in Saudi Arabia. I was able to make my first phone call home in over two months. I called Teresa and we laughed and cried and chatted for at least an hour if not more. I would call her at least once a week until I got to Camp Lejeune, NC in late April, then I was able to call every day. We finally made it back to Kansas City the first week of May 1991, five months after we left for the war. It seemed like an eternity. The bus rolled into the reserve center parking lot late in the evening. We could see the warm glow of the parking lot lights as we pulled up, and the large crowd of people that awaited our return. Teresa was at school at the time, so I fully expected to see her during the upcoming weekend. I stepped off the bus, and I saw her come running up to greet me. We held each other so tight I didn't think I would be able to let go. I knew I didn't want to let go...not then...not ever.
We moved from position to position on a pretty regular basis during those six weeks leading up to the ground war. Each time we moved, the drill was the same: set up camouflage netting, dig fighting positions, clean weapons, and wait. For days on end we waited; we waited for the word that we were moving to border, to stage for the final assault on Saddam's regime. I don't remember exactly how I felt then, but I don't recall being afraid. Maybe anxious is a better word to describe it. We never really talked about it; it's not really normal for guys to talk about our feelings. If we were afraid, it would have been a normal response seeing as how none of us had been to combat before. Most of us weren't even old enough to drink. The only one in our platoon with combat experience was Gunny Clark, my best friend's dad and our platoon sergeant. Gunny Clark spent multiple tours with Mike Force in Vietnam. He knew what he was doing and had trained us well.
When we weren't performing gun drills or participating in Division level manuevers, we sat around and told stories of home. You could tell that it made guys happy to talk about home and that special girl they left behind, happy and homesick at the same time. Everytime I talked about Teresa, it reinforced in my mind what I already knew in my heart, and that was that I loved her with every ounce of my being. I had to get through this war and get back to her. I had to make sure she knew how I felt about her. And just when I thought I would go crazy thinking about her, a package showed up. I remember like it was yesterday. It had been raining for some time and the box was delivered in a battered state, yet still in tact. I recognized Teresa's hand writing right away and immediately tore into the package. I don't remember all the different treats that were in there, but I do rember a tin of white chocolate covered mini pretzels. Underneath it all, there was a letter. I held it to my face and took a deep breath...it smelled like her. In an instant I could see her face and as I read it I could hear her voice in the back of my mind. In the letter were two photos of her in a prom dress taken a couple of years previously. She was absolutely gorgeous. It was one of my most memorable moments of that deployment.
Over the next several weeks, the letters and packages would continue to come in. I would read (and smell) her letters every night until the next one came in. We had our last mail call somewhere around the 20th of April. I remember that because it was the same night we received our operations order for the ground assault to come. The next few days were spent conducting detailed rehearsals on large scale mock ups of the breaching sights. As an attachment to Weapons Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, we got to listen as the Battalion XO told us to "look to your left, and to your right. One of you won't be here tomorrow." We were expecting upwards of 30% casualties. That was when it became real for everyone. We were to cross the line of departure at 0430 24 February 1991. The evening prior we sat around in relative silence. Our thoughts were of home, our families, and our loved ones. Those last few hours passed fairly quickly and before we knew it, the war was on.
The Mother of all Tank Battles lasted only 100 hours and almost immediately we were greated by thousands of Kuwaitis cheering us on and waving American and Kuwaiti flags. It was almost like a scene out of a WWII movie. Within a month we were back at Camp 15 in Saudi Arabia. I was able to make my first phone call home in over two months. I called Teresa and we laughed and cried and chatted for at least an hour if not more. I would call her at least once a week until I got to Camp Lejeune, NC in late April, then I was able to call every day. We finally made it back to Kansas City the first week of May 1991, five months after we left for the war. It seemed like an eternity. The bus rolled into the reserve center parking lot late in the evening. We could see the warm glow of the parking lot lights as we pulled up, and the large crowd of people that awaited our return. Teresa was at school at the time, so I fully expected to see her during the upcoming weekend. I stepped off the bus, and I saw her come running up to greet me. We held each other so tight I didn't think I would be able to let go. I knew I didn't want to let go...not then...not ever.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Where were you 20 years ago today?
