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Name: Loyal
Country: United States
State: Missouri
Metro: Springfield
Gender: Male


Interests: People excite me if they read, write and think. Photography is a passion. I pay attention to what people do.
Expertise: Occasionally discovering something beautiful.
Occupation: Photographer
Industry: Photography


Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website


Member Since: 2/14/2005
Lifetime

The Justice and Peace that is Parodied

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Sunday, July 19, 2009

to think for the heart

there is no birth control for the soul...
no prophylactic for the heart...
no IUD for the eyes...
to protect love in the throes of passion

style is right that sometimes casual sex just stops being casual
and very wrong to think for the heart, that it ever started

Currently
Viva La Vida
By Coldplay
1. Life In Technicolor
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Sunday, June 21, 2009

time won't ever mean a thing... forever

I woke this morning to a call from my dad on Father's Day. Normally, it's the other way around and a son is calling his dad but since when have Dad and I ever done things by the book? I've never asked for him to reciprocate this sentiment but when I'm asked, I will be quick to say that Dad is also my closest friend- after all he has known me intimately longer than any other man I've known.

Our relationship hasn't always been this close, warm or affectionate. If my view of God is shaped by my relationship with my father it's no wonder that I'm open to the idea that the relationship between the Almighty and his humans is continually in a state of evolutionary flux. Some might want to debate the finer points of my theology with well constructed arguments from systematic doctrine and all I can say is that I'm sorry that your dad doesn't love you as much as mine loves me.

Not to sound cliched but Dad and I are so close that I don't feel compelled to celebrate a holiday that honors him by being with him on that specific Sunday. I'm painfully aware that I have fewer days ahead with him than we've shared in the past and so small projects like putting on a porch roof, take way to long to finish. It seems that we work enough to justify the time together as something that men do but the truth is that we spend most of that time in fellowship- he drawing from an energy that can only be tapped by pouring himself into a younger man and me from stepping into that space and receiving the art of being blessed.

Much of who we are as a family is not shaped by the Auterson side. The product of a broken home, Dad was mostly raised in the care of his mother and so it's her family, her idiosyncrasies and her history that largely impresses a shape on who we've become. Thanks to Facebook, I've gotten to meet 2nd and 3rd cousins and learn where nature has had more influence on me than has nurture- apparently the smart ass in me comes firmly from Auterson stock.

In these new friendships with family (that are my age but that I've never met) I'm asked to explain why we had little contact with their side. There are any number of wrong answers that I use to make this right but at it's core is the truth that my Dad did not know his own father. To the best of my knowledge they never spent a Father's Day together- ever.

1945 found my father living with his mom in San Francisco; the Second Great War was flinging planes into the air, bullets across the battlefields and industries into motion. As was his way, he went to the theater on a Saturday afternoon to catch the shows with all his buddies. Entrance in might have been paid by bringing a scrap of aluminum foil or a piece of rubber tire that could by recycled for the war effort.

Stepping into the lobby his heart leaped into his throat pounding. Standing between the expanse of worn out carpet and the door under a hazy smell of buttered popcorn was his father. At the age of eight his little heart was anxiously fearing the inevitable.

"If your dad ever gets his hands on you, Franky, he'll take you away from me. He'll kidnap you and haul you down to Southern California. Don't let him take you," his mother's words hang somewhere between his ears and the childish chatter of the crowd.

He had two options, either try to make a break past his dad in a large group of boys from school or join a smaller crowd slipping out the side door. Never taking his eyes off the man across the room he slipped out the side and as soon as he hit the wash of the bright California sunshine, he ducked into a space between the bank and a culvert under the rail tracks. His eyes never left the front of the theater while his heart slowly calmed down and his thoughts quieted.

"Franky, what are you doing in there?" a buddy hollered at him from the walk.

"Shhh. I'm hiding from my dad. He's come up to take me away," he hissed back.

"He won't try to take you if we are together. Here, walk home with me."

Scrambling out of his hiding place, my dad furtively walked along the tracks in the shadow of his larger friend. After a half a mile or so the sound that he'd dreaded to hear grew closer, two motorcycles coming along the road from behind. As they approached the lead of the two bikes pulled ahead a little and stopped.

