The Unawriter's Lair

The Hell Hounds

Since 2005, I have spent every July 28th with Ken Leisten Sr. and members of Bravo Company, 2-162 Infantry as they gather to remember Kenny Jr. at his gravesite in Willamette National Cemetery. This is the first time since I wrote the Sandbox that I have not been able to attend the get-together, and I'm sitting at Ft. Hood thinking about 3rd Platoon--the Hell Hounds--and wondering how they're all doing.

July 28, 2004, Vinni Jacques had led a patrol through a small village near Taji, Iraq. After visiting with the locals for a bit, they loaded up and continued with their mission. An IED blew up under Vinni's armored Humvee, killing Kenny, who was driving. The platoon's medic, Doc Rhodes, was severely wounded, as was Vinni's gunner, Ben Ring. Their interpreter was also wounded. Vinni was trapped inside the wreckage of the Humvee until rescued by several members of the platoon, including Sgt. Bill Stout. Bill cracked his pelvis and broke his back during the rescue effort, injuries that ultimately forced him to medically retire from the Guard.

Ken Sr. was the first father of a fallen soldier I'd ever met. Over the years, a special bond developed between us, and I am honored to count him as a friend. I remember when the Sandbox came out, Vinni and I did a radio interview and Ken Sr. heard it while on break at work. He gave us a call and that night we drove up to give him a signed copy of the book. When I saw him that night, he gave me a huge bear hug. Then I handed him the book. He held it almost with reverence, then opened it to a random page.

That random page happened to have a photo of his son. He gazed at it, then grabbed hold of me again so fiercely that I could hardly breathe. It was the most meaningful thank you I've ever received. You want to know why I write? It sure as hell isn't for the job security or the money. It is for moments like that one.

And so, every year I look forward to seeing the Hell Hounds. Over the years, I've seen how they have dealt with Kenny's loss and seen how long it has taken for everyone to re-adjust back home and move forward with their own lives. In 2005, I think everyone was so raw and reeling from all they'd experienced that it didn't look like there would be a lot of hope for the healing the platoon so desperately needed. I was wrong; the healing has taken place in such a way that Kenny remains an embedded part of everyone who knew him, but not in a way that has kept them from making the most of their own time here on earth. It has been a huge relief to see that growth, as Kenny's friends are some of the best humans I've ever known. Committed, intelligent, dedicated and deeply patriotic, they are the type of men who find common values in all the doers and builders who, through the generations, have made America what it is today.

Tomorrow at noon, I'll be here at Fort Hood, 2,500 miles away from that circle of superb and special individuals, and I know I'll feel a sense of loss at not being able to share that moment again wth them. In that respect, July 28, 2011 will not come soon enough for me.

Santa Nella

Last week, I departed from my folks' place in the Santa Cruz area, bound for Fort Hood at last. I crossed Hecker Pass on 152 and descended through Gilroy, the smell of garlic thick in the air east of town. As a kid, the only thing I knew about Gilroy was that you could buy garlic gum during the annual garlic festival. That sounded pretty repulsive, but I always wanted to try it, then breathe on my sister.

As I approached I-5, the southern end of the Bay Area to my back, I broke out into open county. Rolling golden hills, a reservoir, vast stretches devoid of any signs of human habitation. I had the top down to enjoy the morning sun; Rob Thomas on the ITouch plugged into my beloved Pontiac's stereo.

I left my roots behind and felt surpisingly emotional. I wasn't sure why. It was tough to say goodbye to m folks and sis--especially my sis--but I wasn't reeling like I had been in Oregon from those farewells. I have little attachment to the Bay Area and Santa Cruz these days, aside from my love of the Mountain Winery and 49'er games. So that wasn't it either. Something deeper was digging at me, wanting out.

So I let my mind wander. It settled on Taylor. It was probably five minutes before I realized I'd thought of nothing else. How's that for consumate self-awareness?

I looked over to my right and could almost see him riding shotgun, his mischevious grin wide across his face. His voice resonated--was it a memory or real? I swear I could hear him. He always had an undercurrent of surprised discovery in his voice. Every time I heard him say, "That's messed up!" he seemed mildly astoished that something could be out of whack with a universe so full of wonders.

