The Bravery In Out of Range: Part 2 - Chicken ala King, Bulletproof Cotton, and Agoraphobia

 We found accommodations on the 6th floor of one of the Kohbar Towers. Our entire platoon occupied one, four-bedroom, three-bath apartment. Most of our equipment was MIA, and that meant the brand-new cots that we were issued at Devens were among the missing. The floors were made of marble and had a thin layer of indoor/outdoor carpet on them. Then, other than our sleeping bags, that was it. I dare say, my joints have paid for that hard floor for the rest of my life. 

I was in the smallest room with 5 others. It was strange to arrive in this unfamiliar part of the world and spend the day lying on your sleeping bag. Upon climbing the stairs to our apartment dozens of times, as the elevators seemed to always be full and overloaded, we all collapsed on our sleeping bags, which had a thin piece of foam, about the thickness of a cardboard box, between them and the carpeting. Outside, the bridge stretched over the water of the Persian Gulf to Bahrain.

Photo by Aaron Beh on Unsplash

Back at Devens, we had three members of the unit transferred over to our platoon from Detachment 1. One of them, who was about 20 years older than I, was having difficulty with the heat and carrying things up the stairs. After some heat injury treatment, he was quickly whisked away to medical and finally ended up back in CONUS at Fort Devens. 

The irony was that he had put incredible effort and money into having a flight jacket specially made with an eagle and "Operation Desert Shield" embroidered on the back. He boasted constantly about the design of the jacket he was having made. Right after the jacket was done and he got it, the air war began, and the President announced that Desert Shield had just become Desert Storm. In a way, the fact that he put all that effort into a Desert Shield jacket and went home after carrying duffel bags up the stairs made the Desert Shield jacket make sense.

There was a rotation of guard duty to oversee the trucks that had been demolished during the ship's ride to the Middle East. That consisted of getting fully geared up and packing enough for an overnight stay. Meal choices were MRE or MRE. Transportation accommodations were courtesy of the back of an open 5-ton truck. This place was definitely different. We had heard that when a Saudi male reaches the age of 18, he is given a vehicle by the government. Looking around me on the ride out to the port, that vehicle would be a white Datsun pickup truck. They were everywhere. Their driving demeanor could only be described as fearless.

As the sun set in the port, my two others and I performed our guard duty rotation. We slept under the tarp of one of the trailers, so getting in and out was a challenge since our cover was four feet high and the cots were 2.5 feet high. There was a schedule where we would guard for 2 hours and then sleep for 2 hours, and we followed this pattern on and off over 12 hours. 

At the end of one of my shifts in the middle of the night, I looked forward to climbing up into my rack and putting in my headphones and drifting off to sleep. A nice guy from Detachment 1 was just starting.  He kept talking to me as he began to his watch. Politely, I kept my headphones off my ears as he spoke. He went on and on about the bag that he was carrying. When I thought there could not possibly be more to say, he then described the entire contents of the bag right down to the toothbrush. Finally, after about 22 minutes, my sleep time was up, and silence came.Well, as much as there can be at a port where the whole world was shipping weapons, tanks, trucks, and food to supply the war effort.

Other than pulling guard duty down at the port on our smashed-up trucks, there was nothing to do. The day started with getting up, getting into full gear, and heading down to one of the many underground parking garages, where a catering company contracted by the US government was serving us. A Styrofoam tray, and the usual line-style choices: overcooked scrambled eggs, a dried-up sausage patty, chipped beef (allegedly), and gravy (possibly a form of glue) over toast. This was the first time I had ever seen shelf-stable milk. I had no idea what to think about that.

I did not expect the food to be great, and at this point in my life, how food tasted was not as important as it would become to me in later decades. Thank goodness for that because things were pretty awful. I could deal with the food because, as I saw it, I had no choice. What happened to me was something I did not see coming.

The morning meal was served at the underground parking garage, as was the evening meal. Lunch was an MRE. So, for lunch, I didn't have to gear up in 70 pounds of Kevlar, neoprene, and gunmetal. I did not mind gearing up, it was what happened frequently when I was outside getting breakfast or dinner that was aggravating. Obtaining food in the garage and then coming out to the street to sit on the curb and eat it was difficult enough, but then Scud missiles would be headed their way. Air raid sirens would sound, followed by the helpful MPs on the Humvee, "SCUD LAUNCH!" over the bullhorn. The six-second dash, drop the food on the ground, put on a protective mask, then MOPP4. Tearing out all the heavy protective clothing from the butt pack and putting it on.

It would seem like an eternity, and then the sound of missiles coming in would happen. That is a very unique sound because you know they are intended to harm. Just as their sound became louder, the 4 to 8 loud explosive sounds of Patriot missiles taking off, and then the final series of explosions happened, taking the Scud to the ground. NBC testers would then test the air near the detonation to determine if any chemicals were present in the warhead. When the test came back negative, three short blasts of the siren would signal the "All Clear." I would then take off the mask and protective gear. Of course, I was sweating from being so wrapped up in material that was not allowed to breathe. Putting away all the gear, I looked at my food, in its pathetic Styrofoam tray, now dirt-encrusted on top, cold and hard. Into the trash it went. There had to be a better way.

Every day, there were a few in the apartment who were absolutely fed up with the MREs. There were 12 complete meals to each case: Ham slice, beef patty, pork patty, chili mac, lasagna, chicken and rice, tuna noodles, chicken stew, beef stew, stroganoff, spaghetti, and finally, the proverbial bullet in the chamber: chicken la king. None of this stuff was all that bad tasting. This lot of MREs was manufactured in the latter part of the 1980s, but a small percentage of the Chicken la King was found by testers to be spoiled. If one of these were spoiled, it would be obvious to the senses. If a package were cut open and was not offensive, it would be okay to eat. Unfortunately, that is not how it worked, though. You can tell everyone that the Army had zeroed in on the lot number with the spoiled chicken à la king, and removed them from circulation, but that did not make the issuing of MREs any less like a game of Russian Roulette. Out of 12 people, someone was not getting fed a full meal. Call it PTSD, or whatever you will, chicken à la king has been ruined for me forever.

The sky rained SCUD missiles day and night. As it did, I lacked the desire to put on all my gear on; Kevlar helmet, Kevlar flack vest, LBE with ammo pouches, first aid kit, and canteen, protective mask, full MOPP gear, and M16, then go stand in line inside an underground parking garage to procure a styrofoam tray of badly cooked food and shelf stable milk, only to have it end in the vulnerable task of throwing it on the dirty ground and suit up for a chemical style attack that harkened back to nearly 70 years ago during the 1st World War. The end result was that I always came back sweaty, still hungry, and a mess who simply wished I had stayed upstairs and hung out on my sleeping roll reading. The couple of roommates who rejected the daily lunch MRE suddenly became my refuge. I accepted those MREs and was able to remain in the apartment all day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all came out of a box of shelf-stable food, which I didn't have to don a hundred pounds of gear to enjoy.

When it came to gear, there was one very pronounced oddity that I could not comprehend. Eighty thousand US troops were staying at Kohbar Towers. It was a regulation that the full protective gear was worn at all times when leaving a building. The very heavy vest could protect your torso from the shrapnel of a grenade blast, just as the helmet protected your head. The MOPP gear on your back was at the ready so that when a SCUD hit, you could put that gear on 10 seconds into the masking-up procedure to save your life. As I said, required. Unless you were wearing your light gray, cotton Army PT (physical training) sweatpants and sweatshirt. Then, you just had to have your protective mask in its carrier, strapped to your left hip. 

It was fascinating to me that the military would spend so much money on all of this very expensive gear, when this mysterious gray cotton could deflect shrapnel, bullets, and create a forcefield around your body in which deadly chemicals could not penetrate! Why did we just not make our protective gear, trucks, and tanks out of this invincible cotton fabric?

As the days went on, I began to notice something. If I could not secure enough MREs to get me through the day and I needed to go down to the parking garage to eat, I had a fear of going outside. It had snuck up on me without my knowledge. It worried me because, historically, most wars are fought outdoors.  I recognized that I had some challenges to face, and although I shared a room, and even a whole apartment with many others, I dealt with this little-known secret alone.

Sleeping on the floor was brutal. Marble turned out to be even harder than they say it is. The rest was very ragged. I would get up a couple of times to go out onto our little balcony to smoke during the night, look over the great sprawling city on the shores of the Persian Gulf. Prayer echoed out of loudspeakers over the city every night. 

