Chapter 1: The Passing of a Generation

1315 Hours (1:15 PM EST) Sunday 15 April 2012

United States Marine Corps Base, Quantico, VA

The government, by which I mean the Bethesda Naval Hospital, now a joint command with the US Army’s Walter Reed, and the Veterans Administration, actually did a very good job at repairing the damage done to my body. The consequences of combat upon my mind, and my soul, well those just aren’t so easy to fix. Some would say those wounds are not as obvious as the scars on my body, or the admittedly snazzy device of titanium and polymers below my left knee. But that is because most people don’t look others directly in their eyes.

After being severely wounded in Afghanistan in mid-2011, and swiftly transported to Bethesda Naval Hospital. In 2012 I was assigned to the Marine Corps Wounded Warrior Regiment, Quantico, Virginia. I had limited duties working as a PMI (Primary Marksmanship Instructor), supervising an arms room, and occasionally CQ duty. My military duties were secondary to my physical therapy and other medical appointments. Another unanticipated branch during an unconventional career in the armed forces.

I was already contemplating what my career options might be when I was notified by the Command Sergeant Major that my grandfather had passed away. Because his wife, my grandmother, and his son, my father had both passed away a few years earlier, there was no one to request an official notification via the Red Cross. The US armed forces permit a service member thirty days of paid Leave each year, a military version of “vacation”; long before most civilian employers, the US armed forces have allowed Leave to visit an immediate family member who is presumed to be near death, or in the occurrence of their death. To be granted Leave for a death, or imminent death requires official notification from the Red Cross, or a similar entity.

The Command Sergeant Major did not say it, but I could tell he was wondering how the hell a guy with a permanent tan as deep as mine, had relatives from rural Colorado. I knew the CSM was born, and grew up in Pittsburg, so I informed him that in the “Wild West” after the American Civil War, probably a quarter of all cowboys were Negros. Although not that high a percentage in the twenty-first century, there are still black cowboys today.

I told him that I am a sixth-generation cowboy, and for that matter a former Cavalry Trooper, as had been every man in my family since Great-Great-Great Grandfather John Randall, from Kentucky, who joined a United States Colored Troops Cavalry Regiment in 1863. According to my grandfather he had served as part of the forces of occupation in Northern Louisiana, and later with the 10^th Cavalry out west, however, he did not make a career of it, and became a Cowboy.

Nodding, he commented he had noticed some oddities in my personnel file. Briefly I explained that my grandfather had retired as a Sergeant Major, as had my father. Following family tradition, right after high school, I joined the Army in 1999. After my basic and advanced training at Fort Knox, I was assigned to the 2^nd Armored Cavalry Regiment (Light) at Fort Polk, Louisiana. Soon after we deployed to the former Yugoslavia for a year.

Back at Fort Polk, hard work, and some good luck earned me a promotion to Corporal, and an opportunity to attend Airborne School, then Ranger School in the summer of 2001. I should have been sent back to my unit, that was now deployed in Afghanistan. However, due to some sort of SNAFU, I was assigned to the 3^rd (Stryker) Brigade, 2^nd Infantry Division, based at Fort Lewis, in Washington state. It was suggested to me that since my name was scratched from 2^nd ACR’s deployment roster, some clever individual in personnel re-assigned me to another unit.

The powers that be in the 3^rd (Stryker) Brigade declined to facilitate my transfer back to my previous unit, because they had just gained a graduate from Ranger school. At least they sweetened the deal by slotting me as a Squad Leader, normally a job for an E-6 Staff Sergeant, and assured me an opportunity to go to a promotion board within 90 days. I was prepared, so I was soon promoted to Sergeant (E-5). It was a very good unit with quality soldiers and leadership. Moreover, at Fort Lewis there were excellent training facilities and opportunities, including personnel from the 2^nd Ranger Battalion and 1^st Special Forces Group. I loved being a soldier, and seized every opportunity to master the arts of war.

So, when as a young “Buck” Sergeant I was narrowly edged out by a much more experienced Sergeant First Class in the competition for the Brigade NCO of the Quarter; I received a meritorious promotion to Staff Sergeant, without yet attending BNOC. They were locking down the manning roster as we prepared to deploy to Iraq in late 2003, and now I held the standard rank authorized for Squad Leader in the TO&E (Table of Organization and Equipment).

One of the pithy sayings in the army is, “Prior Preparation Prevents Poor Performance.” Our unit was well trained, prepared for numerous contingencies, and we had outstanding leadership. We adapted pretty well to the changing nature of the conflict in Iraq. In a year, we went from security operations to supporting the establishment of a stable, friendly Iraqi government, to an all-out counter-insurgency. However, “Big Army” was not nearly so prepared for what occurred.