Dad's parents had easily been apart for five years at this point and both had remarried, the split happened sometime after dad had turned three and been farmed off to relatives in New Mexico. Barely past being a toddler, he'd been placed on a Greyhound bus from Ponca City, Oklahoma to Portales, New Mexico. On the ride he'd soiled himself and no one wanted to sit near him except for the driver who graciously shared his lunch and made sure that he got to the front door of his Grandparent's small home.

Astride the bike was his father and step mom on the back. Pulled up nearby was another couple who'd made the ride up on a second Harley, nearly 400 miles on Highway 101. Tired, his dad's face visibly brightened.

"Hey Franky! It's me your Dad! Hey son, come here!"

The only recourse was to run and hope that the adults wouldn't try to follow on their bikes across the rail yard. He quickly bolted to his left followed by his friend- the two boys zigged and zagged through the rail cars as fast as their little legs would go. The hollers and shouts from the adults to come back eventually was lost to the distance as they wound their way through the neighborhood on the far side of the yard.

He snuck home slowly, hiding at even the hint of an approaching motorcycle. As the sun settled off into the horizon west of the bay and the shadows grew lengthening into dark he finally reached his neighborhood. Slipping onto their houseboat from the marsh he was greeted by my Grandma.

"Where have you been all day? Your dad is in town. He came by looking for you and I sent him down to the theater," she says.

"I saw him in the lobby and ducked out the side," he tells her. "He chased me later but I ran away. It took all afternoon to get home. Mom, I'm sorry."

"You mean he came all this way to see you and you ran from him? Good, boy! Serves him!" she says in a tone that I imagine could have just as easily come from another woman I once loved. Telling me this, dad comes to the same conclusion. Hearing this I wonder how it is that history seems to fall so easily into itself.

Unexpectedly she began to curse his father over and over again using an expletive for fornication that he'd never heard anyone ever use with such openness.

Years later he'd been raised by a loser rebound step dad, a second stepfather whom he still calls dad and a foster father of sorts. What he hadn't gleaned about being a man from them, the military had taught him until he came to know Christ through salvation. As a maturing Christian he eventually contacted a pastor friend and asked him to follow up on his father who still hadn't left Southern California since that sunny day in Frisco.

"Your dad wants to know why you ran away from him," Bob told him over the phone. "He says he'll never forgive you for that. Apparently you really hurt his feelings."

In retrospect my Grandfather was an alcoholic and so the subconscious skills necessary to shirk responsibility, pass the blame and illicit unnecessary guilt were pulled out to the stops and flexed firmly on my dad. Explaining as best he could to his friend that he'd simply run from a stranger in obedience to his mother's wishes, Dad's heart sank knowing somehow that explanations would never be enough to undo all the twenty years of damage that lay between them. Pastor Bob went back several times over the years but never was able to get past the alcoholic haze that covered my Granddad's emotions like the smog over Anaheim.

I never met him. My cousin tells me that one of the last times he visited Grandpa he was wakened at around three in the morning and told to get dressed quickly. Stumbling into the deep dark of an Arkansas night, Grandpa led him to an open field and on a blanket they stared up in wonder as Halley's comet dropped its way across the stars overhead. By this point, he'd stopped drinking and started living right but the years of living wrong hadn't forgiven him and he soon passed away.

Even when my dad was in his fifties, he never was able to breach the accusation that he'd abandoned his father as a boy. Afraid that our only memory of our grandfather might be of a drunken and brawling fool he kept Lance and I away from him. At his funeral in Arkansas, family assured my dad that eventually, Grandpa had settled down and become the good man for good that the demon alcohol had once possessed.

"Mom?" he asks her long after his dad was buried in the Arkansas hills, "Why did you tell Dad to come find me at the theater that day? If he was really going to kidnap me, why let him know where I was?"

I love my father for exhibiting the grace to seem naive when he already knew the answer. I love the way that does this still when having to confront the hurt and damage and sin in someone's choices. He loves that I'm one of the few people who values this and will give him a truthful answer so that grace can truly manifest itself.

"She lied," he tells me as we sit under the porch roof we still haven't finished putting up. "She says she can't remember ever telling me to run away from him. Son, it's because she was lying and hated him- that's why she can't remember. She's right that it never happened. He never threatened to take me away... that's what never happened."

I've just handed him a gift for father's day. Thirty years ago when I was eight he gave me my first watch. I've spent the last week carefully shopping for a simple Seiko as a way of finally saying thanks.