On January 28th, I woke up early in the morning. Armed Forces Radio played in my headphones. It was Super Bowl 25. Coincidentally, the Super Bowl number is always equal to my age at the time the game is being held. I am not, nor have a I ever been a sports fan, but listening to the last quarter of the game was like a little slice of home anyway. The New York Giants were playing the Buffalo Bills and won 20-19. This comfort in a football game was one of those weird moments in my life that would never be duplicated, sort of like eating a serving of potatoes once in my life that, strangely, tasted good to me.

The following Saturday, we got to see how high-paid, supposedly intelligent, ranking military masters could totally screw up so bad that there was no way to measure the potential disaster and stupidity of the idea. Military intelligence at its best at play, someone with authority decided that the eighty thousand of us staying at Khobar towers were all mixed up. Why not put all of the medical staff in one set of buildings together, transportation in another, engineers in another section, and military police in yet another? There could be no logic to a move like this. Patriot missiles were exceptional at taking down SCUDs, but sometimes, even that technology missed, and a missile would hit the target. I could only determine that with this move, one stray missile could wipe out an entire profession of people who just trained for the last 3-5 months. This would cripple American forces and give Iraq a temporary advantage, allowing Saddam to strike and possibly do some real damage, not to mention destabilize the area, by provoking Israel as he had been trying.

Day after day, night after night, the sirens would go off. Armed Forces Radio was the only source of English-speaking media we had, and of course, it was used just the way they wanted to use it to keep us thinking exactly as they would have us thinking. Kudos to the planners of this format, really. It was a mix of music, AP Network news highlights, and anecdotal snippets of military tradition, dramatized with just the right dosage of salt to make it mainstream. When a SCUD missile was launched, however, Armed Forces Radio would play the Saudi Arabian national emergency alert broadcast repeatedly. It was like an oracle that would begin with a dual-horn blast-like tone, followed by the emergency message in Arabic, followed by the same message in English. It was hypnotizing. The whole time it played, we sat in our gas masks, listening, waiting for the sound of the missile approaching, hoping that the Patriots would be successful in stopping it from hitting the 80,000 of us in the Towers.

"Civil Defense in the Eastern Province has sounded the Danger Alarm Siren. Please proceed as follows. Put on your gas mask. Stay in a safe place. Stay tuned to channel three television, or to 91.4 or 101.4 FM on the radio."

Over, and over, and over it went. First, the tone, then the Arabic version, followed by the English version, until after the missile came down, then the All-Clear would be broadcast in the same manner.

I did not tell anyone about my reluctance to going outside. I had no idea what to do about it. I was transported ten thousand miles to fight a war, chances are, sooner or later, I might need to leave the apartment to do that. I just took it one day at a time, by which I mean, I casually tried to procure the two extra MREs per day that would allow me the 3 squares I needed.

Another Saturday arrived, and we were informed that our unit's turn for roving guard duty had come. This rotation required each soldier to walk OUTSIDE on rooftops, sidewalks, and the perimeter of the complex where Kohbar Towers sat. We were assigned a post. Then for 24 hours, you would alternate every 2 hours. 2 hours walking guard duty, two hours in a little room with a couple of cots, back outside for two, then the cot room again, etc.

I was determined that I would absolutely not disclose what was happening with me, and I reluctantly reported for this duty and carried it out. Miraculously, I was cured. It felt amazing to be outside again! I loved the feeling of the sun on me! What was an occasional missile, now and then? I learned a lot from this experience, and I continue to glean lessons from this even decades later.

I started going to the parking garage again for hot meals, but I quickly learned from friends that if we walked about a quarter mile away to another garage, the cooks over there were actually good. This became a regular thing, and I could say that at this point in my life, this was food that I would pay for in a diner and not be disappointed. It is little things like this that can really brighten the day. After all, I had no idea how long I would be living here in the Towers.

It turns out, it wasn't that much longer. I was out smoking on the balcony one night, and my squad leader came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go up into the desert Advanced Party to set up the company area ahead of the unit. I immediately accepted. SCUD missiles were constantly being fired at us down here in the city, but up in the desert, closer to Kuwait and Iraq, everything was quiet. This was appealing to me.  The next morning, a group of us were taken to the port, saddled up in our trucks with whatever equipment we could find, even though 90% of the company's equipment still could not be found, and headed north into the desert.

Kohbar Towers was behind me. We affectionately referred to it as Kohbar Targets because of the large number of us and all the missiles. Unfortunately, in June of 1996, five years after the war ended, a real terrorist attack happened at the Towers. I always thought that the measures they were having us take were sufficient, but that was wrong. Some never got to go home that day.

 

Overturned

I heard you in the morning, before the sounds of the day arrived. 

You have been knocking in your own unique ways for many days and nights. 

 I have chosen to give you no attention. 

I know that at some point, I have to open the door, the windows, and sit down to hear what you have to say. 

Today, I just say no. I have no time for you and your acidic speak.

What is it that I deny?

I knew that mere defiance would not be enough to keep you on the outside.

You are clever and unstoppable until the day you are defeated.

Of course, I am no match.

My resistance is indeed futile.

Photo by Tyler Clemmensen on Unsplash

Evening falls, and I notice that balance is not so precise.

I allow it no failure while I still hold my defiant heart.

I see a lone sniper from the corner of my eye.

Through the screen, I look at the doorstep.

The news is somber and often unthinkable.

I think about those who disappear from the trail.

I feel overwhelmed and like I cannot continue.

But what was it like when I was -2, or 3?

The disillusionment they felt must have been insurmountable.

It becomes clear to me that my gravity is temporarily missing.

I am disgusted that I am so easily phased by my dependence on material things.

Coupled with my dependence upon all that I have taken for granted, 

the wave of paralysis is challenging to overcome.

I know what I need. I just need to find the strength.

Safe Haven - Part 14: The Long Goodbye

 Jus fell back into the life he almost could not return to, as if he were on a space walk and the airlock would not open, but finally did. Day after day, the new life he was living seemed uninterrupted. The war buildup on the other side of the planet kept tapping on the glass inside of his morning coffee television screen. Threats echoed subliminally at him. The idea of being pulled into the screen and then appearing on Maarja's morning television screen seemed impossible, yet somehow not.

Normality of where they lived, where Jus worked, and everything except that one small part of his life that would explode into his entire life, seemed a perfect fit. The days began to get colder as the leaves had their last surrender to the ground, and impending winter stood at the threshold. The warmth of his morning kitchen could be smashed by just a few steps into the living room to that hopeless little screen that knew too much.

Jus was busy. His side business was not generating income, but he was investing his time and a small amount of money in it. He was running with a group of business friends all over the region during his off time to gain allies. He even drove down to the home of an old friend to present his idea. On the way, they were pulled over by the state police for speeding. The officer asked if the driver was on active duty orders in the Middle East. This thing was permeating everything around. Jus felt like he was being painted into a corner. It was infiltrating his dreams. Something was coming. He knew it.

November 12th was a Monday, a day off work for Jus. It was a day like any other. It was cold that day, and the air was raw. Just before the sun set, it began to snow. Jus and Maarja accepted an invitation to a friend's home next door for coffee. As he was sitting there, a knock came on the door. It was a man who was a customer of Jus's workplace. He slyly looked at Jus. "Have you seen the news? You guys just got activated!" 

Learning this news this way could not have been worse unless Jus was walking down the street and a van pulled up, black bag thrown over his head, and tossed him into a van. The messenger clearly enjoyed informing Jus that life as he knew it was over. Did he know how much Jus didn't like him? Maybe, but he seemed more oblivious to things like that. He was the proverbial bull in a china shop with a sadistic twist.

He wanted to believe that there was still a chance this was not happening. That possibility disappeared quickly when he went out to the porch to retrieve something from his house. As he stepped out onto the porch, Jus observed a vehicle approaching. He stopped to admire the snow that was falling. It was pretty early for the first snowfall. The driver exited the car, and he knew the man immediately. It was Robert, the Assistant Platoon Sergeant from his unit. 

"I am here to let you know, we have been placed on alert," he said. "What does that mean?" Jus asked. Robert stood there, a red and black hunting hat on his head that came down well over his ears, looked thoughtful, "It means that within the next 24-72 hours, there is a high probability of activation to active duty." Robert was very empathetic. After all, he and Jus were being dealt the same cards here.

