The Fighting Paleriders

                                                                  By Robert LeVeck Black, USMC

I don’t mind the war this time

As anyone can see

People fighting and people dying

‘cause freedom isn’t free

Bittersweet and dangerous

and always open eyes

First to fight and last to leave 'cause we will never die

Four in the morning and in a foreign nation

We took a short ride to a small police station

Warm and muggy morning with the sun still red

Suarez drew their fire/Strader shot them in the head

Skerry and Henry ran up to clear the roof....

They killed all the hajjis/there bodies there as proof

Fire and death as far as you could see

Castro nose dived to dodge an RPG

Bryant on the Fifty Cal/Young at the wheel

Killed them both dead before they could even feel

I don’t mind the dead bodies, or their bloody screams

I still see them in the street

and hear them in my dreams

Bittersweet and dangerous

and always open eyes

First to fight and last to leave 'cause we will never die

Not enough Marines but still we pushed ahead

Found ourselves in a place where everyone was dead

Cemetery that it was/no I’m not a liar

Had no helicopters cause they couldn’t take the fire

Boydston took heavy shrapnel in his leg

He should have gone home, but he stayed there instead

Reynoso was a hero; as everyone has said

But he stood up too soon and he caught one in the head

Davis was a bullet magnet, that was the case

His bad luck almost got Black shot in the face

We both got lucky cause it only hit his SAW

But it didn’t break his weapon/and it wasn’t luck at all

First Sergeant was invincible as it would appear

But the truth was more simple; he’d never known fear

I don’t mind the good men dead 'cause of the Army

They lack the skills/are easy to kill

and won’t leave their Humvees

Bittersweet and dangerous

and always open eyes

First to fight and last to leave 'cause we will never die

Black wasn’t on the line/he played the reaper instead

Lucian the camera guy helped him move the all the dead

First platoon on the left/they were secure and all set

Except for poor Wells/he got one to the neck

That death was hard and it caused lots of pain

But First Sergeant still walked in mortars like rain

We fired fast, fired hard to make a storm come yonder

We only made the storm cause Swihart called for Thunder

Gunny needed ice cause he knew hot water wouldn’t do

We only got the ice because we took the fire too

We got back the next day, most of us safe and sound

We slept soundly that night cause we knew we’d go another round

We’ve been doing this thing of ours since the edge of all time

When you see our horse be sure to run

Because Hell is not far behind.

Written by Corporal Robert Black,United States Marine Corps.

 In the aftermath of the Battle for Najaf, Iraq, August 2004

Mass media Consumption and Modern Man, the Family Problem

By Rob Black

I've been thinking a lot about families. And a lot of what pop-culture is really pushing on America today. Mainly that there is no difference between being rich and being famous. Seriously. Bill Gates is one of the richest people in the world. But is he the most famous? No. Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, Barack’s very large list of now-bestsellers are surely the most famous media and the most celebrated family on the earth. Another fact is that the president, at least culturally, is the closest thing to modern royalty. Think about, we have an elected group of congress, which is strikingly familiar to the UK’s Parliament. However, the leader, the Crown, is only equivocal to Barack Obama. We love the Obama family, as a country we really do. What you have to remember, when nearly everyone in the States were chanting “Obama!” (at least the ones that voted for him, and probably 25% more who were just “Rooting for him!” but we’ll get to that later.) We weren’t just rooting for  him, we were chanting for his whole family. We love the Obama’s, them with the adorable twins and the puppy that was on the news for fucking ever. We’re not just rooting for Obama, we’re rooting for the whole Obama family.