Twenty years ago I was sitting in a fighting position just outside of Kuwait City. The cease fire brokered between the coalition and Iraq was only a day old. Major combat operations were declared over after only 100 hours of ground combat. The air campaign conducted during Operations DESERT SHIELD had severely crippled Saddam Hussein's forces. The 4th Marine Expeditionary Brigade's demonstration of the Kuwaiti coast had held several Iraqi divisions in place waiting for what they thought would be a large scale amphibious landing. Mechanized forces of the coalition made short work of what was left of Saddam's Army between the Saudi border and Kuwait City. What was supposed to be the "Mother of all tank battles" turned out to be a four day skirmish.
Saddam's forces invaded Kuwait in August 1990. I had been in the Marine Corps for a mere 7 months at that point and had just checked into my reserve unit just the month prior. The invasion and pending US military response was all we could talk about. This was what we had signed up to do. I was a member of TOW Platoon, 24th Marine Regiment. Our unit existed for the sole purpose of killing enemy tanks. What better place to showcase our skills than in the wide open middle eastern desert? We were mobilized the weekend of Thanksgiving and made preparations to move to Camp Lejeune, NC to conduct predeployment training. It was during my last few weeks in the states that Teresa and I would reconnect.
We had broken up when I went off to college in the summer of 1988, and although we still spoke and saw each other on occasion, we were no longer a couple. I think deep down we both new that we loved each other, but maybe we were just too stubborn to admit it? I'm not sure what it was that kept us apart, but I do know that it was the war that brought us together. While I was training in Camp Lejeune I would call and talk to her frequently. She hated the fact that she didn't get to see me before I left. Neither of us knew what the war would bring, but what we did know was that we didn't want the last time that we saw each other to be the last.
Our platoon got to Saudi Arabia on New Year's Eve, we celebrated by passing out cigars and talking about the great crusade we were embarking on. Preparations continued in earnest over the next two weeks. We unloaded vehicles and weapons from cargo ships. Set up and tested weapon systems designed to kill tanks. We continued to fortify our positions at Camp 15 and conducted physical training to stay in shape. We deployed into the Saudi desert on 14 January and on the 17th the air campaign began. Operation DESERT STORM was in full swing. For days we continued our movement toward our assembly areas on the Saudi/Kuwaiti border. We conducted Division sized maneuvers and small unit battle drills. We trained and we waited. Every night we watched as dozens of planes flew overhead, delivered their ordnance, and returned to base or ship. Every day we looked forward letters and packages from home.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Saddam's forces invaded Kuwait in August 1990. I had been in the Marine Corps for a mere 7 months at that point and had just checked into my reserve unit just the month prior. The invasion and pending US military response was all we could talk about. This was what we had signed up to do. I was a member of TOW Platoon, 24th Marine Regiment. Our unit existed for the sole purpose of killing enemy tanks. What better place to showcase our skills than in the wide open middle eastern desert? We were mobilized the weekend of Thanksgiving and made preparations to move to Camp Lejeune, NC to conduct predeployment training. It was during my last few weeks in the states that Teresa and I would reconnect.
We had broken up when I went off to college in the summer of 1988, and although we still spoke and saw each other on occasion, we were no longer a couple. I think deep down we both new that we loved each other, but maybe we were just too stubborn to admit it? I'm not sure what it was that kept us apart, but I do know that it was the war that brought us together. While I was training in Camp Lejeune I would call and talk to her frequently. She hated the fact that she didn't get to see me before I left. Neither of us knew what the war would bring, but what we did know was that we didn't want the last time that we saw each other to be the last.