There was a serious problem for Jus if this was going to happen. Three months earlier, he had overslept and missed the trip down to the military base for annual certifications. As a result, he was written up for disciplinary action, which made him ineligible for promotion for a whole year. This level of income was not far from what he earned at his job, since he had only started in an entry-level position. He was on the fast track to take on more, but now, everything was uncertain.

Tuesday, Jus went to work like it was a normal day, thinking that this Alert thing came with no rules or steps to follow. Maarja worked with the spouse of a higher-ranking member of the Jus' unit. When she saw Maarja was at work and learned that Jus was too, she pleaded with Maarja to leave work immediately and to get Jus out of work as well. "This is happening," she told Maarja. "You only have hours now."

The surrealness of Maarja coming to Jus' work and telling him that he had to leave is a fixed point in time that can never be erased. Plans were made for Jus to go see his family tomorrow. Newspaper and television stories surfaced everywhere. Uncertainty lurked everywhere. All they knew were the faces they saw on the morning news, all sitting and waiting, dug into the desert sand, ten thousand miles away.

Wednesday was a hard day. Jus had learned that everyone was going to headquarters the next day to prepare and that on Saturday, active duty officially commenced. There was no way off this ride now; it was really going to happen. The most challenging thing is to look one's mother in the eye and tell her where you want to be buried if the worst happens. 

Moment by moment, the weirdness of life felt like a very long walk out to the gallows when you have to say such things to your family without any idea what life will actually be like. It was the ultimate uncertainty. The idea that Jus can simply walk out of work and, suddenly, the weekly paycheck, which had just been the most important thing, no longer matters at all.

When the sun rose on Thursday, although not mandated, everyone headed to the unit to begin the lengthy process of preparation. Jus had no idea what it would be like to exist, travel, live, and die with this group of people whom he hardly knew. The idea felt uncomfortable, yet he also knew that he could play along. Earlier this year, he had gotten thrown in with two different groups of people from all over who he did not know for months at a time. This could be done. This time, at least, these people lived in the same area as he did. That had to count for something.

On Thursday, it was no longer an alert; it was a real activation. The military orders were cut. On Saturday, November 17, 1990, Jus' unit would go onto Active Duty status for 180 days to start with.

Jus was able to fade in and out of the group on Thursday. The local news was trying to obtain information about what was ahead for them. It was best summed up when the local paper interviewed Jus' Platoon Sergeant for the Thursday edition. When asked where the unit was headed, he answered, "They have not told us at all where we will be going, but on Monday, our trucks are being painted tan."

That evening, the Family Support Group held a meeting at the local Community Center. This was put into place so that during Jus' and his unit's absence, the families could support each other. They would have liaisons to the unit, allegedly, and somehow ease the pain of missing their person. 

Jus, Maarja, and the kids rode up to the community center with the very person who had recruited Jus into the Army in the first place. During that recruiting time, Jus had advised the recruiter that he had just quit drinking 2 months prior due to having a clear problem with alcohol. The recruiter told Jus to simply not mention that. So, he did not, despite all of the warnings about going to prison for lying on your enlistment documents.

As they rode home with the recruiter, Jus said to him, "What happens if the conditions trigger something for me and it comes out about my alcoholism? How do I talk about it in a way that does not get either of us in trouble?" The recruiter instantly recoiled and started yelling, "OK! If you want to hide behind that instead of being a man, you go right ahead!" Jus countered that he wasn't hiding from anything and that it was a question more of keeping the recruiter out of hot water. The car grew silent for the rest of the few-minute trip home. 

What no one noticed in the silence was the effect that exchange had on Maarja. She had watched this recruiter stand up on stage at business rallies for Jus' and her network marketing side job and declare that he was afraid for himself and his family that he would get deployed and sent to the war. Recruiters never get sent to war; they just order more bodies. His reaction to Jus' question put Maarja into a very familiar mode, in which he was now a target. As he drove them home that evening, he did not know that he now had a price on his head and a score to settle.

Friday was like Thursday, with more members showing up to gather a small contingent of personal items anticipated to be needed. Spouses and children were all interwoven throughout the great armory hall as this all happened. Jus was getting to know his comrades quickly, and that was a comfort. There was an undercurrent ever present: what would they see together?

The laid-backness of these two days had become comfortable, but Saturday was tomorrow, and everything was about to change. Jus preferred the informal atmosphere of these two days because it made it seem less possible for things to suddenly get serious. This, at times, was like being silly and joking around with your school friends in high school. 

Jus got up early on Saturday morning. Today was different, as of midnight, he belonged to the US Government. The Armory was official now. No children were running around, nor were spouses conversing on the sidelines. Everyone was in formation, many with shaved heads, wearing full uniforms, and at attention. The General, who only 2 months earlier had stood before them at Detachement 2 and said nothing was going on, now stood before them. "Good morning!  Welcome to Active Duty!"

Saturday and Sunday passed quickly, and every single piece of equipment was being taken from the armory and packed into shipping containers. Trailers were double-stacked, chained, and bound down. Duffel bags were filled, emptied, and refilled. Everyone was looking for some way to carry that one more item that made them feel just a little closer to home.

By the time the duty day was over on Sunday, there was nothing left in the Armory. The trucks and trailers were simply ready for all to take their stations, turn the keys, and roll out of town towards a mountain of uncertainty too big to even imagine. Jus went home and rented the final installment of the just-released VHS Back to the Future Part 3. At least, he would know how it ended if he never came home again.

Monday morning came too fast. He had been pretty good with all of this so far. Then, suddenly, the series of decisions and consequences that led up to this moment all came at him like meteors falling from the sky. Jus broke down. How could they ever expect you to make a decision that comes to this? How? You cannot anticipate what is happening. He was freshly sober a year ago, looking for stability in his life. He vowed to do something he did not understand. He figured he would be wearing camouflage clothing, driving old 1977 Dodge Power Wagons on rural US Highways on weekends. Well, not really, but sort of.

But it happened so fast. He made the promise. Panama got invaded. Kuwait fell. What was Kuwait anyway? It was a place in the news that 3 years ago, President Regan was reflagging Kuwaiti oil tankers to keep them from being targets in the Iran-Iraq war that had been raging since 1980. Then everything ignited as if gas had been thrown on it. There was a line drawn in the sand, ten thousand miles away, and Jus now had a written and ordered invitation. He was the property of the US Army; he signed papers consenting to that. He got by the momentary loss of emotional traction and left his home, not knowing when or if he would ever see it again.

The Armory was a barren shell of what it had been. Teary-eyed families crowded the perimeter as Jus and his friends took formation. They went out to their trucks, buckled in, and headed for Detachment 2 in Hillsboro. There was an actual military ceremony there to send the unit off to their 104th Transportation Army Base, which would be their home as they trained for life in the Middle East. 

Jus was paired up with Ben, and it was assumed that these truck assignments would continue regardless of what happened over the next six months. As the convoy of every vehicle and piece of equipment that belonged to their unit rolled out of town, people flashed their headlights at them.

The ceremony in Hillsboro was nothing more than coordinated torture. It prolonged the time they all had to say goodbye. Again, families stood on the sidelines while the General rambled on about the importance of this mission. When it finally ended, there were about 30 minutes to linger before the convoy was set to continue the rest of the way to eastern Massachusetts.

As they walked out of the Armory, a chaplain was handing out small books: the New Testament, along with Psalms and Proverbs. Jus took one of these. He could not help notice when one was offered to Ben, Ben held up his hand, "Oh, no, thank you." There was a mocking tone in the gesture and his refusal. It reminded me of old timers using the term "holy rollers." It was just a quick thing, Jus would months later see how this manifested itself in a pronounced way.

The families all drove down into the middle of town so they could be on the side of the road when the full convoy of 62 trucks, 120 trailers, Maintenance vehicles, blazers, and pickup trucks roared down the road into the unknown. Ben had just married Kay in the last month. He was glassy-eyed as they rolled past her, waving to him as they passed her. A mile down the road, Jus caught sight of Maarja with their neighbors in front of Jus's $50 car. As they passed, Maarja yelled, "I love you!" Jus thought at that moment that there is probably not another woman in the world who could scream that loud. Jus, lump in his throat said to Ben, "You know, we have the best wives ever." It was all he could do to hold back the tears. "We sure do!" Ben said resoundingly. 

The ride was a chance for Ben and Jus to get to know each other, especially since it appeared they would be driving partners during the war. Two hours later, they parked the trucks in their new motor pool and then headed over to the famous two-story wooden World War II Army Barracks, their home until they shipped out to Southwest Asia. They dropped their gear and were bussed over to the chow hall. Just like that, Jus was swept away from his life. 