Sitting under that unfinished porch roof I find myself weeping quietly. There's an appropriate rage welling in me that only sorrow can bring. I grieve for the Grandfather I never knew, I grieve for the boy I hear speaking with the voice of a man I love so dearly and for the first time I wonder if how we act as sons speaks in anyway about how God's heart has been shaped towards us.

I see a brief glimpse of a Father calling after a son who can't be found. His voice still echoes under the flow of several thousand years of human history. In the cool of the day he called to a son hiding behind the foliage of a fig tree... and tenderly he's calling still.

Later that night Dad and I talked about it all again over the phone. He was sitting out in the yard of Mom's family farm looking up somewhere between 80 acres of Kansas and the Oklahoma sky and I was looking west through the windows of the Suburban. Between where we were I could see sheet lightning and thunderstorms out on the horizon. I thought about the flow of time, the fall of light and the weight of gravity that Grandpa and Sammy and Dad and I had all shared looking at those same stars with Abraham when God called him out of Canaan; called him with a promise to put the fruit of death back onto the tree it should have never been dropped from.

So Dad called me this morning to say thanks for the gift, for the conversation and for the time that we have. Every tick of that watch reminds us that time is neither friend or foe and while it may be relative, it can never be reversed. Thank God that it least time can always redeemed.

At the end of that call I hung up reflective. I whispered a prayer of thanks for all that I know of who God is from a father that has only ever known little of his dad. I look to that time when all fathers and sons will stand face to face with the one who is both Father and Son and in the moment time won't ever mean a thing... forever.
Currently
Palm Trees and Power Lines
By Sugarcult
3. Memory
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Monday, June 15, 2009

061508.1733

I recently sat down for an interview with Loyal Auterson at one of the local coffee shops he likes to haunt.  With his iconic cup of Highlander Grog in hand, he was as quick to smile as always with a new found sense of confident ease.  Clearly toned, he looked better than I could ever remember as he warmly greeted me.

 

JN-    Let’s first get at the question on everyone’s mind.  How long are you back in the Ozarks?

 

LA-    (Laughing) That’s a great question.  Next.

 

JN-    No, seriously.

 

LA-    Well, my best guess at this point is that I’ll be headed back to Fort Benning by the mid summer.  I’m guessing that I’ll heal faster than the paperwork can be submitted to get me back to OCS.  Gotta love that Army paperwork.

 

JN-    We are glad to have you home.  How are you liking being back in the civilian world?

 

LA-    That’s a double edged question.  I’m using the time here to take care of some ends that I’ve felt were still loose before I shipped out so that’s nice.  I just miss Army life.  I love being a soldier- the disciplines, the exercise, the tradition.

        My parents (and I guess Lance too) always say that they are glad to be home but can’t wait to get back to the field.  I relate to that for the first time in a really long time.  That is one of those TCK things that I’ve enjoyed reconnecting with.

 

JN-    You’ve written that being in the Army was like travelling through a third world country.  That’s really true for you isn’t but mostly in a cultural sense.

 

LA-    Yes.  I think so.  I know that treating the whole experience in that way really gave me an edge at Basic and I suspect that in some way it will make OCS much smoother for me compared to some of my colleagues.  The Army is a unique and somewhat foreign culture.  I think that being a TCK really helps to embrace that.  You know it’s one of the oldest cultures in the history of our country.  I just really dig that!

 

JN-    You are looking good.

 

LA-    (Laughing) Yes!  I gained 15 pounds of muscle all around my midriff and have a defined 6 pack to my abs.  Before I dropped back at OCS I was well established in the top 90% of the APFT chart for males my age.  65 pushups, 65 situps and a two mile run just under 15:30.

        Of course it took huge amounts of Ibuprofen to move.  My body just isn’t healing up as fast as it did when I was much younger.  Getting up in the middle of the night to go to the latrine was taking 5 minutes of stretching just to be able to walk.

 

JN-    What less obvious changes occurred as a result of Basic?

 

LA-    I’ve become a lot more focused emotionally.  Let’s face it, Basic training hits a psychological and emotional reset button for an individual.  I knew that going into the process and faced it fairly fearlessly.  I abandoned myself to submitting to the process and really drank it in.  The result is that a lot of my insecurities burned away in the PT.  Where some of my battle buddies needed to lose physical fat, I needed to shed some pounds emotionally.  I had a close friend predict this by the way so if Chris is out there reading this… Buddy, you nailed it.