Our platoon got to Saudi Arabia on New Year's Eve, we celebrated by passing out cigars and talking about the great crusade we were embarking on. Preparations continued in earnest over the next two weeks. We unloaded vehicles and weapons from cargo ships. Set up and tested weapon systems designed to kill tanks. We continued to fortify our positions at Camp 15 and conducted physical training to stay in shape. We deployed into the Saudi desert on 14 January and on the 17th the air campaign began. Operation DESERT STORM was in full swing. For days we continued our movement toward our assembly areas on the Saudi/Kuwaiti border. We conducted Division sized maneuvers and small unit battle drills. We trained and we waited. Every night we watched as dozens of planes flew overhead, delivered their ordnance, and returned to base or ship. Every day we looked forward letters and packages from home.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Job Well Done
Journal Entry Sun 6 Feb 2011
It’s official…RCT-8 is in the driver’s seat. As of 0001 (one minute past midnight) we own battlespace in Northern Helmand and Nimroz provinces. This morning we were part of an official ceremony that gave us that authority. It’s more symbolic than anything else. High ranking officials from the coalition forces and the Afghan National Army watched as Marines representing both RCT-8 and RCT-2 stood in formation. They watched as the Commanding Officer of RCT-2 furled and cased RCT-2’s guidon and battle streamers. This simple act closed another historical chapter in this war on terrorism. RCT-2 had completed a successful tour of duty in Afghanistan. They deployed over a year ago on only a few week’s notice. They partnered with an Afghan brigade that didn’t even exist before their arrival. They built FOB Delaram II from nothing. They constructed an airstrip capable of landing cargo planes. Most importantly they took the fight to the enemy. They hunted down the Taliban and struck fear in the heart of the insurgency. All the while, they won the trust of their ANA brothers and endeared themselves to the population. They did everything a unit has to do when fighting a counter insurgency.
Now, they’ll dust each other off, heal their wounds, put on their best smiles, and head home to their loved ones. They will do so proudly for their job is done here. Back home their families will hang banners, fly flags, and wait with open arms. The band will greet them as they step off the busses and finally they will be reunited. Sadly, there will be some there who will not have a Marine to welcome home. For some there will only be the memories of the person they said goodbye to. For them, the unit’s homecoming is a means of closure, an opportunity to meet Marines who fought with their son, husband, or father, and held their hand as they breathed their last breath.
The homecoming is a time of celebration and healing. Families and individuals are made whole again. It is a time to look back on accomplishments, a time to catch up on all the milestones, a time to hold the ones you love. It’s hard to explain it to someone who has never sent a loved one off to war or never said goodbye to their family not knowing if it would be the last. It is a wonderful feeling. RCT-2 will know that feeling. Relish in it my brothers, you deserve it.
It’s official…RCT-8 is in the driver’s seat. As of 0001 (one minute past midnight) we own battlespace in Northern Helmand and Nimroz provinces. This morning we were part of an official ceremony that gave us that authority. It’s more symbolic than anything else. High ranking officials from the coalition forces and the Afghan National Army watched as Marines representing both RCT-8 and RCT-2 stood in formation. They watched as the Commanding Officer of RCT-2 furled and cased RCT-2’s guidon and battle streamers. This simple act closed another historical chapter in this war on terrorism. RCT-2 had completed a successful tour of duty in Afghanistan. They deployed over a year ago on only a few week’s notice. They partnered with an Afghan brigade that didn’t even exist before their arrival. They built FOB Delaram II from nothing. They constructed an airstrip capable of landing cargo planes. Most importantly they took the fight to the enemy. They hunted down the Taliban and struck fear in the heart of the insurgency. All the while, they won the trust of their ANA brothers and endeared themselves to the population. They did everything a unit has to do when fighting a counter insurgency.
Now, they’ll dust each other off, heal their wounds, put on their best smiles, and head home to their loved ones. They will do so proudly for their job is done here. Back home their families will hang banners, fly flags, and wait with open arms. The band will greet them as they step off the busses and finally they will be reunited. Sadly, there will be some there who will not have a Marine to welcome home. For some there will only be the memories of the person they said goodbye to. For them, the unit’s homecoming is a means of closure, an opportunity to meet Marines who fought with their son, husband, or father, and held their hand as they breathed their last breath.
The homecoming is a time of celebration and healing. Families and individuals are made whole again. It is a time to look back on accomplishments, a time to catch up on all the milestones, a time to hold the ones you love. It’s hard to explain it to someone who has never sent a loved one off to war or never said goodbye to their family not knowing if it would be the last. It is a wonderful feeling. RCT-2 will know that feeling. Relish in it my brothers, you deserve it.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Happy Birthday, Cami Girl!