He left South Texas in October 1989, saying goodbye to his father and sister, and returned to the Northeast. However, he was then pulled away in January after joining the Army in November. He came home in May, but here it was November, and he was gone again. Life was turning into a series of goodbyes. This was the final thought that night, as Jus lay in his bunk, ZZ Top's Tell It playing in his earbuds. So many goodbyes.

Photo by Filip Andrejevic on Unsplash

The next morning, onto the Chow Bus, as we called it, over to the mess hall for coffee and food, then back to the barracks to allow everyone to get back from the mess hall. There was always this neat little pocket of time if you got on the first bus back, in which you could stretch out on your bunk and relax for maybe 20 minutes more. At this point, Jus would take all of the rest liberties that he could.

After Robert, the assistant platoon sergeant, conducted a roll call outside the building in formation, they marched down to the motor pool, which was approximately a 5-block walk away. They brought the trucks, but not the trailers, over to a giant maintenance shop and parked them. Inside, they mixed and mingled with civilian workers, sewing tents, painting trucks, pulling supplies, and getting new Active Duty IDs. The trucks were literally being painted desert tan as they were rolling through the shop.

Jus could see that many of these civilian workers were actually Vietnam veterans. It was not hard to spot them. That war had clearly affected them in a way that Jus could not describe. He was not surprised. 2 years ago, Jus was in the old French carpenter's garage drinking beer with him. The man shared stories of driving supply trucks through parts of those jungles that were so treacherous that no sane person could have done it. So, they injected them with a drug that made them not fear anything. Stories like this and many others, too awful to think about, had been told to Jus by the men who were just coming of age when these things happened to them. To say these guys had a social edge was an understatement. Jus attempted a conversation with one of the tent makers, and against his better judgment, asked for any words of wisdom. The man dropped his task and limped over to Jus, putting himself directly in front of him and gruffly belted it out, "Yeah! Don't DIE! JUST DON'T DIE!"

Tuesday and Wednesday were spent issuing things to them. It was interesting because much of the supply they received was actually leftover issues from the Vietnam War. Canvas top jungle boots with a steel shank in the sole. Jungle booney hats, woodland camouflage. Each day, they had a hot breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the mess hall. Down to the motor pool for more training about what was coming their way. 

Back home, rumors of controversy had already been surfacing about the Family Support Group. In a moment of disorder, the platoon sergeant's wife reminded all in attendance that "our husbands could come home in body bags." That resonated, but not in the constructive way she intended. 

The other was that the meeting place was on the second floor with a long open staircaise leading up to it. Maarja happened to be standing at the top when she noticed Jus' recruiter was coming up the stairs. Instantly, he temper flared rememering his ridiculous outburst in answer to Jus' question about lieing about his alcoholism. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, she spun, fist in the air, ready to connect, taking him and his gratuitous lies to the bottom. It was a long way down. If she had connected, he could have broken his neck. One of the leaders of the support group happened to be standing next to her and caught the movement, and grabbed Maarja's arm. Maarja swore a blue streak at the recruiter about how he had been whining about being afraid for his life, that he was going to be sent to war, when he never would be sent. He was unworthy of those who went. They all watched Maarja a little more closely from then on.

Thursday was Thanksgiving, and Jus was happy to hear because it was only 2.5 hours home; they were going to be bussed home for several hours that day to spend some quality family time. This was something Jus did not think would actually happen. He just assumed that once he was activated, you wouldn't go home until the job was done.

The time at home was amazing, and it was just the right amount to allow Jus to feel like he had some control in his life, and he was adapting. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in the case of Maarja and Jus, it did that. Since their reunion last year, they had these times apart that seemed like a cadence, at just the right times, to keep their relationship locked in, like a destination. 

The Thanksgiving hours went by quickly, and everyone was ordered to be back at the armory at 7:30 that evening. They were all there with our families, and there were no runners. What Jus did not think about was that being allowed to go home for a few hours came with consequences. Another goodbye had to be endured. He still knew nothing about what his future held, except that he was headed back to his bunk in the old World War II barracks.

What came next, none of them were prepared for. All of the available police, fire, and ambulances in town escorted their buses out of town with lights flashing and sirens cutting through the crisp November night. It turned out that the townspeople deeply regretted letting the unit leave town Monday morning with barely a nod. This time was different. It was so overwhelming and emotional. It was a strange mix of elation and had an undercurrent of a death march. It made the process of saying goodbye to families even harder, despite the best of intentions. Not crying was impossible.

Things grew quiet as the buses crossed the town line. They left the emergency vehicles and their lights flashing and fading in the rearview mirror, accompanied by the rumble of the diesel engine beneath. Everyone was silent. Echos of the day played back in their heads as the bus shook them across the nighttime highways, bringing them back to their uncertain lives. It hurt, and they wondered if it would have been better if they had not come back at all. 

The days were full of training, and at the beginning of December, they had a mission to the Port of Bayonne, New Jersey, to get the trucks shipped out to Saudi Arabia. Everything that belonged to the unit, including tents, cots, kitchens, and operations equipment, as well as any items not considered personal or personally owned, was shipped with the trucks and trailers.

The bus ride home was on a commercial charter bus, and the driver thought it would be fun to take them right through the Bronx off the highway. Jus felt strong, like he wanted everyone to get off the bus and get into formation, run through the city, and call cadence. It was a strange moment.

Without trucks, the training consisted entirely of ground training, weapons qualification, and Nuclear, Biological, Chemical (NBC) warfare training. Spotting terrorist activity was a big one, and also cultural things like how to not offend the Saudis with our ignorant and oblivious American ways.

As the weeks went by, Jus got to know everyone in his platoon very well. They were an incredible source of support for each other. All of their habits and annoyances came to the surface, allowing everyone to see them. Tempers rose as friends watched others break up with their girlfriends, and wives and children came for visits. 

In mid-December, Jus and his friends were allowed to go home for the weekend. When Sunday night came, again, the great emergency vehicle escort out of town happened just as it had on Thanksgiving.

Christmas came, and it was announced that they would be getting a four-day pass. This was very welcome, as they had trained and retrained on everything imaginable, and it seemed like everyone was getting bored and agitated with it. Maarja came down with Nickie, the wife of Dwayne, to pick up their husbands. The ride home in a snowstorm was interesting in Nickie's rear-wheel-drive Pontiac Firebird. 

Nickie and Maarja had developed a tight friendship in the absence of Jus and Dwayne. Jus and Maarja had not had a telephone for 3 years. Dwayne and Nickie became a way to pass messages back and forth. It just worked. Phones to them seemed unnecessary. 

Christmas was weird at home; a big black cloud of what was about to happen hung over them every moment. Four days at home only made going back even harder. Again, the blaring convoy of emergency vehicles, escorting them out of town like they were marching away into death itself, and then kept getting pulled back. This time, this escort thing was just too much for them. They each begged in their minds to just get shipped out. This going home and saying the last goodbye time after time was getting unbearable. They just needed to go do what they were called to do. No more tearing hearts out over and over, crying wives and babies. Enough was enough.

January of 1991 came. The 15th was approaching fast. The United Nations Security Council Resolution 678, adopted on November 29, 1990, set the deadline of January 15, 1991, for Iraq to withdraw from Kuwait. It was understood that if he did not retreat, the entire multi-national coalition would force him out by whatever means necessary. Jus knew that time was growing short.

Training was futile now, even leadership had given up on it. Jus and his friends watched war documentaries, played at the gym, and hung out at the rec center. They needed something to do, but they had done everything they possibly could; there was nothing else.

On Sunday the 13th a small advanced party departed to set up our company in Saudi Arabia. We had received reports that several of our trucks were totalled because for 3 weeks they got slammed into by our trailers that rolled back and forth into them from the rough seas.

Monday came, and the air was thick with anticipation; we were on official lockdown. No one was to go anywhere. They learned that a few of the wives were going to come down to see their husbands. Maarja was able to get in on that with some friends. Nickie did not come down as Dwayne had already left with the advanced party. 

At midnight, Jus was in the latrine, getting out of the shower. A couple of other friends were standing in front of the sinks, shaving. "Well," one of them looked at his watch, "January 15th, times up." They knew it was imminent that they would go, after all, the advanced party left 2 days ago.