I remembered the last time I saw him. We'd gone to eat at Andy's Cafe, then back to my office. I shook his hand, he walked down the stairs and I was surprised at how much he'd grown and filled out. He'd left for the Guard a dark-haired bean pole. He returned a year later a young man, broad-shouldered and muscular. But his eyes remained the same, I saw that when he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turned around and looked back up at me. Then I could see the same good natured, rule-testing kid I'd come to love over all those lanes we worked together with 2-162. "I'll see you in twelve months," he said. Then he slipped through the door and disappeared into his future.

I never, not once, doubted that I would see him in June of 2010. I never thought the next time we would be togther would be in two months later at Farnstrom's Mortuary when I stared into his half-empty coffin, his uniform lying atop the ivory padding. The IED had done its work, and our boy's few remains returned home unable to fill out that uniform he wore with so much pride.

I sped east for I-5, lost in such thoughts, feeling Taylor's spirit with me more deeply than I had for months. He's never far from my heart--the damn kid really got under all of our skins--I just hadn't realized I still had grieving to do.

And so, I did it. Top down, the image of him beside me, I let go of all those protective walls and felt the grief flow out. You know, there is a reason why Whitman wrote "Song of the Open Road." He was telling us there are times we have to hit the reset button, step outside of our daily lives to find ourselves  unfettered by defenses or self-denial. Leave the pen and paper on the desk, get out on the road and get inside your head. Be open to what is to be encountered on such adventures, live in the moment as the miles revitalize and cleanse.

I reached the Central Valley as the morning heated up and came across a sign noting a Korean War Memorial a few miles outside a tiny town called Santa Nella. The Forgotten War. When I wrote "Crimson Sky" in the late 1990's, almost every veteran I interviewed said he had never spoken about his experiences during that conflict until I rang their phones. That made my first book that much more special, and getting it in print became a crusade.

I turned off the highway and followed a winding road up into the sun-bronzed hills. To my surprise, I came to a national military cemetery, tucked in a saddle between low-lying ridges. It is a beautiful place, tended with care by legions of workers who take obvious pride in what they do. It is also one of the smallest and most intimate military cemeteries I've visited. Sometimes, the rows and rows of crosses, like at Gettysburg and Verdun, simply overwhelm. This place had a different vibe.

I climbed out of the Solstice and wandered among the markers, noting the NCO's, the enlisted men and the officers. I found an E-7 and wondered if he was one of those gritty guys like Vinni or Easy or Shannon Compton, one of those lugnut types who held their platoons together through all manner of trials.

I walked the rows and noted the birthdays, dates of death. At Private David Williams' grave, I stopped. He had been born in the summer of 1920, a month after Gerald Johnson, the fighter pilot I wrote about in "Jungle Ace." Gerald's wife, Barbara, had been born the same year. So had my close friend Bill Runey, who ended up in New Guinea flying Warhawks during World War II. It dawned on me that I once had more friends born in 1920 than I did from my own year, 1968. Talk about generation gaps; until I wrote the Sandbox, I hardly knew anyone my own age. I'd spent my life and career writing about another generation's triumphs and traumas. Until New Orleans, I'd been oblivious to the ones unfolding around me.

Talk about being divorced from reality. I was cloistered in my little office day after day, writing from an old building in a tiny town so small it does not appear on most maps. I had sequestered myself in this little fortress, consumed with what had been. In retrospect, that was a poor way to live. And it certainly is not the way I can live now, not with the perspective I gained from New Orleans and all the men and women I've met since then.

A hot breeze blew aross the cemetery and teased the miniature flags posted like sentries on the flanks of each row. Can't forget. Those we've lost, here in this beautiful but remote location, tucked away with reverence, should serve as both a beacon and a warning. Live as they did, with courage, strength and loyalty in their best moments; forgive the pain inflicted in their worst. The warning? It could end at any time and if you hold back, you're likely going to regret it.

I flashed back to the stairwell, Taylor looking up at me. I saw a hint of fear coloring his otherwise mirthful eyes. He said his goodbye. I said mine. But we lost something in that moment, thanks to the walls we both had up. I should have bear hugged the crap out of him in best Vinni Jacques fashion. I should have told him he was such a bright spark that he'd given inspiration to everyone who knew him. I should have told him how much I appreciated how my kids loved the things he taught them. And yes, that included teaching them to melt and burn things with a magnifying glass. They especially loved that.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda. That moment in the stairwell will stand as a lost opportunity. I never thought I would not have another chance.