        I spoke with a young PFC the other day who complained that he’d been lied to by his recruiter.  I love my recruiter, Sergeant Gary Combs.  He’s an honorable man and lives his testimony out in our community both as a Christian and as a soldier.  At basic I learned that not everyone is that blessed; time and again I heard a complaint about dishonorable recruiters with the people skills of a televangelist.

        I found myself challenging this young man to let the soldier in him come out and to let go of those resentments.  I encouraged him to take the dishonesty of his recruiter with gratitude because he’s now been forged into a warrior.  As we talked I could see his attitude shifting, his pride and confidence took over and a spiritual transformation began to occur.

        At Basic I figured out quickly that it’s all about attitude.  I woke up everyday committed to having the best day of my life in the Army.  There were times when really lousy things occurred but I still put my head down to sleep at night thankful that I’d had the best day yet since signing my contract.  The minute a person let’s that perspective slip, it’s hard to keep the emotions in balance and that’s when either they get hurt or hurt someone else.  I can’t thank Sergeant Combs enough (and I suppose my Drill Sergeants too) for recognizing that soldier in me and giving me the forge to temper the warrior out.

 

JN-    What happened to Cindy?

 

LA-    (Laughing) You’ve got to be joking?

 

JN-    No.  Seriously, that interchange is so poignant and delightful to read about.  Did you get a chance to keep in touch after Basic?  You seemed so enamored in the moment.

 

LA-    Sadly, the real Cindy doesn’t exist- I wish she did!  That story came out of watching this way that soldiers have of fraternizing without actually fraternizing.  It’s a social cue that I think I picked up a little more easily as a TCK.  In fact that’s probably why and where the TCK thread ended up weaving in and out of that story.

        It’s also a huge part of what makes the dynamics of my family work.  We often speak in metaphors as a safety mechanism.  It’s where I get my love for writing from I’m sure.  Couple that with my belief in a God who goes so far out of his way to speak in metaphor that he speaks himself as “the Word,” the final culmination of all language and presents himself to us in the form of Jesus Christ.  All of that was simmering in my thoughts and so out comes that story that is as you say, “poignant and delightful.”

        After I posted it to both Xanga and Facebook I sat back chuckling as friends debated in the comment section over whether I’d actually written it or not and then over whether or not Cindy actually was the woman of my dreams.

        The essential timeline of that story follows a conversation that I’d had with someone whose father did work for Exxon Mobil.  It began inline for meds and carried on at a bus stop.  There was enough real life in that to make the space it occurs in believable but as far as I know she’d never left Texas before getting to Fort Jackson.

        I think that story actually has more to do with finally coming to terms with some unresolved TCK issues that touch deeply into who I am emotionally.

 

JN-    Why hadn’t they surfaced before now?

 

LA-    The longest I’ve ever lived in one place has been nearly 20 years in Springfield.  Emotionally I suspect that Springfield became the metaphorical woods that I got so lost in that I couldn’t see the trees anymore.

        I’ve lost you haven’t I?  OK.  Let me try to say it this way.

        I’ve never resented being an MK.  At least not like other MK’s I know.  The only two negatives from my childhood were the possibility that exposure to hepatitis had done permanent liver damage and that some stresses from the last year in Ethiopia had surfaced and contributed to the dissolution of my relationship with Carol.  Or at least I thought that was all.

        MK’s say goodbye differently from everyone else and I had never realized that I’ve built some careful boundaries to keep from hurting too much from that.  A lot of people have wondered why I’ve never left Springfield since getting here 19 years ago… it has largely been a way of having to not say goodbye unless someone else is leaving.  This adventure has forced my to have a sense of home that is no longer anchored Springfield.  I couldn’t hide from it any more.

        It really came to a head at OCS.  One of my close friends in 1st Platoon at Jackson is another OC I refer to as Senator.  We come from conservative Christian backgrounds and both of us lead from a place encouraging.  At OCS we’d been talking about the TCK experience and whether or not he should seek to take his young family on overseas assignments.

        For a couple of days I kept espousing the upsides of the TCK experience and encouraging him to absorb those risks as a young husband and father.  Because of a clerical error he was suddenly dropped out of Charlie Company at OCS and like that (snaps his fingers) I’d lost one of my best friends.  I grieved for several days and found out later that he had too.  After I got rolled out of Charlie on medical reasons, Senator and I reunited at HHC and were able to have some measure of closure as he classed up with Bravo and I came home.