Journal Entry Wednesday 2 Feb 2011
Today is my princess’ birthday. She turned seven today and unfortunately, I couldn’t celebrate it with her. She was six years old when I left on this deployment and there’s a good chance that she will be eight by the time I return. That kind of puts the whole timeline in perspective. A year plus is a really long time. I called her this morning, her time, and sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She sounded so happy to hear from me that it just melted my heart. She has had a way of doing that to me since she was born. Teresa will tell you that she has me wrapped around her tiny little finger and it is absolutely true. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her happy. I think a lot of that stems from the fact that I was gone for most of the first two years of her life. Camilla Marie was born on 2 February 2004 at the Naval Hospital aboard Camp Lejeune, NC. At the time I was the Company Commander, Weapons Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. The Battalion had been on air alert since December. Air alert normally does not amount to much more than being restricted to base so that the unit can be ready to respond to world crisis within a matter of hours.
The last three months of Teresa’s pregnancy were for the most part not unlike the three previous ones. She had morning sickness pretty bad for most of it just as she had with the others. The singular difference with this one was that we found out we were having a baby girl. Teresa so wanted a girl and admittedly so did I. Not that we don’t love our three boys just as much, but it’s just that Teresa wanted someone she could dress up, take shopping, and share girl time with. Let’s face it, none of my boys would look good in a dress. Of course when Teresa found out she was pregnant back in June of 2003, she thought for sure she’d be having another boy. That’s just the way the odds were leaning. We found out via home pregnancy test right before I deployed to South Korea. Needless to say I was ecstatic and I thought maybe just maybe we would get our girl.
So as I mentioned, Cami came into our lives in early February 2004. She was a perfect little angel and she was ours. All I wanted to do was hold her and let her know how much I loved her. I looked forward to watching her discover this world she had just come into over the next few months. Unfortunately, I would not get the opportunity. Three weeks after she was born I was on a plane bound for Haiti. The night that I packed my things and left for the airfield at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, I gave Teresa a hug and kiss and told her I would be back in two weeks. Two weeks slowly turned into five months. By the time I saw Cami girl again she was six months old, bright eyed and babbling already. Five months after coming home from Haiti, I left for Iraq and was gone for eight more months. I guess you could say I’m still trying to make up for lost time. Happy Birthday, Princess.
Today is my princess’ birthday. She turned seven today and unfortunately, I couldn’t celebrate it with her. She was six years old when I left on this deployment and there’s a good chance that she will be eight by the time I return. That kind of puts the whole timeline in perspective. A year plus is a really long time. I called her this morning, her time, and sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She sounded so happy to hear from me that it just melted my heart. She has had a way of doing that to me since she was born. Teresa will tell you that she has me wrapped around her tiny little finger and it is absolutely true. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her happy. I think a lot of that stems from the fact that I was gone for most of the first two years of her life. Camilla Marie was born on 2 February 2004 at the Naval Hospital aboard Camp Lejeune, NC. At the time I was the Company Commander, Weapons Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. The Battalion had been on air alert since December. Air alert normally does not amount to much more than being restricted to base so that the unit can be ready to respond to world crisis within a matter of hours.
The last three months of Teresa’s pregnancy were for the most part not unlike the three previous ones. She had morning sickness pretty bad for most of it just as she had with the others. The singular difference with this one was that we found out we were having a baby girl. Teresa so wanted a girl and admittedly so did I. Not that we don’t love our three boys just as much, but it’s just that Teresa wanted someone she could dress up, take shopping, and share girl time with. Let’s face it, none of my boys would look good in a dress. Of course when Teresa found out she was pregnant back in June of 2003, she thought for sure she’d be having another boy. That’s just the way the odds were leaning. We found out via home pregnancy test right before I deployed to South Korea. Needless to say I was ecstatic and I thought maybe just maybe we would get our girl.
