Someone had to fuck up the whole show for everyone.

The Battalion run was a dismal affair.  The last one was a foot-stomping, gravel chewing jaunt.  This time around our cadence callers were indistinguishable.  It was impossible to keep step to their dispassionate muttering.  Command Sergeant Majors flanked our formation, running up and down the ranks.  I was embarrassed for the entire platoon.

I was still half asleep when the Battalion Commander ran down through our column.  Hooah, sir! I growled, my voice gravelly and distinguishable above the rest.  My feet moved on their own.

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It was after midnight when the bus rolled through the gate.  A drill sergeant mounted the steps and ordered everyone onto the sidewalk.  I readied up my duffel and hustled out onto the sidewalk with all the other meatheads.

The Drill locked us up and started feeding the group instructions.  His voice was robotic, and he punctuated every sentence with jargon.

Roger?  Trackin’?  Hooah?

“Yes Drill Sergeant!” Read more

Georgia is hot as Hell.  Sweat pours down my stomach standing in the shade.  Rivulets run down my inner arms and drip from my fingers.  Rain brings no relief from the puke-thick air.

No wonder the British made this place a fucking penal colony.

Desperate for a break, I hoofed it to the gym yesterday.  I spent my afternoon pass pushing weights in a desperate attempt to maintain.  A lean, wiry looking guy asked to work in with me.

“Go ahead,” I said, pointing at the dumbbells I had just dropped.

We exchanged small-talk.  He said he had just finished IBOLC – Infantry Basic Officer Leadership Course – headed for the monster.  Ranger School.

His legs were bit to Hell by chiggers.

“The swamp is a motherfucker,” he told me.  “I took three steps and was in up to my waist.  Straight mud, right up to here.  I pulled my ruck over my head and someone had to pull me out.  It fucking sucks.”

“Any recommendations for boots?” I asked.

“Buy Oakleys.  I’ve rucked in them barefoot.  Hell, I can ruck in them unlaced.”

“I heard they fall the fuck apart.”

“The old ones did.  Not these.  The Nikes fall apart.  The new Oakleys are awesome.  They dry quick.  You’ll want ‘em once you hit the swamp.”

“Roger that,” I replied.

We shook hands and wished each other good luck.

New gear smells like mold and plastic.  I lugged a ruck and two duffles full of junk outside and poured it out on the sidewalk.  Three feet from the air conditioning the sweat began to drip again.

I picked up a pair of ceramic plates and fit them inside of my IBA.

Interceptor Body Armor.  My first.

“High speed,” I muttered.

A few other guys were loading up their gear, trying to find ways to consolidate it.  Someone pulled a poncho liner out of his bag.

“I’m sleepin’ cozy tonight!”

“Fuck yeah,” I replied.  “Fuck a hospital corner.”

I adjusted my IBA and rapped my knuckles on the trauma plate.

“‘Dear mom, today they issued me body armor.  Things are looking up.  Love you.’”

My time left as a civilian measures in hours.  A year ago I made the decision to put my entire life behind me and join the Army.  If I had chosen to go Enlisted, all I would have had to do was hand over a copy of my DD-214.  The Army would have rubber-stamped me and stuck me on a bus.  That would have been fine if I was looking for a job.  I walked into the recruiting office, ID card in hand, and told them I wanted to be an Infantry Officer.

The last year has been a difficult one.  The lengthy vetting process included the obligatory trip to MEPS.  I stood in my underwear while a smarmy physician documented my tattoos.  I have had ten years to collect them, and my markings are numerous.  The doctor lectured me about my decision making, talking about safety and regret.

Considering the career move I was making, I had to laugh at the irony.

Officers are high-value targets.  As such, Infantry Officers are responsible for training all of their soldiers to be Platoon Leaders.  Combat doesn’t stop because LT is dying from a sucking chest wound.  The word “lieutenant” means placeholder.

Some people read Officer and think privilege, but that isn’t the case.  Officers show up early and leave late.  They don’t sleep until their boys are sorted out.  They do paperwork while the platoon smokes cigarettes.

Officers eat last.

Alcohol – specifically my consumption of it – is a running theme here.  I have decided to quantify my drinking habits to put them into perspective.  I have been drinking alcohol since I was 15 – roughly 12 years – but for the sake of the math I will be focusing specifically on the last 5 years. Read more

Dear Readers,

I owe you a debt of gratitude.  Your attention this past year has been invaluable to me.  These last twelve months have been very difficult for me.  The things I have shared with you are the result of a great deal of soul-searching.  Knowing that someone is reading, no matter what they think of me, has allowed me to look into myself to examine my actions and motivation.  My next journey I take with all the gravity due it.

