Death

I've been thinking about death a lot lately...

Not suicidal, mind you, but just death in general, as a concept.

Do you think it will ever be beaten?

I read a lot of these articles. Things like Dr. Robert White who has perfected a technique for head transplants in chimpanzees and wants to translate his research to humans. Or, new anti-aging medicines that have tripled the lifespan of mice. There's even a video where a dog's head is cut off and kept alive artificially through the means of tubes and pumps.

My thoughts are...why aren't we doing more of this research?

Why isn't ALL of societies spent on these experiments?

Since the beginning of time, all creatures have fallen victim to this ticking time bomb known as death. In early human civilization, we created excuses for it, built religions around it.

But, what if death isn't a constant? I mean...who says we have to resign ourselves to a permanent, irreversible fate of non-existence?

My hypothesis is, that with human intellect, and the massive amount of technological progress we've made over these first few centuries, there is no reason to think that we can not beat death within the next few thousand years or so.

So, why are we putting it off now? Why are we, as human beings, not investing every single dollar we have in stem cell research, the human genome project, cyrogenics, human head transplants, and more?

I, for one, don't want to die. I want to live FOREVER. I don't think it's arrogant, and I don't think it's sac-religious. I think a human being not only has the right to life, but the right to extend that life as long as possible without interfering with the mortality of another human being. I think it is our duty as intelligent beings to pursue that right.

I always get a little sick and scared when I see people so peacefully accepting death.

Why?

Why would you embrace non-existence? Why give up a chance to leave even more of a mark on this world? I say fight! For the ones you love and the world around you. Fight for your every last breathe!

We take death for granted so much nowadays. We've become too accepting of death. We watch people get mutilated, slaughtered, tortured on television in fiction, and, with the advent of the world wide web, in real life.

And when we see a man's head being sawed off with a rusty knife, we no longer empathize. We only see the imagery. We see the brutality, but not the emotions that we used to. We don't make any effort to feel the fear he is feeling.

In less than a minute, he doesn't exist.

HE DOES NOT EXIST.

He leaves behind loved ones. He leaves behind images of the man he was and his place in the world, and memories in the minds of those who know him. But the essence of the person. The man who walked, spoke, and shared thoughts in his heart and mind just like you, no longer thinks anything. He is meat. A bag of flesh with no love, no happiness, no sadness. No soul.

Somewhere, deep down inside every man, is fear. We are born with this fear of non-existence. We are afraid of that instant in time where our opinion not only doesn't matter, but it disappears completely. We are not heard, because we have lost the ability to speak, or to even think about speaking.

I think our modern society needs to become re accustomed with that fear. We have become too accepting of death in our society. We see it all day and have become so accustomed to it that we embrace it as an unavoidable part of our lives.

We see thousands of men dying overseas...they no longer exist.

We see hundreds of thousands dying at home, living on the mean streets...they no longer exist.

We see children overdosing because of millionaire drug lords...they no longer exist.

We see disciples of the law chasing these drug lords, being gutted and tortured on the internet...they no longer exist.

All honest people, with wifes, mothers, and children...they no longer exist.

The American society, maybe even the world society, is becoming more apathetic towards death. You can blame the politicians, you can blame to government, you can blame the information generation.

But most of all, you can blame yourself, for forgetting what it is like to challenge the unknown shadow that looms over your every waking day.

For the first eighteen years of my life, I was suicidal, depressed, and living in a tortured environment. I did not fear death...I welcomed it.

For the past eight years, I lived a lonely, introspective life, investing every ounce of my being into the political machine of the government to which I proudly pledged my allegiance. I did not fear death...I ignored it.

Only now, with a job that allows me the free time to appreciate my life, and to appreciate my beautiful wife and child, do I fear death. I fear death, because now I have every reason to live, and I cannot imagine one second spent without them. I have trouble sleeping at night because of the knowledge that a day will come when I will absolutely never see them again. In fact, I will lose all memories of them, all concepts of the idea that I ever loved them or that their influence existed in my life. Someday, I will have to watch my beautiful wife die, or vice-versa, and the weight of those thoughts crushes me like a heavy stone.