That mission was bumpy. They had received reports that the cargo jet they were on had experienced trouble and had to land in the Azores for a time before continuing on to Spain and then, finally, Saudi Arabia. 

Tuesday passed with nothing happening, although they were still on lockdown. Two duffel bags, one rucksack, helmet bag, LBE, M16, Kevlar, and MOPP Gear all sat at the ready to leave on a moment's notice. Then the unthinkable happened: a few of the wives decided to carpool, as they had discussed it over the weekend. They arrived on Wednesday afternoon. The husbands whose wives had come down were permitted to go into Leominster and stay at a hotel that night. 

Jus and Maarja went to the Susse Chalet and went to a Chinese Restaurant next door. Incertainty hung like a canvas blanket over them so that it seemed that this moment in their lives was really the only one that ever existed.  Jus broke open the fortune cookie at the end of his meal. It simply read: "Your future is secure."

When they returned to the hotel room and turned on the television, suddenly the entire world exploded with the news: the liberation of Kuwait had begun. There was a sound outside. Just as Jus opened the door, multiple church bells rang in the city of Leominster. It was chilling. It made Jus want to cry because he knew he had finally stepped across the line in the sand that had been drawn last August, just like he knew he would.

Jus and Maarja knew that night, this was their last time together for a long time, and maybe even forever. They felt small. They felt the vastness of the planet they lay upon that night and the universe it resided in. The world spun, and it was clear they were not in control at all. Maybe, they never were.

Morning came, and they went back to the barracks. It was like a parallel universe. It was the same building with the same people, but everything was different. Time did not exist. As if everything happened at the same time, Jus could not tell if it was 1991 or 1941. The sounds, the vibe, and even the light bulbs seemed fifty years old. This was not the same place Jus had lived for the last two months. The wives had to leave, and everyone said their goodbyes...again.

When it was their turn to fly out, they bussed the hour drive over to Westover Air Force Base. The wait took hours. Newspaper and television crews swarmed them. Jus was less than an hour from his mother's home. He called her on the payphone an hour before he got on the plane. She cried so hard as she said goodbye. She never could have imagined this happening. Jus still hears her voice decades later at the end of that call.

At 7 at night, the unit loaded up into the luxurious seating accommodations of a C-141 Cargo Plane, by which I mean, benches that dropped down off the walls with the same webbing of 1970s lawnchairs. It would take a full day and a half to reach their destination. As the plane took off and climbed through the clouds, each member of Jus' unit just sat there looking across the aisle at their friends. They had no idea where they would sleep next, and in a twisted way, they were relieved. The very long, never-ending, torturous goodbye that took two months and actually four if you count that "almost" in September was over. Goodbyes should never be dragged along the way that was, but given the chance for one more time with the people you care about, everyone makes the same decision. One more goodbye will happen.

Distraction Wins Today

 Like Sundown in a long-ago summer. Like watercolors in the rain. Like futility in rescue.  Destructive repetition decays what is built. The bold iron stronghold begins to rust and weaken as the days of distraction roll away without our notice.

Desparados under the eaves. Tapping on the subliminal glass. There is something on the calendar that, for some reason, we have no recall. We dance obliviously, not knowing that the captain has fallen overboard and the ship is drifting into the storm.

Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash

The vibration in the floor causes the surrounding volume to creep up, ever so slightly. It is a progression that, in time, causes the guests to give way to shouting. They adapt, not even noticing. We are groomed to surrender as we defend our method of demise.

There are short circuits everywhere; love and lies are bleeding into the windows, vents, and doors. We take the cause, riding the steed of exaggeration, sword drawn, crying war upon the other messengers of misinformation.

Flashes of truth expose themselves to our eyes like the surroundings in a lightning storm at 2 am. We try to remember the landscape in the seconds that follow because it is a hard contrast to what we now fail to see. Voices whisper that everything is a certain way, words with spices added to prejudiced perfection. I don't want to know, because it just makes me feel sour.

Vortex and texture of its destruction. Glass, splintered wood, ashes of the fallen, echoes of colonialism, and the garbage it has generated spin, like a wire brush sharing the centrifuge with us. We are just trying to live, man, and here it is, tearing at us, biting, corroding, compromising.

Standing on the edge of the volcano, crying for all we have lost, distraction wins today. I hate it. I sum up the collateral damage, which equates to a number of days that cannot be counted. Tuesday afternoon has passed, the sun is setting, and the shadows lengthen. The world will go on as the last light fades.

I never worried about the score until now. Wisdom dictates there is no benefit, and yet the energy spent on that could have built cities everywhere. I feel defeated by this. The investment in futility and its sad return are no trophy. 

Once the predator hurts us, it always comes back. This time, I vow to get mad. This time, I choose to live and win. I dig in, I cry, and I scream that distraction will not win today. Will that really be so when the nighttime comes?

Sleepless Night

 Stagnation. What is that? It is real to some and not to others. We used to have childhood adventures on a long summer day. Those days were a thousand years long, and they were terrific. I can still remember just about getting out of bed and walking straight outside. It was there I remained until after dark. We really had something.

I don't know why, as a people, we always wanted more because we had it all. We just did not know it. A friend described it best to me a few years ago. On those adventures with the children in your neighborhood, we learned social skills, leadership, creativity, and moral fortitude. We did what was right, even if it meant feeling uncomfortable. Only then did we know what it felt like to be free. 

Decades have passed, and three more generations have stepped into the light. We have not done them any favors, wanting all we wanted, and building all we did. I wish we could take it back. They are lonely in their conformity. They are desperate in their sects. Commercially scarred all over, trying to fit into a club where no one fits in. It used to mean rebellion, and if not that, then maybe truth. Today, we have diluted it with the mass of three oceans. It means nothing.

Somewhere along the way, we too got addicted. She steps up to the stage and walks a certain way, speaking with modesty that screams, 'Look at me!' Every time she contemplates where she is going, it feels like someone is pushing her under. But why? She is too smart for that. But she, but we, are actually not.

Life has turned into a self-inflicted act of disapproval by the headmistress. They never catch up or make it right. Could it be better to not sell oneself to the commercial machine that is running everything now? Who cares about you anyway?  Who cares about me? The honest answer is they may be close, and you do not even know it. Getting lost in that hopeless little convex glass, and you think you are winning. It's not true, it's not real; it's a trap. A terrible one too.

Regardless of the generation, some understand, and those who do not. I always appreciate those who are wide awake and see things for what they truly are. They always catch me off guard, and what a wonderful discovery that is. It becomes like a gift.

I hate nights like this. So many thoughts are jumbled in my head, spinning on a carousel moving faster than the speed of sound. We keep pushing things off the deck of the ship, and still, there are so many things to repair. There seems to be no end in sight. 

I just read the lyrics to Don Henley's New York Minute. Wow! Very deep. I digress. I know none of this makes any sense, but isn't that what a sleepless night is all about? I am going to try again. Good night.

In the Land of the Rain

 In the land of the rain, I did not think that I could carry on because all of the decisions belonged to someone else. I tried so hard to be a problem solver, but I was fighting dynamics that existed long before I was born, and the power was in the hands of a man whom I felt was limitless. I wanted to reason with him and everyone else in the legislative square. 

As I look back on those days, well over forty years ago, I like to think that I did have some positive persuasion; we did, after all, make the memory. I never wanted the "no-factor" to be a part of my life. I don't know how limitation led to seeing beyond it, but it happened.

When you grow up poor, everything you see is like viewing a moon landing; you see it, but you can be very sure that you will never experience it yourself. That in itself should propel you to do more, see more, and that is true in some circles, which establishes permanent limitations. 

It was the nighttime airwaves speaking from the stratosphere that showed me that anything was possible. Was it you, Beverly? Was it you, Henry? Did you tell me there was life outside of the room I grew up in?

Shutting me down led me to find my rhythm. They say no pain, no gain. I am living proof of those words. Every door was locked. There was seemingly no path. As I entered the halls honoring a man gunned down 14 months before my parents met, the scholars noticed that I was carrying something they understood. They rushed out to me and pulled at my jacket, trying to tell me things that I could not hear.

I may have given in after a long duration of pressure, but then, a friend I never knew was taken away from all of us, and I felt compelled to carry on his revolutionary spirit. What was all of that for? I am still trying to figure that part out. 45 years later, the dead are still as dead as they were in December of 1980. What happened to me was nothing more than futile expressionism. I had inherited defiance, and I kicked those scholars to the curb. Showing them, showing me.