So as I mentioned, Cami came into our lives in early February 2004. She was a perfect little angel and she was ours. All I wanted to do was hold her and let her know how much I loved her. I looked forward to watching her discover this world she had just come into over the next few months. Unfortunately, I would not get the opportunity. Three weeks after she was born I was on a plane bound for Haiti. The night that I packed my things and left for the airfield at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, I gave Teresa a hug and kiss and told her I would be back in two weeks. Two weeks slowly turned into five months. By the time I saw Cami girl again she was six months old, bright eyed and babbling already. Five months after coming home from Haiti, I left for Iraq and was gone for eight more months. I guess you could say I’m still trying to make up for lost time. Happy Birthday, Princess.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
Journal Entry Sun 30 Jan 2011
Teresa started a blog when I left for much the same reason as I’ve been keeping this journal. It’s a means for her to reconcile her feelings and share her thoughts on this deployment. She’s not looking for pity, encouragement, or debate; she’s merely putting herself out there on the web for people to follow and enjoy. I have to admit that she is pretty damn witty at times. For the most part, her blogs are pretty light hearted and funny, not the somber, depressing entries you see in similar blogs. In one of her recent blogs she included her thoughts on deployment countdowns. I myself try not countdown; A) I’m too busy to keep track of the days, and B) it’s just too depressing, particularly when you’re still in the 300’s. But, when I was reading this particular blog, I looked up at her countdown and thought, “Holy crap! It’s been 20 days already!”
Admittedly, I have found myself counting Sundays. I look forward to Sundays for a couple of reasons, most importantly because I know I will be Skyping with my family the next day. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this previously, but I cherish my weekly Skyping sessions with Teresa and the kids. Because the internet café is only open from 8am-8pm, we’ve figured out that the best time for us to get together over the web is in the morning (their time) while the kids are getting ready for school. I get to catch up on the previous week’s activities as well as see all their smiling faces. So while none of that occurs on Sunday, it gives me something to think about all day.
Another thing I enjoy about Sunday is that we don’t have to be in to work until noon or so. I have the whole morning to myself, to sleep in a little bit, get some PT in, do some laundry, and get a haircut. Finally Sunday is my day to indulge myself at the chow hall. We call it “Fatterday.” All week long I am careful about what I eat. The food here is such abundance and good quality that you could literally eat yourself onto the reality show, “Biggest Loser.” So after a week of skimping and watching fat grams, I treat myself to biscuits and gravy, hamburgers and fries, and a nice big bowl of ice cream (sometimes two).
This is how we mark the passing of a week in Afghanistan. Outside of Sundays every day is just like the last. We have nothing to differentiate one day from the next. I get up at 6 am, do some form of PT, eat chow, work all morning, eat noon chow, work all afternoon, go to evening chow, work until 11 pm or so, go to bed, get up at 6am and do it all over again. Some days are better than others. Some days the enemy makes Marines into heroes; some days the Marines make the enemy into martyrs. Either way, and not to sound callous, my days are pretty much the same. The monotony of it all is broken up by brief periods of joy when I am able to hear Teresa’s voice or see her pretty face, when I can talk to the kiddos and find out how their week went. Those moments help get me through the rest of the week. Each day I wake up is one more day closer to getting home to them. That’s my countdown.
Teresa started a blog when I left for much the same reason as I’ve been keeping this journal. It’s a means for her to reconcile her feelings and share her thoughts on this deployment. She’s not looking for pity, encouragement, or debate; she’s merely putting herself out there on the web for people to follow and enjoy. I have to admit that she is pretty damn witty at times. For the most part, her blogs are pretty light hearted and funny, not the somber, depressing entries you see in similar blogs. In one of her recent blogs she included her thoughts on deployment countdowns. I myself try not countdown; A) I’m too busy to keep track of the days, and B) it’s just too depressing, particularly when you’re still in the 300’s. But, when I was reading this particular blog, I looked up at her countdown and thought, “Holy crap! It’s been 20 days already!”
Admittedly, I have found myself counting Sundays. I look forward to Sundays for a couple of reasons, most importantly because I know I will be Skyping with my family the next day. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this previously, but I cherish my weekly Skyping sessions with Teresa and the kids. Because the internet café is only open from 8am-8pm, we’ve figured out that the best time for us to get together over the web is in the morning (their time) while the kids are getting ready for school. I get to catch up on the previous week’s activities as well as see all their smiling faces. So while none of that occurs on Sunday, it gives me something to think about all day.