Now take the above paragraph, and think about your favorite show. Seriously, Just pick one off the cover of this months  People or US Weekly, or more precisely, pick out the favorite show with your favorite star. Not roles these actors have but the lifestyles these famous people live, the people you most identify with. I promise I won’t look. Back? Who was it? Tom and Katy Holmes? Angelina Jolie and Brad? Jennifer Aniston? Is she having John Mayer’s lovechild? It doesn’t matter which on you pick. How about those of you who like reality shows or watch MTV or the E! channel? Chances are the names would be very different. Kendra Wilkinson. She’s not really famous, except that she got to live an extravagant life in not shall I say the most extravagant life of all, the playboy mansion. What the cameras won’t tell you is that Kendra, whether your approve or not, is set for life. Think about it, she and the other two girls (the ones that didn’t get their spinoffs, so they’re quickly forgot) made a shit load of money. The Girls Next door was probably the biggest thing to happen to Playboy since, well, since it was founded in the 50s. Everybody involved in the making of that TV show made a shitload of money. You remember when Kendra came back to her “humble roots” (middle class San Diegans) and Hef met her mom and brother and even her grandfather, and nobody on the show thought that was weird. And we, as an audience don’t see that as weird? You know why everybody was so chill? It wasn’t cause she was “showing Hef off” to her family she was probably there to tell her mother she was making so much money from the show and the franchise  that they were all set for life. If Kendra had made $10 million dollars from just the decision of moving in with Hef, how much of that money do you think that entitles her poor, stricken mother to? Some of it? All of it? None of it? Should it all go to Hef cause he’s Hef?

This is where the line between reality and fiction collides; when you don’t need to be talented to be famous all you have to do is be rich.

Money sucks. Working hard for money sucks. Working to pay off a mortgage sucks. But yet, we all see things we need to have. Cars computers, etc. But sadly, money buys things. And there’s a lot of expensive things out there. What do we do when we talk to our loved ones? We think about things and hobbies we’d like to with our time and places we’d like to go if we just had the money. I can think of a million gifts I would want you guys to have, and countless of millions of dollars I’d spend on investments, not just things and NICE things. I would buy myself, my father, Ofir, Alex, and mom and dad all Rolex watches. You know why? Rolexes are expensive. And they last forever. Jewelry as a whole is that way. You know the saying “The family Jewels?” Not only is it a witty reference to balls, but it also means jewelry and watches and cars and real estate and shit that you can pass on to loved ones.

 My mother had me wear my grandfathers wedding ring when I was in grade school, and then in the 6^th grade, I lost it. I was devastated. My mom was too, and I think she was secretly hoping that I just misplaced and would find it in due time. Sadly, that was not the case, it was stolen of my sock out of my Nike in the summer of ’96 at waterworld USA Concord, CA. My mom taught me later that this was okay. Not because something like that is necessarily replicable, it almost never is. It was because it was just as important that I remember I lost it and how know it felt to lose something so sacred and irreplaceable. Like when a loved one dies. It’s like losing a piece of history you always loved and never quite appreciated until it was gone. Well, if daddy had a mansion and a million dollars and statues and everybody wore Rolexes, they’ll be plenty of other things to remember daddy by. People like Maddonna and Angelina and Brad and Tom and Katy are worried about their legacy.

A lot of families don’t have a lot money these days. And honestly, if you have somebody you love why not have 14 kids adopted or not as long as you have the money to hire the help and to take care of them. They’re doing with thier millions of dollars what we would all do with our respective families. And the people who don’t seem to have a lot of friends but never leave the media spotlight? Donald Trump. If he was around or invested his money in something big like STEEL instead of TV shows, trump would be a lot richer. And he would have a real estate to share and invest in real things, like these new ideas for energy and be one of the most powerful men in the world like Carnegie. Oh, and Anderson Cooper, from CNN? The “mans news man”, he’s a fucking Vanderbilt. He hides those roots just so he can grow up with his own image. Inheritance is the number one way of being wealthy in the United States. Being in a family with “old money” means that him and his kids will always have the money to go to the best colleges, get the best medical care, etc. Think about it: if you could start your life over with every possible financial advantage, don’t you think your like might have turned out better? Or at least be less stressful?

Most people care about their family. Not all, but most. They think about things they would like to do with that family, if they just had the money. Half of the people who are famous are not talented. These are the people who are related to stars, and who, by some coincidence, get say where all their money goes to. Britney might always be rich, but do you know how much MONEY her mother made from all this? A lot. More than we can Imagine. And in some ways, this is ruining the fabric of society, and is the thread that holds it together.