Mostly it was the Cluster Fuck that Big Army could not seem to understand they were making the situation worse, not better, that was making me consider getting out of the armed forces. I was willing to “Embrace the Suck” but I was not so willing to wallow in Stupid. Fortunately, I was part of an element of my Brigade attached to the Marines. It seemed obvious that the Marines were adapting better to reality than most of the rest of the Coalition Forces were.

I met Command Sergeant’s Major Yager during that deployment. He was still a Gunnery Sergeant then, although he was promoted to First Sergeant as soon as they returned to CONUS. I do not know how he discovered my indecision about reenlisting, but as he would say, “He put a Bug in My Ear.” Even though it had been good for my career, I was disturbed by the SNAFU of my reassignment after Ranger School. Although I had not fought it, and intended to exploit the “Stop-Loss Program” by getting my reenlistment bonus tax-free in the war zone; being involuntarily extended more than a year past the end of my enlistment contract was an irritation.

Gunny Yager, in his colorful manner, said, “You won’t be a Pussy if you quit the Army during a war against these Donkey Fucking Shit Heads. Well. You could Prove that You are Not a Pussy, If You Join My Beloved Corps! So, Knucklehead, You Think You are Capable of being a Real Man and Becoming a Marine, or are you gonna be a Pussy?”

Command Sergeant’s Major Sosabowski burst out laughing. His relationship with CSM Yager dated to before the First Gulf War, so he knew I probably watered down a saltier tirade from that Marine’s Marine. Even though he was “just” a “Gunny” it was like stealing candy from a baby for him to finagle my Enlistment into the 2^nd LAV Battalion, United States Marine Corps while I was still “Boots on the Ground” in Iraq; but my Army unit did not discover what had occurred until I was already on my post deployment leave.

An even better trick, as far as I was concerned, he called in a favor or two so that I was able to turn in my TA-50 and other gear issued to me by the US Army, to a Marine Corps Supply Sergeant, and ensured any shortages were written off as a combat loss. That paper work also cleared before my unit was aware of what happened.

Fortunately, I had sent my personal items to my grandparents in Colorado; my parents had divorced a couple years earlier and both were living in apartments in Denver. Although I would use most of my Leave time to travel to places far from home, such as Paris, Rome, Luxor, or Hong Kong; I would spend at least one week a year on my grandparent’s ranch. My father’s old room was now mine. I would ride their horses, or go hunting in the foothills adjacent to the ranch.

I figured that might seem odd to CSM Sosabowski, but he did not say anything. While we were chatting, he occasionally sent some emails, and twice he answered the phone to handle some matters that could not wait. He too shared some war stories, and also explained that he was trying to expedite the processing of emergency leave for me.

Although I did get my reenlistment bonus tax free, one consequence of joining the Corps was I had to accept an administrative reduction in rank, back to Sergeant (E-5), which meant a reduction in pay. Thanks to having graduated Ranger school, at least I did not have to go to the United States Marine Corps Boot Camp. There were other changes too, the Marines have a significantly different culture from the US Army. Dedication to mastery of rifle marksmanship was one significant change. Naval tradition has resulted in many customs and practices of the Marines being subtly, or sometimes, significantly different from my experiences in the Army.

Deployments were generally shorter for Marine units, than for Army units, however, dwell time in CONUS was also shorter, so seven months later I found myself back in the “Sand Box” in Al-Anbar province, patrolling the Syrian border. That deployment in the middle of 2005 was particularly eventful. Each Light Armored Vehicle would have its crew augmented with a couple extra Marines to act as dismounts, would operate independently for up to thirty days at a time.

Occasionally we would be resupplied with food, ammo, especially water, and sometimes mail. Usually these bare essentials were delivered by helicopter. We had priority for fires because our mission to interdict insurgents, terrorists, attempting to infiltrate into Iraq from Syria; we were frequently in contact with aspiring “Muj” (Mujahedin or Islamic “holy warriors”). Some we captured so they could be interrogated, most we facilitated their desire to become martyrs!

In 2006 when the Corps established MARSOC, I was invited to transfer to Force Recon, because of a shortage of personnel due to the expansion of special operations units. Some of the best Marines from Force Recon had transferred to the US Navy and become SEALs. Others had taken the more lucrative option of becoming contractors. Of course, there were also some open slots due to casualties. It seemed to be a golden opportunity, and I seized it with both hands!