        At the time though, I had to deal with why I was enraged at the loss.  I remember standing on too many airstrips as a kid and waiting until the sound of a Cessna droned away long after the plane had disappeared from sight.  There’s an empty silence in one’s soul saying goodbye like that.  It sucks.

        Every time I watch my parents or Lance and Amy leave it’s with the knowledge that I may not be seeing them again.  They are about the only people anymore that I’ll bring that kind of pain on for me.  I’ve come to form quick, deep attachments that can be easily released.

 

JN-    Wow!  So where’s that leaving you?  I’d think that Army life would be similarly stressful.

 

LA-    It is.  It’s spiritually something I’ll probably be processing for a bit.  Still, I think it draws me back to the promise that Christianity holds- goodbye, loss and death are not the end.  They are the beginning to a future moment when we are promised and by faith trust that in a face to face experience with Christ it will be full of all hope, all beauty and even all love. Through his own resurrection we will see something so beautiful, lovely and full of meaning that all the goodbyes, losses and deaths that have lead to that point will have made it all worth it.

 

JN-    Well I want to thank you for your time.  Will it pain you too much to say goodbye?

 

LA-    You are joking right?

 

Currently
Garden State
5. I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You
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Friday, May 15, 2009

Our Beautiful America (a cadence)

Our Beautiful America
whose fields are rich with grain
On any given Sunday
we can always watch a game
Your skies hang full of freedom
to cover lover's lane
This soldier's heart is lifted
by the whisper of your name

Sing it
     Left Right Left Right Left Right Kill
Bring it
     Left Right Left Right You Know We Will

Currently
Face The Promise
By Bob Seger
4. No Matter Who You Are
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Thursday, May 14, 2009

040909.2102

“Islam is Peace” is spray painted on the wall in green, red and yellow respectively.  A four man assault stack led by Drill Sergeant Jacobs is crouched below it prepared to breach the building.  I’m the third man in the second stack and behind us are two medics.

 

In the second spot behind the drill sergeant is Roids, a recent art school graduate who is better at PT than any of the males.  In the third slot behind her is my bunk mate, Akiva, and the word is, is painted above him and now looks black rather than red.  He is followed by Waffles who is carrying the squad automatic weapon (a heavy machine gun known as the SAW) and he is the designated door kicker.

 

Waffles moves past the drill sergeant and knocks the door in.  We hear a double shot from the room and scuffling.  The building consists of several shipping containers bolted together to form the layout of a typical Iraqi structure.

 

The first team calls out a status report, tells us that the room is clear and that we are to stack left to go through a door on the front wall.  We file into the room stepping over the body of a dead insurgent, assault rifle just out of reach, lying just inside the door.  An unarmed civilian is curled up and hiding in the back corner.

 

There are open windows on both sides of the room and the first team is covering the door just in case someone comes in after us.  We duck beneath the window to avoid possible sniper fire either from the burned out hulk of a bus in the courtyard or from the second floor of the building beyond that.  I roll my weapon from Safe to Semi, my finger hovers of the trigger, ready.

 

The number one man on our team is a tall kid who used to fix computers at Circuit City.  The number two is an ex professional video game player who has all the motivation of a piece of paper.  Behind me is Easy, a laidback kid from Iowa, big enough to be a good door kicker.

 

Experience in other kill houses has taught me that being the third in the stack means that if the on and two men are shot, I end up taking out the contact.  My adrenaline is pumping as my barrel comes up.  If I have to shoot in the next room I’m terrified of taking out a civilian bystander.

 

Easy looks at me, scans the door for booby traps and moves the barrel of his weapon up and down three times to signal the count before he kicks it open.  Speed and violence of action are key to clearing a building and we have to leap from one team past the other room by room to get the job done.  The door kicks open and Firedog and Gameboy rush in to separate corners.

 

Firedog will take the path of least rresistance moving as far into the space as possible.  Gameboy will take the opposite direction if he follows his training- at times I think he can’t quite separate reality from his hours of exercising his thumbs.  I will follow the direction taken by Firedog and Easy will be behind me stepping into Gameboy’s shadow.  It will all happen in less than one second.