We are a litigious county. Did you know that the average non-criminal American will face at least three VERY serious court issues in the course of their lives? And that’s not all speeding tickets and injury lawsuits. Divorce is the number one factor for Americans being in the courtroom, and as I probably don’t need to tell you is that well more than half of the people married are getting divorced or “legally separated” in their lives. Did you hear me? Our most sacred institution is also the number one cause for us to be in courts, and is being violated more than it is being followed. Everybody agrees that marriage is good. When is the last time anybody saw a really happy marriage in America? For somebody who wasn’t rich?

The fact of the matter is that the recession has hit all of us and our romantic relationships and families fail as a result. These are tough times. You know what Alex? If I got rich overnight I would give half of my money for Desiree, and she could spend it on whatever her heart desires. She’s been with me through the tough times, and she’s going to be with me in good times. I would NEVER cheat on her, even if she was away in Venice with the mom and sister for 2 weeks. We’re not oversaturated with things from the media, we’re just thinking of how nice it would be to spend all that money.

This is where things go to shit. Since we don’t really care about money, and we established it sucks to obtain it, what would we want for our family? Alex, I’d want you and mom to have the FINEST medical care. I would buy everybody a new home. We would live like movie stars, and this day and age a rags-to riches story like that would make us famous in ourselves. It happened with Obama, right? He was just a senator with a few sub par books and radical ideas. Now he’s the owner of the largest and most marketable franchise in the world; himself. Not only does he have LUCRATIVE deals with everybody he knows, He will always be Barack Obama. He changed the world. Given with how many people are alive on earth right now and the internet age, Barack Obama may be the most famous person in history. Already we feel like we’re on the edge of war, and not just in politics but in our everyday life. Obama is the one fighting the real war! He’s the one that’s going to validate us!

Isn’t he? Isn’t he?

No he’s just a guy with a family trying to get by.

This is what enamors us; not the lofty and plush title of “President” and the leader of the free world. But the human element. We are constantly assaulted with what the first family is eating, doing, going today, did yesterday. You know why we’re watching so closely, because the two Obama kids can be anything they want. They are Obamas, these kids can go to college, and be the president, or a movie star, or really anything that makes them happy. And you know why they will have the full support of not just their families, but of the nation that embraced them so openly? Because if they want, they can not do anything. They can just be the famous first family for ever, well after Obama was already elected for his second term and a new family occupies the white house. What will this mean to them? Would they still want to go to college? Would they just want to “see the world” and spend time and money being abroad? Or would they make friends in the other “grew up in Princeton” crowd and just do drugs and party at exclusive night clubs? Wouldn’t that be amazing? We would finally see the highest office in the land not only say it’s okay to go to Yale and do drugs and get C’s (George W. Bush) or it’s okay to go to Yale and do drugs and get A’s and B’s because in the end, it’s  just about going to Yale. Officially, it’s okay in our collective consciousness to do certain things once the first family has already done them. It tends to be the worst kind of announcement like “It’s okay to go to Wal-Mart in crocs in a tube top and you weigh 500 pounds!” in stifles people into conformity and settling for less when they just could have had more class.

You know what drove the republican party crazy during the election? They were not allowed to call Obama black. Seriously, because black is not a bad thing. They called him a Muslim, a “Terrorist Sympathizer” and did anything else they could to smear his character, including his middle name being Hussein. Seriously? The only he’s president is because he played by YOUR rules and went to your schools and champion the same causes of you, rich republican assholes. You’re mad because a black family is moving into the white house and they have a nicer family vibe and cleaner record than anything you could ever nominate. While I don’t know if Obama could have prevented this recession and our unfortunate instance of all taxpayers owning something like 60 percent of GM, but I tell you what, there is NO WAY john McCain would be doing any better. The fact of the matter is, Americans like the Obama, and the Obama values. Can you imagine John and his cyberbot of a wife staying in the white house would be nearly as charming as little pittar patter outside the oval office? No way, we’re eating this shit up. We’ve elected a family man, a young man and a man with some radical ideas. Last time we had such influential family in the white house, he got assassinated. You don’t think millions we’re made because of Kennedy’s death? Oh yeah, there was money to be made. You know why pigs like Glenn Beck recommend “Everything should just stay the same” and “Clean coal isn’t necessary?” Because that whole fucking party has a lot of money to lose if new forms of energy come to bear, and a vehicle getting 100 miles per gallon as the rule and not the exception.

