Veteran's Voice

Biltzkrieg

2009-12-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

Blitzkrieg:

“Tired of working 40 hour days? Too fucking bad!” said the man in the muscle-suit and afro wig. People gathered around my computer, seeking the source of the commotion. “Drink Patriot Hustler Energy, yeah!”

“Patriot Hustler Energy?” said the librarian, “What is that?”

I smiled. I left the browser window open to Utube and walked out of the Cecil H. Green Library. Eddie Roche and the L.A. Patriots were at it again.

“No, it’s not a sports franchise,” I told some kid over my shoulder last week, “not a rock band either.” I left it at that.

Patriot Hustler is a well-oiled, media-black Opps. mission I took part in after I returned from the island. It’s a survival story. It’s Marine Corps history. It’s a brand. It’s top secret. It’s everywhere.

“What is Patriot Hustler Energy?” she’d asked me.

In a mouthful, Patriot Hustler Energy is an unorthodox, by-any-means-necessary energy supplement / attitude enhancer, chased back with a militant brain freeze of cash money and an after taste of sex…

“and sex sells,” I said.

“I see,” said the librarian.

I think she may have missed the true genius of it all. The humor, the passion at its heart is what drew me into the fold. That’s why I always peek in every now and then to see how the blitzkrieg is going. Years ago, in foreign lands under hostile hands, I survived and prospered with my fellow marine, Eddie Roche. Not to be facetious, but it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times. It was a nightmare yet it was nothing short of a renaissance.

To see where Eddie is today, where we all are for that matter, fills me with pride. The odds were stacked pretty foul in the other direction. But that goes back to the meaning of Patriot Hustler Energy:

No matter what the odds, if one believes with every fiber in their being that they can accomplish something, and they never stop, they will have it. It’s that simple. It’s never easy. That’s the catch, but it's true. Ed has it. That’s what I liked about Ed from the moment we met. And that is precisely what keeps me looking at men in muscle-suits with afro-wigs online at the Cecil H. Green Library on days like this.

To my hard-charging brother Marine, Eddie Roche,

Keep fighting the good fight.

Semper Fi,

SR.

Infamy

2009-12-11T02:16:00.000-08:00

Infamy
By Stephen Richter

"December 7th, 1941 — a date which
will live in infamy"

On the seventh of December, 1981, an
eleven-year old boy and his father stared
down at the remains of the USS Arizona
at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. I remember
standing next to a family of Japanese
tourists. Their son was my age and I
wondered how they must have felt being
them, being there, at a site so charged
with emotion and all that it represented.
We watched a video in the memorial’s
viewing room and that same family sat
three seats down from me. I remember
feeling angry at them. Their son smiled
at me and I didn’t smile back. “Gomen
nasai,” he said. I didn’t understand
Japanese when I was eleven. It meant
nothing to me.

In October of 1993, I learned how it felt
to be a U.S. Marine, standing next to a
Japanese family, at the Hiroshima Peace
Park in Japan. And although I hadn’t
been alive when it took place, I still felt
very sorry and somewhat responsible for
that place and what it represented. I
apologized to the family I was standing
next to for some reason. The
grandmother had surely been alive when
it happened. “Gomen nasai,” I said. I
bowed to her and left. I was leaving
Japan for good that day.

September 11th, 2001
CNN - DAY OF TERROR
A 21st century 'day of infamy'

I remember watching CNN every day for
a week after 9/11, until I couldn’t stand it
any more. I remember looking at the
footage from Iraq and Afghanistan and
feeling angry.
December 7th, 2009

We are, eight years into the war on terror,
just a couple years shy of the Soviet
Union’s record ten year occupation of
Afghanistan. In the fall of 1993 I studied
the doctrine of guerilla warfare at the
JWTC (Jungle Warfare Training Center)
Okinawa Japan, in the Northern Training
Area below the prefecture of Nago. We
took a class on the mistakes the USSR
made during their decade-long
occupation of Afghanistan. “That is why
the Russians got their asses handed to
them in Kabul,” said Sgt. Samoa, “that
is why the United States will never do
something as asinine as try to occupy a
country like that for any extended period
of time - not after what we learned from
Vietnam, and definitely not in my beloved
Marine Corps,” he said. We all laughed.

