Solutions for Austerity and Hostility

I've been far too busy with other things recently, and have been neglecting my blog here. For those friends and readers who are interested in issues of and skills for wilderness survival, abandoned mine exploration, armed citizen/concealed carry, armed professions, individual medical skills and tactical medicine, and a related mish-mash there of, I'll invite you to where I have been busy: http://BFELabs.com is my “professional” home as something other than a writer/artist. Some of you may find it interesting. Some of you may find it appalling.
I'll admit some trepidation at linking these two halves of my life. While the one is rather accepting of the other, it doesn't always go both ways. The artsy, literary, side of the house is often not at all accepting of the gun carrying, wilderness capable, military/police friendly, war-on-terror supporting, knife fighting, mine exploring, MMA-training, type. Whereas the long fangs are often as artsy and literary as anyone else. This is a constant source of disappointment in my life, as folks from the supposedly kinder/gentler art and writing world are often so put-off by the other as to make friendship difficult. The professional costs may be as high as well. That is, however, just the way it is. I am who and what I am, and I'll never compromise that because I offend the delicate political sensibilities of my fellow artists and writers. It's not that I am politically incorrect – You are just ideologically sheltered.

Armed Bohemian

I have a new project - Armed Bohemian, a blog on some specific ideas about war, culture, warriors and related thoughts, problems and snarky comments.
This will let me leave Rum & Donuts as the personal forum I've created it to be. The ideas and questions that will be shaping Armed Bohemian are rather constant for me, and I'd rather give them their own playground than dominate this space with them.

Stay tuned - More to come, here, there, and elsewhere!

Hero's

The other day I read a review of the new film “The Hurt Locker” on a movie blog and it started me thinking. The film, which I've not seen yet, is about Army Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) Technicians in Iraq, and by all accounts is not a typical (linear and plot-driven) film, rather being character driven. The blogger took issue with it for this, and several more reasons which, save one, I wont go into. Both because I've not seen the movie, and I don't care about his other complaints. Also, I commented on his blog and left a link back but have no desire or intention to attempt a cross-blog war. His post, and my response, simply prompted further though an idea. An idea I want to share, where I've the room to do so.
The issue at hand that was taken in this review I read, was with the portrayal of the characters. The blogger did not feel that they were worthwhile or compelling, and seemed to feel they weren't fitting representations of US servicemen. The reviewer felt that they lacked higher minded motivations, and acted as hero's out of personal issues, being adrenaline junkies, rather than out of any particular goodness.
I'm not going to (extensively) quote the review, as this is less about the review, or the reviewer, than the idea of “hero's”, but in paraphrase his objections were: A specific leading character's heroism was driven less by a solid moral fiber, than by being an adrenaline junkie. Most of the character's were in fact lacking positive motivations (“anything but upbeat and inspirational”, to sneak a quote in). They were there and fighting merely for selfish reasons, not some greater struggle against evil, or to protect the oppressed and innocent. He found it hard to support, much less care for, the character's he thought were arrogant, and would've rather been rooting for characters driven by “goodness” - Using Batman, Spiderman and Superman as examples of characters driven by goodness, and the audience' ability to invest in them for the people of character they truly are.

I cannot help but feel that this reviewer has mistaken his favorite fictions and imaginary hero's for real ones. It seems that his real objection is that this film doesn't present his hero's in the fictitious, idealized, light to which he's accustomed to seeing them. It doesn't present them as Supermen, or even as Batmen (tortured, but ultimately idealistic and good intentioned). It presents them as realistic, human, men. Given this, I have to wonder if the reviewer who brought these ideas to the fore in me, isn't the only one who suffers this idealism of hero's.
Has it ever occurred to these folks that their hero's, many of history's (military or otherwise) hero's, were in fact no more high minded than the men in The Hurt Locker? That same people put themselves into situations that make hero's of them not because it serves the common good, but because it serves their needs and desires?
The accounts written after the act(s) of heroism, or after any act, are rarely the truth. This is not to say that all hero's are bastards who were in the right place at the right time, but that not all of them aren't that.
Many hero's, as people visualize them, are actually fictions and in the bright light of day, they are just men and women. People who fought, warred, struggled and killed, less out of patriotism, less out of belief in something greater, than out of a simple skill and enjoyment. Even, without enjoyment, no greater drive than a pragmatic assessment of their abilities, opportunities and situations. At times too, just sheer futility and "fuck it" attitudes. Not everyone who does these jobs does them for upbeat or inspirational reasons - Some do them for the blackest reasons possible.
That does not make them incapable of heroism, or invaluable to society. Quite the opposite. It may be that in these positions (from war to wildland firefighting), where people who have no use for most of society find an escape from it and a great satisfaction in hard work and high risk, they are actually of the most benefit to the whole. An accidental (maybe) symbiotic relationship between the misanthrope, and the masses.
Not everyone who stands on the lines between disaster and safety, between the great hordes and the great civilizations, is a sheepdog guarding the flock. Many are just another type of wolf – One's evolved in a manner where they'd rather bloody their fangs on other wolves.
They may not be people to know, and certainly not the kind of people to have to tea, but they're no less valuable, and when the pressure is on, no less gallant for it. Such men and women need, and deserve, as much celebration as the patriotic, service oriented, and high minded.