OH MY GOD Michael Jackson is dead??? I was up all night writing this, and then I find out today Michael Jackson died. I can’t even tell you how important this is to American. I’ll have to get to more of that later. Did you know that Michael was so rich that there is going to be a whole subset group of rich people just under “I knew Michael Jackson and now I’m rich” in Hollywood?

I love you both, I’ll talk to you soon. Be ready for a call from me. Also, This whole thing is really a rough draft, I know there are a lot of errors. Feel free to correct them.

Ahhh! And Farah Fawcett! She just died!!! Ahhh one of Charlie’s Angels! Now you know we have to kill Cameron Diaz, so her future self will be saved the trouble of breast cancer when she’s older.

"An' we don't worry 'bout tomorrow 'cause we're sick of these four walls

Now what you think is nothin' might be somethin' after all

   Now, you know this a'int no through street, the end is dead ahead
              The poor folks play for keeps down here, they're the living dead."

It's so damn hot. You know why these people hate us? Because it's so goddamn hot that "chilled" water becomes "piss warm" (technical term) in about two minutes . The heat is like a red hot stake ran through my brain, turning me and the rest of Third Platoon into a group of Phineus Gages, the train-track layer with the misfortune of having a railroad spike driven through his frontal lobe.    

The quotes above are from Van Halen's "Mean Street." The words describe life here so expressly it's scary. Everything from the "crazies" to the mad faces to the same old talk we can't understand. Arabic is a bitch to learn. What's worse, in the city of Najaf, Iraq, many people speak Farsi. The culture looks solidly mono-ethnic from the outside, but once you begin to work and live with the people you see a fascinating infrastructure of tribes and perceived sub races. I.E. "I'm not Iraqi! I'm from the great land of Saudi. You American Pig!" At which point I punch him, or give him a quick hit to his balls with my rifle.

Hundreds of thousands of people mass to Najaf every year for the annual Hajj to the Imam Ali Shine. They want to visit (oddly) the temple that represents the Son-In-Law of Muhammad. I'll tell you what- the middle east does not have royalty per se, but by simply being related to the prophet you get a whole temple and a legion of worshipers in you name in the after life. He may not have got his 72 virgins, but that's not a bad deal  when you die. I'll be lucky to get a headstone that doesn't deteriorate in the rain.

There are pharaohs who used slaves and built pyramids in their names that aren't nearly as followed or sought after. Only tourists and archeologists care. Much less worship. These monuments to religion and living gods are looked down upon as archaic myth left from the past. Who wants to worship a Pharaoh from a thousand years ago? You don't, because they clearly aren't immortal. They're all dead Gods.
          

Religious icons are not so quick to die in the eyes of the Muslim people. It's arguable that the family and  relatives of the prophet get as much praise as the pope. There's that many Muslims in the world. Not just here, but in what is quickly becoming called "Europa." England, Italy, Germany, Sweden, SwitzerlandFrance is quikly becoming the new home to countless wayward middle easterners every day. Not only does it seem that America is systematically driving away anybody in Iraq that has the money and smarts to leave the country of the former Republic, it also leaves a dangerous vacuum in the upper echelons of the power system wide open.

    Iraq's social structure is remarkably different in many regards, some better and some worse than others. One of the more noteworthy achievements is that they have an excellent public education system, leaving virtually no adults who were illiterate. And those who showed promise were virtually guaranteed into posh England universities if they also have the family line to carry and the money to back it. This resulted in a surprise- many, many men speak fluent English and far more can understand it enough when some Jarhead calls him a "Sand Nigger." and especially

These people were the doctors, lawyers, politicians and other people who were typically baa'thist living under Saddam Hussein. For a long time they were the ruling class, virtually any important high paying or public office was held by these religious minorities under the watchful eye of Saddam's personal police. Similar to Adolf Hitlers' Gestapo and SS. I've met a man who had his tounge out cause he said something vaguely not Pro-Saddam. Although the Shia had vastly larger numbers, a Sh'ia man born anywhere other than Baghdad  and without family money  would be so lucky to own and run a crappy cart or market.