Psychologists say that one of the most
difficult crimes for a victim to recover
from is Home Invasion

Ghandi once said that an eye for an eye
leaves the whole world blind.

As a veteran, a father, an American, and
a citizen of the global community, I can
only hope that on this December 7th we
can all pause for a moment of silence to
respect those who have been lost, on all
those infamous days in human history.

Whether we were there or not, we are all
responsible in one way or another, in
some way for what comes next. For all
those who have lost their loved-ones at
the hands of their fellow man,

Gomen, Gomen nasai...

SR

Morning Roll

2009-09-24T10:12:00.000-07:00

Good morning, hard-chargers.

As we approach the month of October and our beloved Marine Corps birthday, I must admit that our numbers are swelling here in town. More Marines than I ever imagined are moving about the city of Santa Cruz.

Staff Sergeant Strong once told me that camouflage is a progressive art. The purpose is to imitate and reflect natural world around us. We strive to become a seamless deadly thorn, on a real bush, that the enemy will fatally slice himself on in passing. So here’s a toast to all you Devil Dogs scurrying around the city seamless, masquerading as Joe civilian.

1. To the hard-charging Devil Dog behind the desk of Apple Computer’s Genius Bar on University ave, Palo Alto, California. – Nice work there, killer. (nice wrist-lock too, on that customer who wouldn’t wait in line for his appointment. I bet he won’t be waving that USB drive in anyone else’s face.)

2. To my motivated MSG Marine I met in Trader Joe’s from the USS BELLEAU WOOD (CV-24). Considering that she was decommissioned 13 Jan 1947, you are looking damn good there, killer! Keep up the Pilates. At first I was a little funny about it, in a knee-jerk sort of way. But, if I can be charging half as hard at 91, I’d be open to whatever kind of progressive P.T. program they threw at me.

3. To my swift silent and deadly park ranger out at natural bridges last Saturday. Some of the people in the crowd said your “Aussie repel” from the cliffs was gratuitous. I thought it was out-fucking-standing. It demonstrated esprit de corps the likes of which you rarely see in civil service.

Rum buggery and the Splash

2009-09-13T20:59:00.001-07:00

Mogadishu, Somalia Jan. 1993

Friday night.

Good morning, Devil Dogs. Mission accomplished.

I’ve found him.

It took three weeks of recon, five tanks of gas, two bottles of Wild Turkey, a drive from Santa Cruz, California to Sacramento, to Eureka, to Redding, then to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and finally to the tribal police on the Hoopa Indian reservation, but I located our brother marine, Cpl. Gene Ryan.

We were squad leaders together in boot camp, (3rd BN. Kilo Company, Platoon 3029). We ran into each other a year later in Okinawa, Japan. From Okinawa we deployed to Somalia together as a security detachment in 93’ then spent a hairy-assed year in the shit, until “the incident” that sent me home occurred. We have neither seen nor heard from each other since.

The debriefing in Virginia had been a bit rattling for me. The confidentiality agreement we signed forbade us to speak about anything, much less have contact with the marines who were present when the rounds started going down range, at least for a period of five years. Once the five years were up, I was already in Mexico and in the middle of another world of shit. So I have never had the opportunity to find out what became of Cpl. Gene Ryan.

I guess I’ve been looking for closure lately. Being back in the U.S. and on this new crusade of conscience and curiosity, I had to know. I needed answers. I was afraid of the answers, either way it could turn out, but I just needed to know.

Did Gene readjust, adapt, and become Joe civilian when he came home? Was I just some mal-adapted freak of nurture? Had Gene able to do what so many of us have been incapable of pulling off? My mind wandered back to a time that I’ve tried to put as many miles and years in between as possible.

Until now.

The snow on top of Mt. Shasta reminded me of Mt. Fuji, of Camp Fuji, of Japan in general. I got out of the car and stared out over the lake for a while. Gene used to talk about fishing here when we were in Mogadishu. I climbed back into the car. It was a hot bitch. I guess spring would be over early this year.