Which leads to me to this determination.

We all must fight. We must embrace that fear of of a non-existent future and strive towards the common goal of defeating this beast called death. Because one day it CAN be defeated.

I DO fear death, because now I WANT to live for those I love.

But I will not submit to it.

Leaving...

           "All my bags are backed, I'm ready to go…I'm standing here outside your door…"

           You know the lyrics…they're from a famous John Denver song.  Of course, I've always loved Chantal Kreviazuk's cover better. 

           What can I say about leaving for the military? 

           Well, it was scary.  Damn scary.  Probably the scariest thing I've even gone through. 

           Which, is saying a lot, having lived the life that I have.  I remember the car ride the day before I got on the plane.  My recruiter stopped by the house to pick me up.  I didn't cry…the whole thing seemed too surreal.  I might have cried a little as the car pulled away, I really can't remember.  I just know the whole thing seemed rushed.  I can't even remember if I kissed my parents goodbye or not.

           The way it would work, is that I stayed in a hotel room overnight near the MEPS station, did all my paperwork the next day, where I officially enlisted, choose my job category, etc., and then had dinner with my parents.  I stayed at the hotel again that night, then met my parents at the airport the next morning, where I dispatched from the airport with about eight or nine of my peers.

           I remember the kid I roomed with…small, blonde haired kid.  We became pretty good friends, so much as you can become friends with anyone in a day and a half.  He was one of the eight that left on the plane with me.  He seemed small and shy…I wonder if he made it through?

           I can't remember much about MEPS…there's a lot of paperwork and interviews…a couple recruiters there to convince that the Army really was the best thing for me. 

           I wanted to be a linguist, but they told me I would have to wait a while to take the test.  Me, being that impatient little shit that I was, decided to choose another job.

           Now, I had no idea what I wanted to do.  I just knew that I was smart…an official genius is what the doctors told me growing up, and I wanted to something that would actually put my brain to work.  I also wanted to do something that involved sitting around a desk and had as little to do with combat and the military as possible. 

           So, I figured military intelligence was a good fit.  My recruiter actually picked my specialty for me, which I won't divulge here.  I didn't know what the title meant then, although it would come to define me and consume my career for the next eight years.  All I knew is that I would have as little to do with the actual Army as humanly possible.  Or so I thought…anyone who's actually been in the Army knows that every Soldier is a SOLDIER.  But, being a naïve, 18 year old kid who hadn't done his research, I didn't know any better.

           And, being in this MOS offered me all the college money I needed, which like I said before, was the only real reason I joined. 

           I remember signing the paper…I don't remember what it said.  I remember going through some silly little ceremony, where I raised my hand and swore allegiance. 

           I don't remember if my fingers were crossed behind my back.

           I remember the third best pancake breakfast in the history of the world at the hotel the next morning. 

           I don't remember when I met my parents, even though I know they were at the airport when I left. 

           I remember some big goofy kid taking charge of our little group.  He was the one that played the Chantal Kreviazuk song for me.  He also explained to me that my seat could used as a flotation device…which offered little comfort to someone riding a plane for the first time. 

           I remember…my mom, my dad, my little brother.  It was the last time I would see my little brother as still little…whenever I would later come home from leave he would be three feet taller with facial hair.  My mom would be 70 pounds heavier, and my Dad 50 pounds lighter.  Both would have gray hair. 

           At the time I didn't want to admit that these people, this place, and this life, would all change while I was away. 

           I had convinced myself that I would come home on leave over and over…that I would return to my little life a much better man, and make everyone else better in turn. 

           My mom cried, she always did.  I think…I can't quite remember, but I think the men in my family stayed strong in front of one another. 

           I also can't remember if I cried on the plane. 

           But I can remember that my first plane ride felt like I was stuck on a never-ending roller coaster.  I had to get used to the motion sickness.

           I can't remember their final words to send me off.  I can't remember what happened when we arrived, or how I got from the airport to the Basic Training post. 

           But I can remember that song…that song from the Armageddon sound track that my friend played for me on the airplane.  It become my anthem, my inspiration, and stayed inside my head through every tough obstacle I would face over the next weeks.