 

The room is empty.

 

We cover ourselves going by the open windows.  We yell out our status and call for the first team to stack right against the wall in front of us.  They slip in and move around behind us so that they are never in front of our line of fire.

 

Back in the first room the two medics, Scrapdog and Hooters are pushing the civilian out of the door.  Scrapdog likes to fight and eat and pass gas.  Hooters padded up her A cups to make huge mad money tips as a waitress before becoming a soldier.  They will set up a Casualty Collection Point in case any of us are hit and have to be drug out by the squad coming behind us.  They will also make sure that we aren’t ambushed by insurgents trying to sneak in on our six.

 

The drill sergeant calls us forward to stack right in the next room.  We pass civilians that are huddled under a window and again follow each other through the breach opened by Easy.  This room is like a long hall with a closet and as Firedog pies his weapon in an arc across that opening I get ready in case he’s jumped by an insurgent hiding inside.

 

Nothing happens.

 

We leap frog the other team around us and get ready to exit the building.  Outside I hear machine gun chatter from the second floor of the building I had seen earlier.  Drill Sergeant X is leading an eight man unit like ours, coming in from the opposite side of the village.  Apparently they taking fire.

 

Our drill sergeant gets his team ready to clear the burned out bus in the courtyard between the building we are in and the machine gunner’s position.  I can’t see it but I hear Waffles SAW open up inside the old Greyhound.  Akiva opens up his M16 in a pair of controlled doubles and I hear the referee tell the insurgent machine gunner that he is dead.

 

Our team is called out of the first building and we run up against the Greyhound for cover.  I crouch low to see civilians moving in the open chaos.  The team led by Drill Sergeant X has discovered some suspicious characters and his second squad is detaining them at the cemetery, our designated pickup point.

 

Easy is the only one on our team that has any athletic experience; used to football pads he actually runs smoothly as we sprint across to the next building.  Firedog, Gameboy and I are all slim and with all the weight of our battle rattle are carrying at least an additional twenty fiver percent of our normal body mass.  I hear gunfire as we enter the room we’ve been called into.

 

There are no dead civilians or insurgents and I realize that the fire is coming from the floor above us.  We breach past first team, into the next room to find it empty except for a stairwell.

 

Suddenly Drill Sergeant X appears from nowhere.  An experienced infantryman he has earned the nickname Ninja because of his stealth.  On more than one occasion he has appeared as if from thin air with blinding speed and slit my throat with a red marker.

 

He and Drill Sergeant Jacobs talk briefly and then send a fire team up the stairs that consists of Akiva, Roids, Waffles and Firedog.  Halfway up Roids lets off two round before her M16 jams and she has to yank the charging handle to clear it.  Akiva spins around, one step above her and lays open a series of shots at someone.  I pray he’s not hitting a civilian.

 

The two drill sergeants yell at the shooter who keeps firing.  Apparently the machine gunner we killed earlier was ignoring the referee and is now coming after us with an assault rifle.  I’m called up the stairs with Gameboy and Easy to help pull security.  The room is empty except for windows overlooking the courtyard and it’s now our turn to be the snipers.

 

Above the door are the remains of a booby trap simulator.  From above I can see slogans painted on the bus; Vive Sadam, USA is our friend, Yankees go home.  Civilians are throwing rocks at our soldiers and yelling at them as they mop up behind us.

 

My adrenaline levels are dropping and I’m now aware that my feet are hurting and I’m drenched in sweat.  Unless an insurgent tries to sneak up on us, our fire team is done.  Outside the drill sergeants call for us to come down.

 

“Friendlies coming out,” we yell at every opening on our way down the stairs and through each door.

 

In debrief we learn that only one of our team was killed.  The rules of engagement stipulated that we were not to shoot civilians.  Two civilians had grabbed him and then slit his throat when he had tried to resist.

 

Later I will be marched back at such a rapid pace that one fifth of our platoon will fall out and be given IV’s to rehydrate.  Later I will cross a place where previous soldiers were attacked with CS gas and as the dust kicks up for fifty meters, invisible particles will fight my nervous system.  Later, I will sell the M & M’s and Hooah Bar from my MRE for twenty dollars.

 

For now, I haven’t fired a shot at an insurgent or a civilian.  For now, “speed and violence of force is peace.”  For now, my weapon is rolled from Semi to Safe.



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