The Horrible Strength of a Valkyrie

I have thought for a time now that there is such thing as a horrible strength. A strength to do something that 90 - 99% of others would turn away from. Some act, even a kindness, that no one likes, everyone reviles, and that is still necessary, so someone shoulders the toll and does it.
I have the strength for many horrible things. I can be wrist deep in a trauma victim and never flinch. I can put down suffering animals. I can do others violence. Things I am both proud of, and those I am not.
But I do not have the strength to do what some do....

‘Camouflage Angel’ Spends Last Moments With U.S. Combat Casualties
JOINT BASE BALAD — The emergency-room trauma call and the medical staff's immediate action upon his arrival is only a memory to her now; sitting quietly at the bedside of her brother-in-arms, she carefully takes his hand, thanking him for his service and promising she will not leave his side.

He is a critically injured combat casualty, and she is Army Sgt. Jennifer Watson of the Casualty Liaison Team here.

Although a somber scene, it is not an uncommon one for the Peru, Ind., native, who in addition to her primary duties throughout the last 14 months, has taken it upon herself to ensure no U.S. casualty passes away alone. Holding each of their hands, she sits with them until the end, no matter the day or the hour.

"It's unfortunate that their families can't be here," said Watson, who is deployed here from Fort Campbell, Ky. "So I took it upon myself to step up and be that family while they are here. No one asked me to do it; I just did what I felt was right in my heart. I want them to know they are heroes.

"I feel just because they are passing away does not mean they cannot hear and feel someone around them," she continued. "I talk to them, thanking them for what they have done, telling them they are a hero, they will never be forgotten, and I explain my job to them to help them be at ease knowing the family will be told the truth."

In general, Watson explains to the patients that the CLT works within the Patient Administrative Department here, acting as a liaison for all military and civilian patients in-theater and initiating the casualty-notification process to the patient's next-of-kin.

Upon their arrival at the Air Force Theater Hospital, Watson speaks with each combat casualty getting as accurate information as possible about the incident. Once the doctor gives their diagnosis and severity of the patient's injuries, Watson and her team complete and send a Defense Casualty Information Processing System folder report to the Department of the Army or the patient's respective service so that their next-of-kin can be notified.

"I make sure we tell their family everything they want to know, so they know everything that's going on," said Watson. "[Through the report], we'll tell the families everything that is going on with their family member ... so that they don't have any questions."

Furthermore, once the initial report has been sent, the CLT and Watson make hourly rounds to the intensive-care ward or unit to check on the patient's well-being, or, for the more critical patients, to check on their stability.

"We are constantly communicating and making sure the family knows everything we know," said Watson. "We want to put the families at ease and let them know that everything is being done for their loved one. From the moment a servicemember is brought in through Hero's Highway, they are never alone."

Each month, the AFTH, the equivalent of a U.S. Level-1 trauma center, treats more than 539 patients; more than 101 are trauma cases in the emergency department. Although Watson can never predict if and when her fellow brothers- or sisters- in arms may need her, she is always available here.

"The hospital staff is wonderful," said Watson. "They know how important it is for me to be there with them and if they know it's time, someone will come and get me no matter where I'm at.

"I see it as a form of closure, not just for me, but for the families so that they know that somebody was there with their son or daughter," she added. "My heart goes out to every patient that comes into the hospital, especially my wounded in action Soldiers. I feel like everyone who comes through the door is my brother or sister."

Not surprisingly, Watson's dedication to duty and her hard work have not gone unnoticed. She has touched the lives of all those who she has come in contact with, to include the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group commander, Col. Mark Mavity.

"Sgt. Watson's story is one of the most compelling here in the Med Group," said Mavity. "She is a Soldier's Soldier who combines an unparalleled level of compassion and commitment to our most grievously wounded warriors with amazing professionalism each and every day.