I looked back down at Private Williams' grave. Did he learn those hard lessons? Did he turn within himself and lock himself away from all the possibilities life offers? Or did he go the other way and grow convinced that in these dark times, the losses we endure should guide us forward ever more open, ever more ready to expose and share, emote and live? Did he give himself totally to the ups and downs and have no regrets? Or when he faced these issues, as we all must, did he sink into a protective torpor unable to risk further injury to heart and soul? The way of Miss Havisham.

I returned to the car, chased by Whitman's words.

From this hour, freedom!
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,	55
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me Back in the Solstice, Taylor was gone.

On Limbo and Goodbyes

The last few weeks here in my little town of Independence have been ones of almost suspended anmation for me. The days have dragged by as my departure date grows closer. I leave for Fort Hood, Texas in two days. I've been busy trying to get all my affairs in order before I leave. There is a surprising amount of stuff that has to be done before one can leave the country for the rest of the summer. One of the trickiest tasks at hand was finding body armor. An embed cannot deploy without body armor and a helmet. I still have the Kevlar Vinni loaned me during Katrina--he told me to hang on to it and use it when I embed again. I don't think either of us figured it would be five years before that happened.

Body armor was a different story entirely. In New Orleans, I used Lt. Metzdorff's IBA. It didn't fit--I was way too big for it. This time around, I am seventy-five pounds lighter than I was in New Orleans, but scoring a loaner from the Guard was not an option. Fortunately, luck was with me last week and I stumbled across an awesome shop in Salem staffed by some seriously excellent human beings. Blackwater Tactical, also known as Code Three Tactical, is located on 13th Street SE around the corner from the Subway on State Street. Owned and operated by Jason, a USN vet, the store has everything one needs to get awesomely tacticool. I picked up a first-rate headlamp (totally needed one of those in New Orleans), a pair of Wiley-X's, lightweight khaki cargo pants, a vest and a variety of other odds and ends. The 973rd needs to go on a shopping spree in this place. Ox would be like a kid in a candy store, and Ben could throw more cool stuff onto his AR's rails.

Good new gear aside, Jason possessed the exact type of body armor I needed in order to show up at Hood next week fully equipped for the journey ahead. I've been told that I may get issued an IBA anyway once I arrive at Hood, so spending an outrageous amount of money on body armor only to be given something from the army seemed kind of odd, but I was willing to do it to make sure I didn't foul the process up at all. Jason understood all of this completely. So, he gave me the body armor and told me to pay him only if I needed it. If I don't, I'll send it back to the store before we leave for Kuwait.

Wow. I am just a guy off the street, and Jason was willing to do that for me? Unbelievable. Thus, I cannot say enough about him. What a class act, and the store is amazing. One of his employees, Ken, is a veteran of 3/1 Marines and served as an M240 gunner in Fallujah. He offered a lot of excellent insight into what I needed to pick up.

The body armor represented the last big gear-related hurdle, and overcoming it made it feel like all this was locked down tight at last. Due to my contractual obligations on Bombs Away, I could not leave last week as I had originally intended. Instead, I'll leave Tuesday morning. My time here at home now is measured in hours instead of days, and I've been wandering through my routine wondering if this is the last time I will go through it. 

My departure weighs heavily on my family now, too. The other night, I took the kids and Jenn to the Ankeny Hill Wildlife Refuge at sunset. We sat at a picnic table and talked over all that was about to happen. When I explained that I probably would not be home until October, my son Eddie looked absolutely crushed. He'd been counting on me to make it back before the 25th of August so we could celebrate his birthday with a belated party. Renee, my oldest child, burst into tears. Jenn stayed strong for the kids, but I could see how hard this will be for her. Several times over the past weeks, she has come to me long after midnight in tears.

This evening, as I worked in my office, the family arrived to spend the night here on the many couches arrayed around the lair. Renee asked to talk to me alone, so we walked into the other ballroom in the building and sat down. "Dad, I need you as a human needs air. I need you like you need personal space." She broke into tears and finished, "I can't imagine living without you. I need you to come back home."