“All that goddamned Aqua Net…” I said. I drove off.

I pulled up to the Win River Casino Bingo at sunset.

I’d already found Gene’s Grandfather earlier that morning around ten. He’s a full-blooded Pit River / Hoopa Indian Marine from the Korean War. We got to drinking and talking so much that I passed the whole day on the porch in front of his trailer with him. I laughed so hard I cried. God knows I needed it.

“Discipline creates strength, and perfection comes from absolute focus.” he had told me sometime that morning.

I repeated it to myself. Gene’s grandfather was an amazing human being. I found it hard to leave for some reason.

He gave me Gene’s work address. Gene was now a security guard at the Indian Casino Bingo Palace, on the Pit River reservation. Gene is only a quarter American Indian, the rest of him is Irish, so he makes one hell of a drinking buddy. He nearly got us butchered by a group of Yakuza in a bar in Okinawa once. He wouldn’t eat some egg dish then he started patting the boss guy on the top of his head like in a three stooges movie…. I’ll tell you later. You get the gist though.

The Win River Casino was in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot rumbled with activity. Groups of guys gathered around pickups with gun racks in their rear windows, drinking beer.

I didn’t even make it half way across the parking lot.

“You looking for someone?” said someone.

I avoided them. Walking, I counted them. They followed. The someone guy repeated his question. The group blocked my path, and there we were, in some sort of half-assed Sergio Leone cliche -

a Casino Bingo standoff.

I regretted not wearing my USMC baseball cap. It usually serves as a deterrent for undisciplined civilian types.

“Very well,” I said.

“Very what?” said Mr. someone.

“Well.” I said.

“Well, what?” said someone.

I grabbed his trachea with one hand and his Mr. someone in the other then pulled him towards me, using him as a human shield. I backed away from his friends.

Gene hit me in the back of the head with a Maglight.

I was still glad to see him, once I could see him, and when I saw him I told him he was a shitty security guard. I said he would probably get sued someday with that ready-fire-aim mentality of his.

Gene smiled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had already pepper sprayed me, himself, and all of the casino bingo parking lot mafia before the situation was explained and contained enough to finally talk with each other. We had a lot of catching up to do.

We’re heading back to San Francisco now.

I didn’t feel welcome on the “res” anymore. I don’t think the res was feeling me either. Plus, I want to introduce Gene to my wife and family. I want take him out on the town then get some answers, some peroxide, alcohol wipes, and some bandages for my head too.

“Why did you tell those guys you had swine flu?” said Gene.

“Gotta’ improvise, hard-charger.” I said. “Psychological warfare.”

Gene is driving my car for me.

I’m on the keyboard.

The lights of the city are just now coming into view.

It’s 2:46 am.

Talk to you soon, my brothers, wherever you are.

Stay green, disinfect and keep it clean…

Semper Fi

Sgt. Jade USMC

Amphibious Assault

2009-05-19T00:11:00.001-07:00

Sunday morning: the crack of ass

(Dawn Patrol at world Famous Steamer Lane, Santa Cruz, CA.)

I opened my eyes. My three-year old son snored like his father and his grandfather before him. I smiled. I tip-toed down the hall and slipped into my wetsuit and booties. The smell of wet neoprene always brings a morning woodie to the true hard-charging Para-frog. At least that’s what Staff sgt. Strong used to say in Okinawa.

I grabbed my 6’6” thruster and crept out the door.

Approaching Neary Lagoon, I scanned the bushes and trees for Marines. Santa Cruz is crawling with em’. Six of us surf the lane each morning at dawn patrol. Our numbers are growing. My heart raced. Somehow the nostalgia has gone to everyone’s head. It’s been getting a little out of hand. I crouched into a lower stance, keeping in the shadows of the reeds growing from the lagoon. I stepped onto the catwalk. Wood creaked in the pre-dawn silence.