"What is truly incredible is that she is a personnelist by training but with the heart of a medic who has taken it upon herself to hold the hand and keep a bedside vigil with every mortally wounded Soldier who has spent their last hours within the AFTH," continued the colonel. "She will not let her brave brothers or sisters pass alone. This is a heavy burden to bear and at great personal emotional cost to Sgt. Watson, but she is unwavering in her final commitment to these Soldiers. You don't have to look any further than Sgt. Watson to find a true hero."

"Angel" and "hero" are only two of the many titles Watson has been given since arriving at JBB; although she is appreciative of the kind words, she remains humble.

"I am far from an angel," said the sergeant with a smile. "I just do what is in my heart. I guess for me, I think about the family and the closure of knowing the Soldier did not pass away alone. To say I'm a hero ... no. The heroes are my guys who come in [through Hero's Highway]."

Reflecting on her time here, Watson said she is extremely thankful for the opportunity she has had to work side-by-side with the Air Force.

"The staff of the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group has done an amazing job since I have been here," she said. "They are incredible. They have done procedures and saved the lives of the most critically injured Soldiers, and have been some of the most professional people I have ever worked with.

"I want the families to know that their servicemember was a hero," Watson concluded. "They made the ultimate sacrifice, but before they passed on, they received the best medical treatment, and the staff did everything they could -- they were not in pain and they didn't die alone."

(By Staff Sgt. Dilia Ayala, 332nd Air Expeditionary Wing)

This woman has a strength far beyond anything I could ever have. Friends, lovers, brothers - Yes. But every single casualty, known and unknown? Every dying stranger? I'd be in the nut-farm inside a week.
Sgt. Watson has my deepest admiration.
From what I've seen, on the military forums I am on, she has the admiration and respect of every one who has heard of her. Many a truly hard man has said what I've said, that they couldn't do what she does. I imagine she has the largest, best armed, bunch of big brothers in the whole world. She is a hero to heros, and harder than woodpecker lips.

The Hope of Warlords

Once I said if I could be anything in history, I’d want to be a pirate. Now, I think not. By then it was already too late. The world had begun to end, to flatten. Colonialism was the first step. Wooden ships sailing across oceans, putting alien boots on alien soil, would be part of the problem – Even as one of the predators. Predation didn’t slow it down any measurable amount.
I look in the mirror and piracy is not what I want. I want to be a Pashtun warlord, tucked away in the mountains. Horseback and high, with my muskets, and Khyber knives. Killing traders, wanderers, adventurers. Letting enemy armies batter themselves against my mountains. Watching their wills shattered by the stones and the cold as I slip ravine to ravine in shadow.
If I could be anything else, at least tonight, I would be high, dry, and cold with my warhorses, my tribe and my wives.

That day may yet come. Am I wrong to hope?

A Warrior Falls

Like every day before, the officer wasn't late for duty. He sat in the Squad room, paying attention when he needed to, joking with his fellows when he didn't. He climbed into the seat of the car, and settled in for the morning patrol.
Sometime after breakfast, (coffee and a McMuffin for his partner, just a McMuffin for him,) and before lunch (he will wonder, later and only once, if it might have been good), the call comes in. Man with a gun, wife and children in the house. His partner flips an otherwise illegal U-turn he calls flipping a bitch, and puts the V8 Interceptor to work.
The scene is the chaos that finds its home in the heart of every warrior, its meaning and pattern apparent only in his mind. Shots are fired out the window. Tear gas is fired back in. The wife and kids come out. The gunman doesn't. The officer wonders how people can be so cruel to one another at times, doing that to their women, and their little ones. He thinks maybe he'd like to have a pup or two of his own someday, but doesn't have time for deeper contemplation. They're lining up, going in, he's got to go - All thoughts are on the door, the monster behind it, the monster with the gun.
They put flash-bangs through the windows as the great big man in-front slams the backdoor into a thousand splinters, a million motes of dust - Each one lit up for an instant by the flash of the 'bangs.
They're in, dust and smoke clouding the already hazy unlit room. The gunfire comes from within that haze, muzzle flashes - A cheap nine-millimeter, something that any other time might not have even fired. Call it fate, call it irony, call it tragedy, call it life. Gunfire in response, the solider, more reliable, fire of forty-five's and five-point-five-sixes, all well made, well maintained, as ready for action as he. But he's not acting anymore, he doesn't hear the return gunfire - One round, just the wrong side of the edge on his vest, has torn through flesh and bone and gone deep inside.
The Earth trembles when he falls.
He hurts when he breathes, but knows he must keep trying. He doesn't know where his partner is. Where the bad man is. He fights - To breath, to be loyal, to serve. It hurts, deep inside where it hasn't hurt since his heart broke once, when he was young, the last time he saw his mother.
His partner is there then, looking down at him, saying soft, soothing things, calling him "buddy". He likes it when his partner does that. The bad man is there too, but he's not standing up, or fighting. The officer relaxes a little now, but its still so hard to breathe and he has to breathe to make sure there are no more badmen.
His vision falters, he's going to sleep. Somewhere out in the growing blackness what might be a green field, and old friends, are visible. He blinks. The dust is settling in the room, but its all light and shadow.
They take his vest off, he feels them placing something over the wound. A needle sticks him between the ribs. Its easier to breathe now, but he's still so tired. He cant fight sleep anymore. He hears his friends calling him into the soft grass of the field.