           And in the end they were not that tough…

           Not nearly as tough as that first day, when I said goodbye to all I had known and loved for eighteen years.

            And found myself "Leaving, on a Jet Plane".

How I Almost Lost My Rank...or...How LT Bullard Lost His Integrity

The bastard actually told me, “You’re biting the hand that feeds you.”, and “You’ve made a big mistake.”

That was LT Dwight Bullard, right after the spineless son of a bitch had caved in to pressure from 1SG Riley and SFC Dochterman, and right before he decided to recommend me for UCMJ action. With a blank counseling statement nonetheless. He ACTUALLY handed me a blank counseling statement saying he was recommending me for UMCJ and told me to sign it.

Which I naturally refused. Maybe in the old Army that was okay, but sure as hell not in MY Army. There’s a reason it’s called a “counseling” statement.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been threatened with regards to my complaints against Menwith Hill. 1SG riley had already launched an investigation into “my conduct as an NCO”, and referred me to mental health. He, SFC Dochterman, and McClain, had already destroyed my career through a series of horrific NCOER evaluations. UCMJ would have been the last logical step in the military’s political game of “being blacklisted”.

Still, I was able to avoid the Article 15, after reporting it to the IG and gaining protection under the whistleblowers protection act. I was even able to get them to stop the command’s investigation of me. What I was not able to avoid was being blacklisted. From that point forward, I was the 404^th’s bastard stepchild, and no amount of good deeds would change that.

Not for lack of trying. I did enough during my tour at Menwith Hill to get recommended for a DMSM. In fact, my immediate supervisors thought I was the greatest thing on God’s green Earth, and yet, whenever they tried to explain this to the higher Army command, they were shut out like nobody was even talking. My DMSM got kicked back, and I settled for another JCOM, which six months later, would get lost in “the paperwork” somewhere. I left the military, and my tour at Menwith, without receiving my end of tour award.

Which again, was not even worth fighting for. A JCOM doesn’t mean shit in the real world.

But, even this affected other soldiers who worked alongside me. For example, we had over 60 soldiers working with us on a base holiday event, one of the best events our tiny base had seen in years. When I recommended our volunteers receive some sort of recognition, not once, not twice, but on six separate occasions, I was told by MSG Finley “Did you submit the paperwork?”, which I had, and then, “okay, SSG, well, I’m working on it.”

The civilians gave everyone recognition, the Air Force listened to me and recognized their volunteers, as did the Navy and Marines.

What did the Army do?

They recognized one soldier, a golden boy by the name of Nathan Lange, and no one else, with a volunteer medal. He had half as many hours as some people, he had no other volunteer efforts, and yet he was the one our good ole boy command decided to recognize.

The rest of soldiers, some of whom worked 8-10 hours a day for three weeks straight, received nothing, and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t because sour grapes between me and the 404^th MI Company. And the soldiers weren’t stupid. They ALL knew what was going on, and what is still going on. God bless them.

As for LT Bullard, well, he initially confronted me with the blank counseling statement during a shouting match in front of the junior soldiers, the work section, the entire watchfloor, and pretty much everyone including God and the Queen. In the Army that’s a big no-no, and I expected at least an officer to know that.

After that I went to IG about the blank counseling statement he had given to me, and they spoke with him. He came back to counsel me later that afternoon, in private. I can’t remember most of the counseling session, but I know it had to do with not fighting the command, disrespecting him as an officer and ended with “I’m very disappointed in you, SSG.”

To which I responded, that the soldiers needed someone to fight for them, he disrespected himself and also me as an NCO, and ended with “Sir, I’m very disappointed with you.”

Which I was. LT Bullard was once a powerful ally. He had seen all the injustices I went through in our section and the reasons that 1SG Riley and SFC Dochterman had chosen to attack me. He was respected amongst us.

There was a time when he would have stood up like a man and defended us.

But those days were gone, and so was the Dwight Bullard that all of our Soldiers knew and followed. The day that he threw a hissyfit at us, with me taking the brunt, in front of everyone was the day he lost respect with a small group of soldiers, which in a place like Menwith Hill, translates to losing respect with a large group of soldiers.