However long or brief, what comes next shall be the defining moments of my life.

The details are spare for many reasons.  PERSEC/INFOSEC is a concern – I value my security clearance and my career – and thus I cannot tell you many things.  The stories I have shared with you are relatively tame.  Some things are simply personal – the kind of things I share with friends over a drink – or cannot be shared for legal reasons.

There are some things that I simply do not know how to express.  I cannot tell you how beautiful my ex looked, smiling into the distance with a flower tucked in her hair.  I can’t tell you what it felt like to lay beside her at night, curled together.  I can’t explain to you what that means to me.

I can tell you what it feels like to hate.  I can tell you what it feels like to cut the blood flow to someone’s brain.  I like it.

I can tell you that I am a lousy brother, and a lousy son and grandson.  I have neglected my family at points when they needed my attention, so wrapped up in my own problems that I failed to nurture those relationships most important to me.  I can tell you that I am an awful jackass.  I can tell you that you don’t want to know me.

I believe that my failures as a person will serve me well as a soldier.  I refuse to qualify that statement.

I make no guarantees about how much longer I will maintain this site.

Thanks,

Max

I try to hide by burying my head under a mountain of pillows.  Hide from the noise.  Hide from the dull gray light filtering through the blinds.  Then I realize that I desperately have to piss.  I swing my feet to the floor in irritation.  My dehydrated joints snap and grind in protest as I shuffle to the bathroom.

I make one more attempt at sleep, eeking out a precious half an hour, before more noise jolts me out of bed.  Persistent, aggravating noise.  My response borders on panic for a moment until silence is restored.  Fully awake now, I realize that I have been robbed once again of a full night’s sleep.

How I long for that drowsy pleasure.

As if by some limbic macro, I slap a pan on the stove and shovel espresso into the coffee maker.  I gain height slowly as I arch my back, my spine popping like pine boughs on a cold morning.  I bend one knee, then the other.  The stiffness in the left leg, where the therapist thumbed and prodded my irritated fascia, seems to have abated.  I choke down breakfast, tasting only coffee and hot sauce.

Time for CNN.  Outside noise.  Move with a purpose.

I am sitting in a coffee shop, six miles into the day.  Despite some minor setbacks, it has been a decent training week.  Yesterday’s workout went a solid two hours, counting warm-up, core work, and cardio.  What was supposed to be a three on/one off schedule is working out more like four or five days at a clip.

I aborted my morning run today after three attempts.  I have bailed on a run maybe three or four times in my life.  My knee was swelling, and I didn’t want to risk an injury.  I loaded my laptop into my new SwissGear pack and headed out.

So here I sit, watching trim roll in and out of this coffee shop.

I compression wrapped my knee and put moleskin on my toes.  Today is not a day for character building.  This is active rest.  It’s 80 degrees out already.  On the bright side, my new Bellevilles are performing up to their reputation.

A middle-aged Irish couple just asked me about my tattoos.  My overshirt is draped over the back of my chair, and I’m down to a tank top.  They seemed genuinely interested in where I got them.

I usually don’t show them, but it’s fucking hot out.

It was worse with my ex.  If I have 20 hours or so on me, she has ten times that amount.  Hiding her tattoos means pants, a long sweater, and wearing her hair down.  God forbid she wear a low cut blouse with no sleeves.  Men stared.  Women sneered.

And little old ladies would coo at how beautiful her artwork was.

Funny how attitudes change with age.  People either grow a stick up their ass, or they pull it out.

The espresso is kicking in.  Time to hit the road.

Memorial Day weekend started off with a comedy of errors.  I should have been out of town by noon.  Seven and a half hours later my carotid artery was throbbing.  I sat impatiently in Alf’s truck, sweating from the neck and shifting in my seat.  I pointed us out of the gas station and headed for the highway.

The trip was a cluster fuck.  Wedged in Alf’s old Nissan with camping equipment, my bike, liquor, and more portable electronics than the Pakistani Air Force, we bombed over the Berkshires with me desperately attempting to reign the helm.  A broken sway bar and low tire pressure made going slow, and me irritable.

This was a bad fucking idea, I thought.

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