I see him as they bring him out of the ambulance. One paramedic just picks him up off the gurney, and steps out into the harsh midday light. His blood runs down the front of the 'medics white uniform shirt, but that's okay. He's one of them, a compatriot, a force against the destruction they all feel chasing them - Chasing the world - a brother, a Warrior.
The other paramedic is holding the door open. Right of the door there is wall of his fellow warriors folding in behind the one carrying him as they go through the door. Tears are in their eyes. I can feel the reverberations in the Earth now, as I see them disappear within, and the Veterinary clinic doors close behind them.

Kipling, My Boy Jack

'Have you news of my boy Jack?'
Not this tide.
'When d'you think that he'll come back?'
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Has any one else had word of him?'
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind -
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Kipling' (the verb) is the act of reading, orating or sharing the work of Rudyard Kipling. He isnt regarded as the greatest poet of his generation, and his stylings have largely fallen out of favor among poets and scholars of poetics, which I think is quite the shame. I am an unabashed, and rather fervent, Kipling fan.
I recently watched a British television production called "My Boy Jack", about Kipling and his son, Jack, who died in 1915 while fighting in World War I. The title of the film is taken from the above poem, which was published a few years after Jack's death. Kipling and his wife waited, without relief, for final, official, word or proof of their sons death, and the circumstances there-of. His body was only identified and returned after both of their deaths.

If I am to die as a soldier, a fighter, a man, and particularly if I am to die before my parents, I want someone to read this for me.

Outside Life

I drove my dad to an opthamologist appointment at the VA today. While I waited for him to emerge from the small exam room, bespectacled with flimsy black plastic lenses to protect his dilated pupils, I sat reading a motorcycle magazine. The small waiting area filled quickly, old men with beards and long hair and baseball caps and old boonie hats with unit insignias and names of places where men strived, and died, and God comfort them, Survived. They spoke amongst themselves; "Aint no coffee in here. Shame." "Yeah it is." "How ya doin?" Hands shaken "Welcome back"... A language known, familiar, and alien. Among them, but not of them, I sat, trying to tuck myself into the iron and fire of motorcycle building, feeling the very obvious outsider in their midst.
One day, some day, and at what cost? I believe some of us are built for some things - Some burdens - And really, there is only one way to find out. A constant line of thought for me.
The other day someone thanked me, for planning to serve. My first lurch was to accept it and go on, but my instinct is to reject such thanks. I'm a gonna-be, second cousin to the wanna-be. Gonna-be's are possibly redeemable, they have the promise of salvation in action but have yet to be washed in the baptismal substances of their desired work, but they are not Been-an-done's. Thank those who have gone and not returned, thank those who have gone and returned, but dont thank those whose youthful idlewild makes them think they are cut from the same cloth. What have we done?

Later in the day, doing some shopping I found myself keeping an odd sync with a pretty woman of about forty. A very well kept forty, with a very good figure dressed in blue jeans and a sweater. A very big rock on her finger. Working it pretty hard, good swing in her walk, the gym defined ass setting the beat, the paid-in-full chest keeping time. I made eye contact, she smiled, I smiled. We did it again. I stepped in-front of her cart unintentionally, "Excuse me." "Mmmmmmmmmm-hm", long, drawn out, savored. Next time we met in an aisle she had just de-shelved a row of cereal. I helped her pick it up, earning her chagrined thanks. The falling boxes had struck her composure, the creation of her image, a blow - She looked better shaken, out of her element just a bit, uncomposed. I smiled, "You'll forgive me, but I have to say I hope that when I'm 30-something, it looks as good on me as it does on you." She smiled, faux shy, called me a liar - I was, but only about her being that young - It was exactly what she wanted to hear. One hell of a big rock on her finger. I finished my shopping.