Maybe someday, when he faces his own soul and has to account for his footprints in the back of so many soldiers, Dwight Bullard will return to being the leader he once was.

But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Recruiters are the Army's car salesman

            Michael Moore got it right.  In Fahrenheit 9/11, when he showed the two knucklehead Marine recruiters running around the parking lot, chasing down unsuspecting poor kids and trying to talk them into joining.  He got that part right on the button.  Everyone said “Oh, that’s just ridiculous.”  Well, at seventeen years old I got trapped in that sales pitch, and it was exactly what I saw on the silver screen. 

            I’ll begin by stating, without giving too much background that I was from a poor family.  And I don’t mean the “My parents never got me a car” type of poor background.  I mean the lived in a house with dirt floors, wallpaper for insulation and possums crawling up through the hole in the back of the house type poor.  I was also very immature at 18…like a 12 year old mind in an 18 years old body type mature, and  I was also beaten as a very young child…not beaten…more like tortured.  Like, Lifetime television movie type tortured. 

            But we’re not going to delve into that aspect of my life.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.

            All we need to know is in the Army’s eyes this made me a prime candidate. 

            My first and only recruiter, who I only remember by the name “Markus”, approached me in the summer of my junior year.  I believe it was by phone at first.  I remember how scared I was at that age.  My GPA in high school was only a measly 2.69.  I had only one real extracurricular.  My parents couldn’t afford to feed me, let alone give me a college education.  I’d also never had a girlfriend.  I had one free ride year of school left, and then as my mom put it “You’re getting a suitcase for your eighteenth birthday and then you’re out the door.”

            And, lo and behold, here comes a man on the phone who says he can give me an education, money, food, AND chicks.  Shit...it’s a wonder I held out as long as I did. 

            Once I expressed interest, it was over before I even knew what happened to me.  It began with the Taco Bell.  I was underweight, and my recruiter needed me to put on some pounds if I was to pass an entry physical.  I mentioned one day that my favorite restaurant was Taco Bell, and it was settled.  Good ole Markus was shoving free Taco Bell down my throat every week.  He also bought a computer from my Dad’s business, and kept my parents from sending me to jail. 

            Of course, nowadays, especially after Fahrenheit 9/11, all of this would be illegal.  I didn’t realize this, but the Army actually had to take a day off of recruiting everywhere, just to train their recruiters that they were NOT allowed to do this type of conduct in any situation. 

I don’t know why they came after me.  You could not for one second tell me I was the optimal recruit.  It wasn’t like the Army looked at me and saw the potential for a bloodthirsty killer 100% loyal to his country.  And it wasn’t like I kept any of my discontent a secret either. 

            The thing was, I was in a moralistic, near pacifist phase.  I didn’t believe in the military, didn’t believe in war and killing, and was barely even strong enough to lift my own weight.  I stated this numerous times on my entry interviews, security clearance interviews, etc.  I simply did not agree with the way our country treated the rest of the world, and could not proclaim 100% allegiance to the cause. 

            Yet, each time I told them this, there was a recruiter or interrogator who would badger me until I agreed to say that I was loyal to the American values, and that I would pick up a weapon and kill if I needed to. 

And the sales pitch from my recruiter…JUST like the movie.  “Do you like boxing…you know the army has a boxing team?  You like writing poetry?  Oh, the army is full of writers.  You’ll be writing all the time.  Did you know, when you’re in the Army, and you go to the club and throw your dog tags out, that chicks run after you?  You took one year of German in high school?  Oh, you might be able to be a German linguist.  Then you can make tons of money!“

Honestly, I wasn’t really concerned with the chicks, and the money was attractive, but I was sure I could find more elsewhere. 

            It was that damn college education that they got me on…$40,000+ free dollars to learn whatever I wanted. 

            At the time what I wanted was to become a schoolteacher.  Times have sure changed.

            So, I signed up.  I honestly don’t even remember when or how I signed up, or even how much college money I signed up for, which goes to show how much I really paid attention to this drastic life altering decision. 