Another thing I enjoy about Sunday is that we don’t have to be in to work until noon or so. I have the whole morning to myself, to sleep in a little bit, get some PT in, do some laundry, and get a haircut. Finally Sunday is my day to indulge myself at the chow hall. We call it “Fatterday.” All week long I am careful about what I eat. The food here is such abundance and good quality that you could literally eat yourself onto the reality show, “Biggest Loser.” So after a week of skimping and watching fat grams, I treat myself to biscuits and gravy, hamburgers and fries, and a nice big bowl of ice cream (sometimes two).
This is how we mark the passing of a week in Afghanistan. Outside of Sundays every day is just like the last. We have nothing to differentiate one day from the next. I get up at 6 am, do some form of PT, eat chow, work all morning, eat noon chow, work all afternoon, go to evening chow, work until 11 pm or so, go to bed, get up at 6am and do it all over again. Some days are better than others. Some days the enemy makes Marines into heroes; some days the Marines make the enemy into martyrs. Either way, and not to sound callous, my days are pretty much the same. The monotony of it all is broken up by brief periods of joy when I am able to hear Teresa’s voice or see her pretty face, when I can talk to the kiddos and find out how their week went. Those moments help get me through the rest of the week. Each day I wake up is one more day closer to getting home to them. That’s my countdown.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Don't take the small things for granted.
Journal Entry Thu 27 Jan 2011
Well, I hit two major milestones during this deployment: 1) I went an entire night without having to get up to go to the bathroom, and 2) I had my first morning constitutional since arriving in Afghanistan. Now, to the average reader those two things may seem insignificant when taken out of context, but in this environment, in combat, those two things are very important.
Let’s take the first milestone for instance. I live in a tent with nine other guys. It’s not bad living and it’s actually pretty comfortable. That is to say that we have heat and comfortable beds to sleep on. Keep in mind that these are strictly sleeping quarters. Our bathrooms consist of two sets of trailers. One set of (3) trailers comes equipped with six toilets and three sinks each. The other set of (3) trailers contain eight shower stalls and three sinks each. These trailers are located several yards away from the sleeping tents across a bed of river rocks. If you’re lucky like I am, your tent is only thirty yards away it’s not too bad; if you’re further than that, it sucks. Now, about the river rocks…these aren’t nice little river rocks that you line your flower bed with, these river rocks are really small boulders. This brings me back to the issue of getting up in the night to go to the bathroom; I’ll get come back to the river rocks in a bit. I work 17-18 hour days, so I value every minute of sleep I can get. The last thing I want to do is get up three hours into some much needed sleep so that I can go to the bathroom. Of course, I have no choice, although, one of my tent mates did offer the idea of using a “thunder bottle.” Thunder bottles have extra large openings and are typically used to store water in extremely cold temperatures. Some people use them as urinals so that they don’t have to get up in the middle of the night. Needless to say, we banned the use of “thunder bottles” in OUR tent.
So, thunder bottle aside, the only option of relieving your bladder is to make the trek to the trailers. First of all, it’s freezing outside at night. Temps have been in the 20’s here in the early morning hours, cold enough that even a short jaunt to the toilet requires at least a pair of sweats. Secondly, there’s the small boulders I mentioned earlier. Now, you can sacrifice safety for speed and go with flip flops or you can risk pissing yourself in the time it takes to don tennis shoes for the trip to the head. I for one have been tempting fate and going with the second option. I found that doing the “pee-pee” dance for a few seconds buys you enough time to put your shoes on. Besides, if you do go in your pants a little bit, it’ll be dry by morning. The alternative is risking your life, tripping over the small boulders in your shower shoes, and hurting yourself or your ego.
This brings me to the second milestone, having a bowel movement first thing in the morning. Remember the trailers I was talking about? That’s the only place on this camp with real toilets. If you are anywhere else on the camp your only option is a port-a-jon. For my more affluent readers who have never seen a port-a-jon, let me take a moment to describe this modern marvel. A port-a-jon is about the size of the old telephone booths we had before the age of cell phones. When you walk into one you are facing a toilet which is essentially a large plastic base with a hole cut into it. To your left is a urinal and to the right is the toilet paper dispenser. The smell is intolerable, which makes sense considering the plastic bin that you have to sit on is full of a couple days worth of human waste. With that picture in mind, imagine that the nice toilets are too far to walk to and you are forced to use a port-a-jon. Once you walk in and shut the door, you are now the star of your own magic show. You have to set your weapon in the corner, remove your jacket, spin around carefully, drop your trousers, sit down slowly…wait, now you discover that there’s no toilet paper. Now, you have to get dressed, grab your weapon, find a port-a-jon with toilet paper and start the whole process again. Once you’re seated and answering natures call you have the pleasure of enjoying the smell of everyone else’s waste for the next few minutes.