Photo by Leks Quintero on Unsplash

In the land of the rain, you are no different than those in the shelters who seem to have everything they need and want. The division seems incredible, and you give them no mind. There is no envy or want. A childhood of seeing what cannot be achieved can be a protection. It is a lesson in contentment.

You rejoice at every thrifted win. It becomes an element of your pride. Flexing becomes a skill and then later a way of life. I could perceive those of material substance in my life, marveling at my resourcefulness. It was nothing but irony. They could never exist like this, yet they envied all of the pains I avoided doing things my way.

I'm not sure where it happened, but my eyes began to see that I was the privileged one. Those who had everything were actually indentured servants to all that they had. Don't get me wrong, I, myself, had grazed the edge of that club a few times. I was grateful for my self-inflicted rescue. As the wise man sang: "Looks like freedom, but it feels like death." Because I did get so close to it now and then, it is something to fear.

As the years have gone by, living in the land of the rain is more like walking a tightrope. The dealer has made it easy for the masses to consume. We need so little, but thanks to the invasive checkpoints everywhere, danger lurks around every corner. Tensions are high, and sleep is difficult.

Noise has permeated everything, designed to generate confusion. There is a flashy menu for us to choose our cause, and then we are destroyed by it. After a while, it becomes difficult to distinguish between the ground and the sky. 

In the land of the rain, we used to be immune to all of its influence, but today, it practically sleeps in the bed next to us. How can anyone sleep anymore, in the land of the rain.

The Possessions of Tragedy

 The television was still on the last channel you were watching. The setting was a freeze frame of you and the world as it was at that moment. For days, it stayed that way as though we were house-sitting for you. There was a dark reality coming, even though the worst possible scenario had already taken place. 

I don't recall how many times I had to walk through the front door before I finally did what had to be done. I was too busy reassembling your last days, hours, weeks, and months. I was awash in memories flooding in from multiple years, whispered into my ears as though they were moments ago.

The feelings I felt were clearly those of an impulsive young man who refused to sit still. Intensity ambushed me from the corners and the closets, settling the score that dealing with everything is inevitable, like it or not. 

Every molecule had to be dealt with, and with it came the emotional burst that accompanied it. We generated your response for every item touched along the way. Those that we separated and packed to take back with us were far easier to deal with than the others, which we immediately assigned as having no value, even though they held value to you. The new normal is a bitter warden.

It is a gauntlet of regret this process. Every choice I made, in which I could have shown you more appreciation, rolled in like a thick, dangerous fog. Navigating these storms of self-deprecating affliction just made the task of taking everything apart even more difficult.

Difficulty eventually gave way to momentum as the calendar days passed, betraying us as we never woke from the nightmare we were living. So we worked with love, defiance, and stoic pacification. 

We fell into a groove, and it felt like we were carrying on for you. We can be so self-deceptive at times; it's hard to trust anything. Then the cold rain came. Again, it was hard to distinguish between the past and the present. Tomorrow was a day we could never imagine; it would come. I firmly believed there was a chance I could die before dawn, and with the pain I was feeling, that would be alright.

Like on autopilot, we marched on diligently, declaring the honor we had, that we were raised among. Every Sunday afternoon, playing as a child on the floor at his feet, his presence just there, all the time, never knowing the gravity of these precious minutes. Riding in the backseat of the car, I have spent a lifetime looking at the rearview mirror, seeing a familiar face, eyes forward. It was a comfort that I took for granted. It turned out that the lifetime was as long as a summer day.

Numbness followed. Just wanting the sadness to be over, we finished it, through to its inevitable end. We somehow erased you. We told ourselves that we were taking part in you in three ways, and while that was true, we still undid your existence. I hated that.

So many years have passed since we had to pick up everything that had some sort of value to you and decide whether it would live or die. The disassembling of someone's life can only be done by those who love them. Yesterday, my family parted with many things that we had been holding onto. It evoked a strange sort of remorse, prompting me to revisit this difficult memory. I think sometimes we just need to be sad because we haven't healed completely. The things unfinished lurk in the shadows, awaiting the obscure call to the light. The ambush commences, and you ride it out, holding onto the sides of the boat.

I dreamed he was alive again over and over. So have my sisters. His life was going to be back for only a certain time. We had taken everything that belonged to him, and now, he had nothing. It is a twisted self-inflicted punishment that we cannot seem to let go of. Those dreams do not come as often anymore, but they still visit from time to time.

What is it about possessions that torments us emotionally? They always remind us that we could have given more to our loved ones. Had we, could the "stuff" have had lesser importance? I don't know. We are strange creatures. We each stumble according to our gifts. 

I know that some day, it will be the things that I have. They will mean something to my children, and they will make decisions. They will keep some and discard others. All I really want for them is to know my love. That is something I can really make happen right here today. 

Safe Haven: Part 13 - The Treacherous Days

 The work that Jus had taken on was intense and sometimes carried with it danger. He jumped in headfirst and immersed himself in it. When he did this, he could lie to himself and tell himself that the trouble building up ten thousand miles away was not real or going to affect him. But every morning, his coffee was tainted with poison images that told him otherwise, and he knew, last November, when he signed that contract, it was not ink that he signed it with, but blood.

It did not seem right. Jus was finally finding his rhythm. He had a full-time job and a side business that he was investing a significant amount of time in. A longtime friend had lost his mind and left his woman in the north without a plan, and even here, Jus did what he could to guide her in her next steps. 

September came, and autumn had that beautiful freshness that Jus had fallen in love with just two years and 5 million miles ago. The planned bivouac weekend arrived, providing a little time for Jus and his comrades to play a game heavily influenced by the Second World War. The hardware was dark green, the equipment was heavy, and the atmosphere was surreal. This was because, without warning, the unit was diverted to the home station. 

Mixed with the bitter morning news that a predator not seen since the early 1970s was moving across the land, tearing hundreds of thousands of people out of their lives and dropping them into an unknown world far, far away, and the tone of the great hall in which everyone was told nothing was going on, when the air was so heavy with the assurance that something was definitely going on. 

It began to feel like incarceration. Jus knew, he had fallen into the trap that he protested only a decade ago. His days of revolution were traded for falling into the ranks that he said he would never be a part of. It was like the end of the movie Hair; he was caught in the vortex, and he knew that he could not escape it.

Photo by Christopher Kuzman on Unsplash

He and his comrades were lined up and sorted out in true processing center fashion as though they had all just joined this insane little endeavor. The General stood before them and repeatedly said, "Nothing is going on." But the more he said it, the more they knew something was definitely going on. All over the news, 600,000 people were plucked out of their lives and dropped in the eastern desert as though a spaceship was just beaming them out of their homes. Jus felt that before the weekend was over, they would be told they could not go home.

The heaviness in the great hall had a severe bitterness to it, like the host had just been beaten before coming out and smiling at the group. Later, the story was told. At 3:00 am Thursday morning, the commander's phone rang. "Get ready, you are on the list, you are going." It was then the detour was crafted, to get everyone ready so when the trigger was pulled and they were sucked out of their lives, they would be squared away. Then, like a twisted draft that the barrel stops on the empty chamber one click short of the bullet, nothing happened.

Sunday afternoon came, Jus and his friends all saddled up upon their fourteen-ton steel horses and rode home, finally able to exhale. They were safe. For now.

Safe Haven Part 12: A Million Miles Away

 Jus arrived home in the middle of the night. The expensive ride home seemed more directionless than he thought it would feel. He thought his homecoming emotionally might be more like the one in October, but this was different. Whatever energy in that unique October through December void in the household was gone. It was like infatuation when you're very young; like smoke, it's gone. 

The daylight brought more uncertainty. There were plans in the works, none of which he made, and none of which could buy a living. Jus thought he would just walk into an opportunity after working so hard for the last half a year. Instead, a future familiar abandonment ensued. 

A quiet summer arrived with an incredible contrast to the last three. It was amazing to Jus how his life could be so different from year to year. A year ago, there was no gravity, and momentous chaos was everything. The previous summer, immense change, desolation, and a new life. Three years back, a significant course change. In the background, the whole time, something was happening. It was so far away that it could only be heard in the background. A storm was mounting in the east.

As the days grew hot but more uncertain, Jus formed an alliance with his would-be assassin. It was more of a bond than he had thought possible. It caused him to aim higher than ever before. It got him noticed, and opportunity finally came. It had been almost a whole year since Jus was firmly employed. The nebulous air of his future also seemed prevalent in his balance with Maarja. It did not interlock as he thought it would. The distraction of new work proved beneficial when it came to avoiding close examination. 