            17 years old, not even a senior in high school yet, and I had committed my life to them.  My entire senior year was horrible.  I still lived in the same abusive environment.  My pipe dream of running away to some far distant land to reestablish myself as a famous actor or writer had disappeared, as in my eyes; there was a bounty on my head if I chose to not fulfill my obligations to the US military.  I felt like I was a ticking time bomb. 

            Of course, unknown to me, I could have just not showed up.  I talked one of my lackeys at the time, a guy named Roger, into joining with me, so that I could get promoted.  Yeah, I was shameless.  But I was also seventeen, and my morals were only twelve.  The guy joined reluctantly, but later dropped out of high school three months before graduation.  My recruiter, and I, never heard from him again. 

            I thought he would end up in prison for going AWOL.  Turns out, if you quit before you actually sign up, there’s nothing they can do to you.  All that hogwash my recruiter was telling me about possibly being “AWOL” was just a pile of intimidating bullshit. 

            Senior year continued…counting down towards July 7, 1998, that gawdawful date where I would lose my soul and sense of self to the military machine, despite fighting against it so much.  I managed to swindle a promotion by signing up for a year of JROTC at my high school…where I constantly tormented all the other children who lived in this breeding ground of trenchcoat mafia/future Nazi’s.  In fact, I had a term for my fellow classmates in the JROTC program.  (JROTCS = GayNAZIS). 

            Time passed…I was the lead in the school play…I got my first kiss from the Assistant Director…I become very passionate about my writing…I felt tragic, depressed, and suicidal that final year…My friend lost his brother in a car accident…Some very mean kids became very nice to me, when they realized what I was heading towards…I was dealing with the fact that life was going to change…Not a little but drastically…

            I graduated.

            There were two more significant events in that final month between graduation and leaving home.  The first, almost destroyed my chances of joining the Army.  The second solidified my decision to get the hell out of that shitty little life I had been mired in for eighteen years. 

            I got in a fight with my parents.  I can’t remember why, how, or what it was about, but blows were thrown, and the police were almost called.  Luckily, my mom called the recruiter first.  He sped towards the house going as fast as his little rental car would go, and took control of situation.  Cooler heads prevailed, and my record stayed clean. 

            I got in ANOTHER fight with my parents.  This one over a huge birthday party we had planned.  Over thirty classmates were invited.  The idea was to have a big BBQ in a park nearby.  At the last minute, my dad refuses to let us BBQ, an argument ensues, and culminates in my Dad stepping through the BBQ, crushing it.  I locked myself in my room, and my relatives began screaming at each other and taking sides.  By the time everyone came to terms, and got to the park, no one was there. 

            Now, I was not exactly Mr. Popularity, so I’m banking on the fact that no one probably would have shown up anyways, let alone hung around the extra hour and a half it took us to finish fighting and arrive at the party.  But if they had they would have been greeted by the sight of my Dad fist fighting with my Grandfather and Uncle over the way they treated my mother as a child, and the rest of my relatives staring at each other in anger and silence. 

            I myself, sat in the corner of it all, realizing how dreadful this stupid little hick life was, and that I was destined for bigger and better things.

            It wasn’t until months, and years later, that I would realize how much I would miss that stupid little hick life. 

            Of course, by that point, I was busy standing in the middle of a basic training field, stabbing a pillow on a stick with a rusty bayonet attached to my M16 shouting:

            “To kill! To kill without mercy Drill Sergeant!!!”,

It begins with the end...

I stood there outside MSG Finley’s office, staring at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I had less than a week left of this shit…being in the military. I should have been upset at the paper in front of me, in fact I was upset, but the smarter part of me said let it go. I only had a few days left, and having taken on these immoral, unethical bastards before, I knew that this was a lengthy fight that was just not worth it.

The paper I held in my hands was an NCOER, or Non-Commissioned Officer Evaluation Report. It’s basically an over inflated piece of dribble the Army uses to claim it’s keeping their leaders in check.

Really it’s just a political tool to separate the good ole boys from the dissenting majority, or at Menwith Hill, to separate the alcoholic racist elite from the suicidal whistleblowers.