So now you know why such little things can be considered significant milestones. And just think, the Marines operating out in the villages are living much more Spartan.
Well, I hit two major milestones during this deployment: 1) I went an entire night without having to get up to go to the bathroom, and 2) I had my first morning constitutional since arriving in Afghanistan. Now, to the average reader those two things may seem insignificant when taken out of context, but in this environment, in combat, those two things are very important.
Let’s take the first milestone for instance. I live in a tent with nine other guys. It’s not bad living and it’s actually pretty comfortable. That is to say that we have heat and comfortable beds to sleep on. Keep in mind that these are strictly sleeping quarters. Our bathrooms consist of two sets of trailers. One set of (3) trailers comes equipped with six toilets and three sinks each. The other set of (3) trailers contain eight shower stalls and three sinks each. These trailers are located several yards away from the sleeping tents across a bed of river rocks. If you’re lucky like I am, your tent is only thirty yards away it’s not too bad; if you’re further than that, it sucks. Now, about the river rocks…these aren’t nice little river rocks that you line your flower bed with, these river rocks are really small boulders. This brings me back to the issue of getting up in the night to go to the bathroom; I’ll get come back to the river rocks in a bit. I work 17-18 hour days, so I value every minute of sleep I can get. The last thing I want to do is get up three hours into some much needed sleep so that I can go to the bathroom. Of course, I have no choice, although, one of my tent mates did offer the idea of using a “thunder bottle.” Thunder bottles have extra large openings and are typically used to store water in extremely cold temperatures. Some people use them as urinals so that they don’t have to get up in the middle of the night. Needless to say, we banned the use of “thunder bottles” in OUR tent.
So, thunder bottle aside, the only option of relieving your bladder is to make the trek to the trailers. First of all, it’s freezing outside at night. Temps have been in the 20’s here in the early morning hours, cold enough that even a short jaunt to the toilet requires at least a pair of sweats. Secondly, there’s the small boulders I mentioned earlier. Now, you can sacrifice safety for speed and go with flip flops or you can risk pissing yourself in the time it takes to don tennis shoes for the trip to the head. I for one have been tempting fate and going with the second option. I found that doing the “pee-pee” dance for a few seconds buys you enough time to put your shoes on. Besides, if you do go in your pants a little bit, it’ll be dry by morning. The alternative is risking your life, tripping over the small boulders in your shower shoes, and hurting yourself or your ego.
This brings me to the second milestone, having a bowel movement first thing in the morning. Remember the trailers I was talking about? That’s the only place on this camp with real toilets. If you are anywhere else on the camp your only option is a port-a-jon. For my more affluent readers who have never seen a port-a-jon, let me take a moment to describe this modern marvel. A port-a-jon is about the size of the old telephone booths we had before the age of cell phones. When you walk into one you are facing a toilet which is essentially a large plastic base with a hole cut into it. To your left is a urinal and to the right is the toilet paper dispenser. The smell is intolerable, which makes sense considering the plastic bin that you have to sit on is full of a couple days worth of human waste. With that picture in mind, imagine that the nice toilets are too far to walk to and you are forced to use a port-a-jon. Once you walk in and shut the door, you are now the star of your own magic show. You have to set your weapon in the corner, remove your jacket, spin around carefully, drop your trousers, sit down slowly…wait, now you discover that there’s no toilet paper. Now, you have to get dressed, grab your weapon, find a port-a-jon with toilet paper and start the whole process again. Once you’re seated and answering natures call you have the pleasure of enjoying the smell of everyone else’s waste for the next few minutes.
So now you know why such little things can be considered significant milestones. And just think, the Marines operating out in the villages are living much more Spartan.
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