You know, every family who has faced a deployment has to experience these same range of emotions. There's a lot of tension, raw feelings and grave concern. Every minute should be special and savored, but the reality is there is so much to do and so much stress around what's about to happen to the family that I especially have not been at my best. So none of this is new in the grand scheme of human experience, but it is new for my family. I'm not military and they didn't sign up for this sort of thing. Now, as the reality of my absence hits home, everyone has reacted differently. And the closer we get to the dotted line that will forever mark this period in our lives, the more emotional we are all becoming.

Through this sometimes painful process, I've been trying to say my goobyes to the members of the 973rd and my friends around town. On Saturday, I had lunch with Mark Farley, the 973rd's XO and one of my closest friends. There was much I wanted to say to him before I gave him that last hug, but I never found the words. Saying goodbye while facing such uncertainty in the weeks ahead represents a very difficult challenge. I mean, you don't want to be morbid and say, "Well, if I get killed, thanks for everything." At the same time, that chance--however small--remains the elephant in the room through the entire conversation.

 
I'm growing weary of these goodbyes. It has been an emotional six weeks and I'm just ready to pack up and roll out. Does that sound callous? Perhaps. For five years, I've wanted nothing more than to embed with the Oregon National Guard again. All the stars finally aligned and at last I get to be out among some of the finest people I've ever known once again, telling their stories in venues where their accomplishments would generally be ignored. I find purpose and meaning in that. So, this farewell dynamic has to be endured for a few more days here in Oregon. It'll repeat itself in California later in the week when I say good-bye to my sister and folks.

For now, in the darkness of this post-midnight Monday morning, a little more than twenty-four hours before I depart, all I can think about is the open road and Whitman's reminder: leave the pen and paper behind every once and awhile. Get out there and see, experience, do. Life is not meant to be spent in an office, cloistered away from the bounty such journeys offer. And so, Leaves of Grass will ride shotgun in the Solstice with me. I'll put the top down, plug in the new ITouch I just bought and drive South to whatever awaits accompanied by the music I love the most.

I'll probably camp somewhere in Arizona as I drive the last leg to Texas after leaving my folks' place in the Santa Cruz area. In the process, this little black Pontiac of mine will wade through all the swarms of summer bugs we're sure to encounter on the road ahead. Already, just driving the back rounds around the county, I've slayed thousands of insects with the Solstice's goofy looking grill. This little go-cart of a car and I will have thirty-six hours of high speed time together on the highways to Texas. I'm sure we'll make the insect world's ten most wanted list by the end of it.

Physically, I am more prepared for this embed trip than I ever was for New Orleans. I've dropped almost eighty pounds since early January, and I've spent the last eight weeks thrashing my body on mountainous hikes with fifty to a hundred pounds of gear on me. I've been running every day, ab work twice a day (gotta get that core solid), push-ups and lifting weights three or four times a week. I've gone from a 48 waist to a 34, so nothing I own, including my boxers, fits me anymore. I walked into the local steak house for the first time since December last month and none of the people there who knew me recognized me until I spoke. Hopefully, when I get back in October, I'll be wearing 32-30 501's again like I did when I first came up to the U of O from Saratoga in 1986.

Jenn and I ran our first mini-marathon on the Fourth of July. As we ran past the pre-parade bystanders, many of whom were our friends and neighbors, a lot of them expressed surprise at our participation. Jenn's lost over fifty pounds and runs four and a half miles every other day. She's looking fantastic.

I'm prepared. I've got my gear. I've spent five years learning the art and science of digital photography. I've spent thousands on professional equipment, then devoted hours out in the field shooting wildlife as I honed what skills I've got with a camera. All the training weekends and field exercises I've spent with the 97rd, law enforcement and the Guard served a dual purpose. I tried to learn and practice the role of an embed at every opportunity. Thanks to the last four RTI drills, plus Ben Leppert's patient instruction, I can field strip, clean, fire and clear jams with an M4, just in case something particularly dire happens.

Captain Bomar has smoothed the way ahead for me and has bent over backwards to make sure this will all happen. I cannot be more grateful to him and his staff. The ONG's PAO office has treated me so well that I will be in everyone's debt for a long time to come. To have an opportunity to spend the next three months in Afghanistan at a crucial period in the war with two ONG units is a once-in-a-lifetime moment for me. And once I get out on the road, put the good-byes and the tears to my six, I will savor every minute. For now, though, the limbo and the emotions loom large, and the goodbyes with Eddie and Renee remain ahead. I have no doubt that moment will be the most difficult one I'll face in the weeks ahead.