The way the NCOER process is supposed to work, is that you are given a supervisor, who serves as your “Rater” and evaluates you on leadership, physical fitness, training, and so forth. Then a “Senior Rater” evaluates your performance and potential.

The problem is that everyone receives the same rating.

It is almost guaranteed in the Army that each leader will receive at least two excellences, successful in everything else, recommended as “Among the Best” for promotion, and given a rating of “1/1” for performance/potential. Receiving a “Needs Improvement” in any section of the NCOER, or anything below a 2/2 in performance/potential is effectively the death of your career.

Like I said…over inflated.

Which is why I was really pissed off when that fucker MSG Finley gave me a 3/2, and “Needs Improvement” for promotion. Not that I hadn’t already ruined my career by previously filing a series of IG complaints against this command and received similarly negative evaluations in return. I was just hoping for something different, I suppose, in my final days at Menwith Hill. I guess I shouldn’t have been so shocked.

I was in line for a good evaluation. I had trained on a completely new position in addition to my army title. I had organized a community morale and welfare event with over 60 volunteers and eight hundred people in attendance. I had created training software, websites, mentored junior soldiers, in addition to serving as interim shift sergeant to sixteen professionals. I had a good PT score. I had a 4.0 college GPA, and finished my associate’s degree.

All of this was reflected in my Squad Leader’s evaluation of my performance, which was stellar. My Senior Rater, MSG Wiggins, also assured me my performance had been exemplary and that he intended to make sure my NCOER reflected that.

So maybe I should have been shocked when MSG Finley handed me the paper with HIS name as my senior rater, and a 3/2 evaluation.

MSG Wiggins, my real senior rater, had fallen out of favor with the boys club a month earlier. While serving as 1SG, MSG Wiggins and his Commander, CPT Jezercak, found the same racist allegations that I did, upon assuming command and conducting their initial “command climate” survey. This led to further investigations and frustrations as they were unable to get to the bottom of the situation.

CPT Jezercak was selected for promotion to Major, but she instead opted out of the military lifestyle for a civilian contracting job. Smart woman.

Unfortunately, this left MSG Wiggins without an ally. When the command changed a couple months before I got out, MSG Wiggins faded into the background, and 1SG Finley took over. CPT Bullard took over as his new commander, which posed a real problem for me and the other junior leaders who had been at Menwith Hill a while.

We all knew that Dwight Bullard was a racist, spineless bastard.

Years earlier, I trusted CPT Bullard, who was then a lieutenant. He was a mentor of sorts. As I was filing my IG complaints, he started out supporting my position and backing me up as I went against the command.

But when the pressure started, when shit really hit the fan, he caved like a prissy little bitch, and in fact, when the stress was piled on the worst, it was good ole Dwight Bullard himself who recommended to the command that my rank to be taken away. I was lucky in that the whistleblower act protected me from his course of action.

But the IG did not protect me from the political document known as a negative NCOER report. There is no real system in place to appeal an NCOER to any legal Army authority, something I discovered over and over again during the course of my IG complaints. IG refused to hear anything pertaining to this document.

To make matters worst, not only was this worthless piece of trash named CPT Bullard in charge of a troubled company full of soldiers, but he was teamed with MSG Finley as his First Sergeant. The two had a prior relationship going back several years, which is why I assume MSG Finley had no problem breaking ethical and legal guidelines to alter my rating scheme, inserting himself into MSG Wiggins previous position.

So, I received my final evaluation from a man who had known me all of a month, spoken to me less than ten seconds within that month, and was best friends with the commander I had filed IG complaints against a year ago.

I REALLY shouldn’t have been shocked.

Unfortunately, at this point in my life, I didn’t have time to fight this battle. I was less than a week from being unemployed, with a pregnant wife and no place to live.

And thanks to the Army, my Security Clearance paperwork had just been misfiled.

So, I showed the 1SG the regulations explaining why he was wrong. I gave him the legal documentation, like the rating scheme, which hadn’t been updated in months.

And his response was “SSG, you can challenge it if you want.”

He knew I had already been down that road before.

So my response was “1SG, I’m signing this paper, not because I agree with it, but because I really don’t give a fuck anymore.”

And then I left the office.