            The result now- with the land ravaged and unemployment reaching far beyond fifty percent- is clear. Thousands of angry, hot faces all looking at America with resentment. Every day, on patrol in the sun with sand fleas and giant mosquitoes in the hottest nastiest environment imaginable. This plays a huge part in the people being cranky. "Cranky" might sound a little off putting to describe people driven into jihaddist craze to kill me and every other Marine within sight.  If you don't believe me spend three days in one hundred and thirty degree weather and you'll think differently. Cranky is perfect; it's a blocky word that explicitly describes what you feel when a river of sweat and grime rolls down your neck for the thousandth time. You're used to it; there's nothing you can do about it and it's going to happen again. Even when you're sleeping. Even when you get out of the shower or when you wake up; dirt and human grease permeate the world.

             So that's it- in a nutshell. Angry people. Loud trucks. Guns. Explosions here and there. Mortars that you hear leave the tube but can't hear land. Always afraid the next one is going to land on your head. The only thing more constant and overwhelming than the heat is fear. Even when you walk around and act like everything is okay- like this is just another day. The fear is there because at any moment you could die, and I don't mean like "you could die from a heart attack or stroke at any time just because," no, I mean you could die like right now, right now like that guy because he's dead and he's right fucking there."  That's a whole different kind of scared. I can recall almost everything of 2004 except how scared I was.

           Does that seem odd? To not be afraid of the physical death, the bullet through the flesh or the shrapnel through the skull; but to be afraid of the fear. Because the bullets may not come but the fear is, it's strangling you softly by making your throat harsh and dry. It's making your heart beat too fast, your eyes dilate too much. Dammnit, if anything is going to kill me it's this. But I live with it. Just like I live with the grime and the wet socks soaked through my boots. I deal with it because everybody else does, and nobody gets any special treatment. I can't hear anything, I can't breathe.

      It's all there in the song. Down to the smallest details.

 "See, a gun is real easy

In this desperate part of town

Turns you from the hunted to hunter

You go an' hunt somebody down

Somebody said "fair warning", Lord

Lord, Strike that poor boy down!"

            That part seems accurate for both sides. Even as Eddie Van Halen grinds out a massive solo I can see the angry Islamic warrior in solemn prayer, and then vowed to pick up the gun. It's obvious. Music is the soundtrack for life. In Iraq is all pop radio and top forty. The Iraqis would hang me if they heard the kind of music I listen to. It's always on.

        Pop Culture is at a standstill for the Marines  overseas, a song can tear through a battalion of Jarheads and become the newest cool thing. Everything from Seether's newest album to "Take my Breath away". It doesn't matter. In our own Isolated bubble we're always searching for the newest thing. If only because over arching fear and paranoia feels a lot better whilst listening to AudioSlave.        
       When your iPod randomly plays "City" when you leave the base you can't help but feel like God is watching. Why He would choose to communicate via expensive Apple products, I'll never know. All I know is you are blessed when that happens, and you're MP3 player becomes the iGod. When things sync up to a song, you feel like it's a scripted movie. AC/DC for the firefight and Bone Thug's "Crossroads" for the funerals -21 gun salute and all. The lord has a plan above! I won't die this day.    

        It's August 4^th, 2004 and we're leaving the base for the second time. It's 5:30am and nobody has slept yet, but it's slightly cool so we're not cranky. Being a Marine is many things, but being able to take pleasure in the smallest of pleasures is our greatest gift. It keeps us sane as we leave the base and head towards the no-go zone.