As the dog days lumbered along, Jus and Maarja traded in their cul-de-sac friends for a down-on-his-luck med student sentenced to indentured servitude in a land where the sun never set in the summer and never rose in the winter. It was a friendship that Jus would hold onto forever. As this happened, a shot rang out from the east. Like thunderclouds building, eventually releasing their anger upon the land, this one had been building for a decade, escalating three years prior. Band-Aids were placed upon the cracks, but the damage was far too deep. Now, fire, gunpowder, lead, and uranium were the only remedies, and of course, blood.

Photo by Peter Schulz on Unsplash

Like an impression of a figure burned into the ground by an atomic flash, an image of Jus' presence is burned into the floor of that colonial house that no longer sits by the toll bridge on the barrier river. He will never be able to escape it; it will either have engraved him permanently or taken something he can never get back.

When Jus heard the news from the east, there was something different about it. He knew on day three, his life was about to change forever, very personally. In some ways, he had seen this coming his whole life. A recurring nightmare that was more of an abduction. It was a million miles away, but in a strange way he was sure that he was already overtaken.

I Am Good

 Sometimes I forget what I have. The clock spins and the calendar pages turn yellow, and I climb aboard that bully expecting a return on investment, only to realize I did not invest. Therein lies the deception. There are letters and there are words; they are the same, yet they can never truly be the same.

I see all the good around me that has been there all along, and it makes me angry because for all the times I couldn't see it or had taken it for granted, I suddenly realize it must have taken a great deal of effort to make that happen. I do not wish to have someone tampering with my perceptions, with such precision.

When my footing has slipped on the spiral staircase and I am losing my balance, I want to climb out of my own head because there are no solutions. Even then, it can be hard to identify that I have taken on the task of my own understanding. 

The human tendency to repeat former mistakes can be maddening. But as I swing back to the other side of the gorge on the rope, I notice it is a bit higher each time. A terrible way to assimilate wisdom, if you ask me, but progress nonetheless. 

When there is light, I see what I am responsible for. It is a rock climb, of which I must pay attention to every hold, step, and change. Reflecting on what I am taking in as I assess my course up the mountain, I must align my thinking with the success of my climb.

Photo by Salomé Guruli on Unsplash

In essence, I am leaving the parts of myself behind below. They are not to be missed. They represent my doubts, procrastination, and lack of determination. They mean nothing, and they have only held me back. It is only in taking these climbing steps that I can shed those who never wanted me to aspire to anything else. 

I am good, and only if I am climbing, and wanting to know more, to give more and to be more.

RAIN

 The ironic irony in the ironic days of irony, stumble and fall ironically all over an ironic landscape. There seems to be so much to say, but the words are uninvoked. Outlets, there are none. What is this void? The directionless anticipation while crouched at the starting line of a directionless race. No one knows where the finish line is. No one knows exactly where the course is located.

I look for the purpose and the meaning. Somewhere up ahead, I keep thinking there is a drawstring to cause the bubble of chaos to give way to labor, to productivity, to focus. I speak the words and then yield to our friend who never sleeps. She alters the words faster than the speed of sound so that they taste like vanilla. Is that better? Is it a loss?

Deep down inside, I know there is an actual opening just steps away. I dream of delivering a solution, a plan, a result, something that does not lie in wait for something I cannot identify, with shock and awe. At this point, my contingent sits at the table waiting with anticipation. 

In my life, I have known true nebulae. Substantively, this is nothing if compared. This is more about keys. Doors that are opening, confirmation, and solidity. 

I guess I got stuck as I sat around the campfire and told the story of my travels to the lit and shadowed faces all around me. In doing so, I placed myself in a state of flux between the 2nd and 4th dimensions.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

What is it that is causing such a void? Nothing moves like November, December, January, February, and March. Then I realize it is raining. I noticed today that over the last year, 24 weekends have been rainy or snowy. Just 2 more and that will make half a year of it. It really is a cruel joke. I am certainly not laughing.  

Even more cruel, while we saturate, flood, and wash away, others are drying up, roots shrivel, and hopelessly blow away. The heavy rainfall following a particularly harsh winter is simply not palatable. Somewhere, there has to be a clearing.  I cannot see past it.  I cannot see anything.

When Democracy Came

Democracy was coming, and there was nothing I could do.

Voices of parallel universes merged in my head and sang me a lullaby on my bed.

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I fought so hard, but I could not resist

Change was rising like the sun after a storm, and I could do nothing to stop it.

I stomped my feet till I was tired, then had no choice but to listen.

You shot me with the arrows of truth and persistence.

I wanted to block it out and tell bitter tales of its unpleasantness, only to find myself tapping my foot to its beat and melting in the words sung by voices I never thought I would hear again.

There is more out there. More coming your way. Find it inside yourself to know that there is more, and it has been held down and not allowed to see the light or touch a single drop of water.

I doubted it so hard, but I had to let go. It was then that I found everything.

Jump and fly. Do it now. Make it happen. Rock it. Hit it. Forget the dumb stuff. Make it so.

Don’t lie down, don’t regret. Make it happen.

Democracy was coming, and I didn’t want it

I just wanted to be stuck and going nowhere.

Sometimes, I know I am still fighting and must let it go. I keep sticking to the physics around me, but I know in my heart I can float where there is no law.

The night sky twisted and pulsed with winds of change.

It brought me tastes I never knew I could imagine.

One after the other, beautiful and seasoned voices sang to me.

I listened to them as they spoke to my heart.

There was another world, and I was in awe.

The language was precious. 

Their wisdom was undeniable.

When democracy came, I cried.

I mourned all of my wasted time.

I was fighting within the bubble of my ignorance.

I was lazy and missed a lifetime of words.

When democracy came, everything came to life.

Safe Haven Part 11: Learning to Fly

 The end of what seemed like it could never end happened: Basic Training was closing. Not only was Jus moving onto his next phase of training, but he would have two days to see his family. This was a big deal. Mastering this previously unknown and mythical experience was empowering. Life was new, making his previous chemical dependence seem like something he had only read about in a novel. It was clear that part of his existence had been truly left behind.

The visit with his family made Jus anxious to begin his new life. He finally felt like a symbol of stability instead of a cautionary tale. He did not feel precarious anymore. He had wondered if his family viewed him more as a time bomb waiting to go off before. It was nice that this feeling was now gone. His regular life was still far off because of his next training, which began right after this visit. 

Advanced Individual Training was similar to Basic, but there were so many freedoms, too, which made it weird. Freedom felt great for Jus, but he also observed that it negatively affected the unit. They started out cohesive and making their leaders proud, but then everyone fragmented and failed to operate as a single unit. 

When Jus arrived at camp in January, smoking was taken away. This was not a universal military rule; it was a pre-non-smoking directive by the Post Commander General, who had lost one lung due to cigar smoking. He described it as an excellent opportunity for Jus and other new recruits. They, however, did not see it that way, and the moment that cigarettes could be procured while on a weekend off post, passes to go bowling or whatever, they all started smoking again. 

AIT was a melting pot for mastering new skills, extending physical conditioning to new heights that could never be imagined, and using history to advance. Jus could rely on some of his primary experience to advance his stature. This resulted in being promoted one grade in rank. There were so many choices, which was a complete turnaround from his previous training, which gave him only one option in most situations.

Some aspects of this showed that things were not as polished as they appeared. There were rumours of leaders taking recruits out to bars at night, and some wild times there. Females were held back due to not performing, holding administrative positions by day, and taking mutual liberties at night. None of which could be proven, but as years passed from this day, Jus would see a story in the news in which indiscretions like these were proven and exposed. He knew that for these stories to be exposed, there were probably some big career losses and damage to the brave ones who pulled all of this dirt into the light.

As the weeks of training were winding down, critical skill exams commenced. Jus was a natural at most of it. He got along alright with most of the people in Class 20, but a couple of recruits just rubbed him the wrong way in a predetermined way. Back in high school, Jus tried to bridge many gaps he found in groups of people, only to let the generations of war win. It left him bitter. These two recruits brought that up in him. Although he was never rude or disrespectful, he tuned them out.

Derek, one of these recruits, struggled with one very important skill that would pass or fail him. His frustration and disillusionment were apparent. Jus had been reading the gospels in his spare time since the only non-Army manual book was the Bible. There is no way one can read about the life of Jesus and not take a good look at themselves and just do better. The task Derek was struggling with, Jus needed no practice, it just came naturally. Jus told Derek he would work with him and they would make sure they both would pass.