I was a combat readiness instructor at the JWTC in Okinawa. I love to motivate people. I guess I’ve been pushing us all to charge harder in the water lately, but it’s been spilling over onto the shore. It has my wife very disturbed. Two mornings ago, Rodriguez fell upon me like a rubber panther from the tree-canopy about 200 yards from where I was now crouching. His face was painted with camo-stick. A diver’s knife was strapped to the calf of his wet suit...

He tackled me to the deck and said he was just testing my situation awareness. You know, to help me keep my edge sharp.

“Morning, Hard-chargers!” I said. “You out there, Rodriguez?”

SILENCE

I burst into a sprint, screaming, streaking down the wooden catwalks that float on the surface of Neary lagoon. I held my surfboard like a lance.

“Sons of Bitches! I just want to surf today!” I said.

A longboard fell from a willow tree at the end of the catwalk on the other side of the lagoon with a thud.

“Fuck!” said someone. I saw a leg protruding from the branches up ahead. I charged and pulled on it, then sprinted up the hillside. Donovan fell from the willow tree behind me, spewing obscenities. At the top of the hill I ran a zig-zag pattern. My chest burned. My heartbeat drummed in my ears. Before I reached the railroad tracks a bar of sex wax pelted me in the temple.

It was Charlie.

Not Charlie charlie, it was Charlie Rodriguez chucking bars of wax at me from the plastic dome on top of the slide, from the playground behind me.

“Fuck you, Rodriguez!” I said “It’s gonna’ take more than that!”

I crossed the tracks. Sweat poured. The squeaking from my wetsuit echoed down the residential street. I tossed my board into the tall-grass and flipped over the chain-link fence of the church on Westcliff. Somehow I landed on my tailbone. The pitter pat of rubber bootied footsteps grew in volume on the other side of the courtyard.

They were close.

I ran across the street, keeping the ocean on my left. The lighthouse was just up ahead.

Six wetsuit-clad former Marines charged the point, like fingers of a hand. The sun rose at our backs. The fire of a new day burned in our hearts, and I’m sure none of us knew why the hell we were doing all this.

But we were here, just like we once were, just like we’ll probably be for the rest of our lives: alive, full of intensity and ready to take on whatever the world has chosen to hurl at us.

One by one we leaped from the cliff into the Pacific ocean. Seals vocalized their approval. Otters backstroked away from the impact zone and the waves rolled in from across the sea...

Good Morning Devil Dogs, wherever you may be.

Semper Fi,

SGT. Jade

Carry on my wayward son...

2009-05-19T00:05:00.000-07:00

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 1, 2009

I went to a barber shop today, in a city I really shouldn’t have returned to. Inside, I encountered another former Marine. Like many of us, he was tattooed down, world-weary, and battle hardened.

Usually, all it takes is a second of eye contact. A knowing look of recognition passes where in the back of your head you just know that this guy has been there too. He was the one to say it first,

“Semper Fi, devil dog.”

Ed was there. The P.H. OPSEC creative team was just taking a 30 min. mess and maintenance break. After a few minutes of conversation, I learned that my new brother marine had also been down that same path of razor wire I’ve known too well. Ed and I had once believed our behavior to be so off the charts for returning Marines trying to adapt to “civilian life”. Yet here was another locked and cocked individual, still in shape, still full of USMC ritual and routine, but...

He had been in some trouble since he separated from mother green.

Prison in Spain.
Robbery in Greece
Prison in Peru
Then two years in a California prison

Just like many of us, if you didn’t know any better, you would say it was impossible. Not that squared away gentleman, right there?

We discussed how the training, the conditioning we received in the corps had literally saved our lives on various occasions. We also discussed how that very same training made us prone to involve ourselves in situations that others would deem hazardous, deadly, or downright insane. It seemed like we were naturally wired to take any normal, challenging situation one might encounter in life, and escalate it way beyond the socially acceptable outcome. And like the rest of us, we look back and think,

“How in the hell did I take things so bloody far?”

Well, it’s late and my fire watch is over. Take care, my brothers, wherever you are.

Stay green.

Keep it clean.

Semper Fi,

P.H.