I had already attended Airborne school, but I was just a “Five-Jump Chump” and needed refresher training, since my only jumps had been in 2001. Soon I earned my US Marine Corps Golden Jump Wings after my tenth jump. I also made it through BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition School), which is the initial training for US Navy SEALs; some other personnel, who may serve alongside SEALs, or for other needs of the US Navy (with whom the US Marines are affiliated) are also admitted to the course.

CSM Sosabowski probably knew quite a bit about what I had done over the next few years, sometimes in Force Recon, and other times with MARSOC. Many of those missions were in Afghanistan, but others were elsewhere. More than a few were Joint Service. Not just with operators from the SEALs, US Army Special Forces, Rangers, or Delta, USAF PJ’s and CCTs, and other exotic units, but also with other allied forces. These included British Royal Marines Commandos, SBS or detachments from Her Majesty’s 22^nd Regiment SAS, Dutch Royal Marines, and ROK Marines, as well as Australians, Canadians, French, Poles, Germans, and even Kurdish Peshmerga, just to mention a few. Neither did I mention my final deployment, when I lost a portion of my left leg, and some other bits, shortly after having been promoted to Gunnery Sergeant. After all, that was the reason I was assigned to this post.

I was chuckling because CSM Sosabowski had confided an amusing misadventure of a rather notorious Major; the phone rang, and after a brief conversation, he hung up, and said to me, “have your bags packed, and be dressed in your Charlies by 0430 hours, that’s when a driver will be out front of your quarters to take you to Joint Base Andrews. There were two empty seats on a C-37B taking some FBI and other Homeland Security agents to some kind of conference in Denver.”

We would be wheels up before 0600, they probably would rather nap on the plane, than sleep in and deal with the local traffic. We would land at Buckley Air Force Base, Aurora, Colorado. CSM Sosabowski informed me that my leave would officially begin the day after next, but as of now I was relieved of all duties, so that I could take care of family matters. My leave was for two weeks, but if I needed more time I should call; it would be no problem. He gave me a one of his cards, he wrote his home and personal cellular phones numbers on the back. He never mentioned it, but he knew my grandfather had been the only person listed as my next of kin. I thanked him.

Command Sergeant’s Major Sosabowski sincerely said, “The Corps looks after its own.”

I stopped by the Arms Room to grab some personal items, including several personal firearms, that I stowed in a Pelican case. I informed Corporal Vasquez that I would be on emergency leave for at least two weeks, and she would be in charge until further notice. She is a good Marine, she has dispatched more “Muj” than most Marine riflemen, looking me in the eye she merely said, “Aye, Aye, Gunny.”

Because I spent so much time deployed, or preparing to deploy, I do not own a car. I own an excellent mountain bike, but it is still in storage at Camp Lejeune. I had not yet gone down to collect the few personal items that had been inventoried, and put in storage, after I was wounded during my last deployment.

Enterprise Rent-A-Car has been good to me over the last decade. They have an office on most major military and naval bases, and members of the armed forces can often get a good rate. Although I was not the first Marine, or sailor, or even FBI agent to come limping in to their Quantico office on a prosthesis, they were generous, upgrading my rental, and adding some perks, gratis. I was renting by the month, and a member of their “club” so I was getting a great rate.

It was more convenient to drive from my quarters, to my duties, or my appointments, rather than other forms of transportation; or “hobbling along” on my prosthetic. Mostly because I was embarrassed to wear a reflective belt, and all that other crap, I did most of my PT in one of the gyms here, rather than run around base festooned with all that crap. That was the major reason I had not bothered to get my bicycle as well.

It was convenient to be able to get back to my quarters before most other Marines were finished with their duty. I was able to wheel my Pelican case into my room, I parked it at the foot of my bed, so it would not be seen from the window, or when my door was open. Next, I grabbed a gym bag, and put several changes of clothes, two spare towels, and several sets of underwear and socks, and a few sundries, into it. I glanced around my quarters, I would take me only a few minutes to add some items to my go bag, nor did my room require any cleaning, because I kept it orderly. As a staff NCO I rated my own head (bathroom), I went in there and grabbed my laundry bag, I picked up the gym bag, exited my room and then locked the door.

I had a few errands to run. First, I stopped at a wash & fold laundry, I requested a rush job, before 1730 hours, and offered a twenty dollar bonus. Fortunately, they were willing to accommodate me. Next, I stopped at a Postal Xpress, took the items from my gym bag, put them in a pair of flat rate boxes, and mailed them to my grandfather’s ranch, so I would have several additional changes of clothes early next week. Since I had to wait for my laundry to be finished, I stopped for dinner at a restaurant where I know they have very good chowder and soft-shell crab.