Day after day, Jus and Derek prepared for the test. In no time, Derek mastered the task and, in the end, passed the test without struggling at all. It was a lesson for Jus. He needed to question everything from the past. No conclusions stood, with one big exception. There was no place in his life for chemical dependency. 

Graduation happened, and Jus made the journey home. He thought everything from this point on would be well defined and decisive. He did not see that he was about to enter the most nebulous summer of his lifetime. Soon after, he would be swept away into a massive machine that had swallowed up the entire world for thousands of years. 

Safe Haven - Part 10 - Blame it on the Rain

 The bus ride would never be long enough. When it was over, uncertainty abounded like never before. Jus had lived like he was pulling the handle on a slot machine, waiting to see what the next moment would bring, but this. This was someone else who was totally in control. His over-the-top form of diplomacy scanned for ways to blend in without making waves. He would find out quickly that that was not even possible.

When the doors opened, it was cold outside. He shuffled out into the slushy snow on the ground. Screaming voices barked orders from all directions, and he and his travelling companions were taken to quickly eat and given a bunk to sleep on. Voices and footsteps echoed through the cement-block hallways. 

Jus dreamt about this back in December. But in the dream, he was hiding in a closet, and the same noises he heard now were around as he hid. Maybe it wasn't him in the closet. Perhaps it was someone else. Whoever it was, they were troubled, deeply. They were very alone. One thing was certain: Jus was alone now, too. He also knew now that the answer to the question when he woke up in his bed this morning was clear: this is where he would be tonight.

Fluorescent lights turning on at 4 am is one of the most significant levels of cruelty you will ever experience. The boy jumped out of the bunk as forceful voices screamed at them, as if the building were on fire. He and a large group of people he didn't know were hurried to the showers, then to breakfast, and finally to a desk, where he was surrounded by many others. He learned very quickly that he had been lied to. Belongings that he thought he could bring on this journey with him to make it easy, even his final addiction, were contraband and had to be surrendered.

As the hours passed, the things that made him who he was—an individual—were taken away one after the other. Incredible threats were outlined that any attempt to turn back now would simply lead to an even worse life in prison. There would be no, "this is not for me." Forward was the only way. Last year's breakdown and rebuild, the assassin and his surety, believing that all change was possible, were entirely knocked off balance. None of it could be used. This was an unforeseen rebirth of which he had no control. When his old man had heard that he had done such a thing, he told Jus, "Well...That will be an experience." It was another way of asking him if he had lost his mind.

The riot act kept coming with every room visited, every stripping down of facade and attitude. Jus was with people he would spend the next few months with and, fragmentally, a lifetime with. Because so much had been taken from them, they only had to look forward to eating meals, which was a 3- to 5-minute experience, and so it happened with incredible savagery. Sleep would also be nice, but there wasn't much of that, and their captors found interesting ways to disrupt it.

Since Jus was an adventurer at heart and had moved around a lot as a child, he had never really understood homesickness, and for the first time in his life, he felt it. It was much worse than he had imagined. It made him look at others with new respect. As the days passed, he tried with all he had just to follow the flow. The job of his captors, however, was to teach him how to deal with life when the flow is broken and chaos is everywhere. He was used to chaos, but even so, he was always creating it, which gave him a license to apply the brakes.  Here, he controlled nothing, there were no brakes, and if you were caught trying the path of least resistance, they would suddenly inflict a challenge on you.

Two weeks into his nightmare, where music was not permitted, Jus thought he could stay off the front lines of attention. Of course, when detected, he was put in charge, and now the actions, words, and thoughts of those in his charge were all on him. He was accountable.

Overall, this worked for Jus. He had always been adaptable. It became apparent that his actions would not turn him into something else. It would only magnify and define the person he already was. Each week was a month long. He was kept tired enough at all times so that his brain, which could normally run several tracks of unrelated thought at the same time, could only run one. It was the one his captors wanted him to focus on.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it did precisely that for the Jus and Maarja. After just three months home, he was away again. This pattern would repeat for some time, but he had no idea. He was homesick and lived to get back, but that was so far away. It felt like years. 

When you watch military commercials, you see people mastering technology, machinery, and intelligence. They appear confident and gritty—life-changing. The truth is, it is indentured servitude. The grit and confidence are learned at the wrong end of a mop and a floor polisher. Jus and his comrades were ordered to clean every tile surface and sandy rifle range everywhere they went.

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They were never permitted time to unwind, except for some Sunday mornings, which, by law, they have to allow for worship. Most of the time, it is used to catch up on stuff they never let you get done during the week. 

Weapons qualification was intense and daily. Jus and his friends were loaded into troop transport trailers, which looked suspiciously like cattle cars, and hauled out to the ranges at 4 AM. They were sleepy, leaning against walls and each other, trying to steal another minute or two of sleep while being jostled around. Their captors never allowed them to take liberties such as naps. So as Jus and his friends were rocked back and forth as the cattle car rambled along the range road in the dark, the truck pulling it stopped. The doors flung open. "I can't hear anything!" the drill sergeant screamed. "We want to hear some cadence!" While riding in a cattle car? It seemed so ridiculous! Cadence was sung when marching or running to keep soldiers in step.  Jus thought, one stupid idea begets another.

When the cattle car started moving again, Jus cleared his throat and loudly began to sing: "Here's the story of a lovely lady!" Everyone in the trailer joined in and also sang loudly. "Who was bringing up three very lovely girls! All of them had hair of gold, like their mother, the youngest one in curls! Here's the story of a man named Brady, who was bringing up three boys of his own. They were four men, living all together, yet they were all alone..." Suddenly, the cattle car swerved to the side of the road and skidded to a stop. Clearly, someone was not happy.

The doors flung open: "Everyone OUT!!! Formation now!" They all took their places in the cold, dark January morning at attention while the drill sergeant screamed at them. "You all think you are funny, don't you? FRONT LEAN AND REST! MOVE!" Front lean and rest is the plank position one takes to begin doing push-ups; palms of hands flat in the dirt, toes in the dirt. "AND ONE, TWO, THREE AND ONE, TWO, THREE, TWO, ONE, TWO, THREE, THREE! This brutal 4-count method could make 20 pushups into 40.

When Jus and his friend's arms were shaking to the point they could not lift their own weight even one more time, they were ordered back into the cattle car and continued onto the rifle range. As odd as this all was, there was something satisfying about never having to decide. Everything was ordered. Even when Jus did something perfectly, it was torn apart. He could do nothing right. No positive affirmation made him callous and hardened, and it worked.

Despite thinking he would lose his leadership title after 2 weeks, he remained squad leader until the end of Basic Training. Time and again, Jus was punished for the mistakes of those in his charge. It was hard enough to walk the line, and he could never do anything right. Times that by 14, and it was a gauntlet of three tireless drill sergeants pounding on him all the time.

It all peaked when he was being unceasingly punished for his squad's failure to achieve something that to Jus seemed inconsequential. He thought this would be like the past times in which there would be pressure, then it would stop. This time, it did not stop; it intensified with no end in sight. For the first time, Jus felt a nervous breakdown rising from deep inside him. There was no way to stop it. He was terrified because he was speeding towards an immovable wall. He felt certain of only one thing: he was going to die.

At a moment unexpected, just as everything Jus was made of was about to explode into fragments that could never be reassembled, he was allowed to go to the restroom. He rushed into a stall and completely fell apart. Total destruction was here. At any moment, he would be either dead or catatonic. As the last seconds of light in his life began to disappear, the immovable wall shook and fell in a great, awe-inspiring crash. The air was cleaner, the sun was out, and it was as though he could see for miles across lush green fields! There were no boundaries, and the warmth of peace filled him completely. The anxiety bubble had burst, and THIS is what was hidden behind it! He suddenly felt mighty and impervious to anything from outside of him. He felt wonderfully made. He had reached the confidence level of the very friend who caused him to even think about doing this stupid thing in the first place.

He quietly turned and left the restroom. He returned to his punishers and did exactly what they said to do, and it was absolutely nothing. He was suddenly a machine that could easily do this for the rest of his life. Jus realized, THIS is what they mean when they talk about breaking a person. It was remarkable. It redefined his whole life. Yes, he would have anxiety in the future, but he would always have this moment to reflect back on and know that he was millions of times bigger than the anxiety.