    Word is the Colonel got on the wrong side of it on purpose; he wanted somebody to shoot at him/blow him up so we could take the city. Colonel Mayer doesn't fuck around. Later I head his new command was Okinawa. All I could think was "Holy fuck, we're going to war with Japan. Or North Korea. Fifty-Fifty chance." The colonel is a very nice and polite man, and he's easy to work for. He's the kind of man who would walk up to Kim Jung Il, have a very pleasant discussion about economics or film, and then he would proceed to bitch slap the dictator of North Korea. He'd get away with it too. It should be noted that a "Bitch slap" from a  Marine is more like somebody punching you with the back of their hand.

             I'm willing to bet the shit has hit the fan in the downtown area as we head straight for it at fifty miles an hour, the fastest a loaded and fully armored caravan of Hummvees can go. Everybody is fleeing the city. What looks like a wall of cars and human flesh is pouring down the street to our left. Any animals in the city are long gone. There's nothing left but those who are there to fight. At least that's what we're told. We've seen firsthand women and children armed to the teeth. The problem is nobody wears uniforms.

    The difference between an Iraqi that loves Americans and an Iraqi who wants to kill you is where he's standing. The only assumption is that everybody is getting out, that much is obvious. There's not a soul in this town that can't see the mass exodus. The general consensus is anybody who hasn't left at this point is staying to either lay a trap or an IED  or an ambush. The word from comman is "If it's breathing, stop it from doing it again."

 Tensions are running high. The waves of people have faded, all that's left are the few brave policemen directing us towards the under siege police station. Our allies look exactly like the insurgents we are supposed to be fighting, the only difference is that they wear blue shirts. The often will wear the same dark hoods the bad guys use, to protect their identity to the rebels. Many a good Iraqi policeman has been kidnapped and beheaded for no other reason than the Insurgency and Mahdi militia don't take kindly to authority. Least wise any kind of semi-military police force paid directly from US funds. Subsequently, all "fighting age" Iraqi men are forced with a choice: "Do I join the Police or ING" (Iraqi National Guard, the newly formed state sponsored military the we, the Marines of First Battalion, Fourth Marines  are currently training) "Or do I join the insurgency because I started hating America when a stray bomb killed my uncle?" Most choose the former or (luckily) decide to stay neutral. Other do both. Oftentimes where faced with finding a dead militia man who just last week was doing push ups and eight man body-builders with me or a blue shirt who decides to shoot at us.

            My friend, Lance Corporal Jack Davis is in the back of my humvee. I deftly drive in between road dividers and trash in the road could just as easily be an IED. The BLT (Battalion Landing Team) has been locked in a firefight for days now. Davis and I have been running casevacs and supplies for the last 24 hours. The concepts of days, nights and time are meaningless now, its just periods of sleep and movement, followed by boredom with a nice dose of chest clenching fear for good measure.

    The BLT (Battalion Landing Team) just had it's first casualty (a nice word for "Dead as all bloody hell," but you're not allowed to pronounce death, only a Naval Medical Officer can do that) I just happened to be driving the only Humvee that had a flatbed. All the sudden I'm in charge of moving all dead bodies, friendly and foe. Davis was on top of the truck with his SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon). But not before we received the body of Sergeant Yadir Reynoso, USMC.

    It was, on the whole a complete mess, and something that never leaves your mind.

Sgt Reynoso was shot in the face. Apparently at extremely close range. The story from Weapons Company was that they were pinned down by five to ten enemy fighters with grenades and AK-47s. Eventually Reynoso said the two most dangerous words in the Corps: "Fuck it." He rose from cover and took out as many bad guys as he could. They say he got six of the bastards before he was hit. The bullet penetrated his skull and still had enough power to make a rather large exit wound. In movies, when somebody is dead, is just an actor holding and exhaled breath. Dead people are nothing like that. For one, all the blood loss and lack of heartbeat makes them look pale. Reynoso was from Mexico, and he looked whiter than Danny Bonaduce. The most haunting thing is when the body is moving on the stretcher. The don't move and bounce and shift their weight on the stretcher for comfort. They are literally limp. As limp as you can be. Never again to walk again or bark orders.

        He was an instructor of mine at the School of Infantry. My friend Lance Corporal Matthew Trotter told me it was exceptionally  bad for him. Not that he particularly liked the man, but when Trotter was a student in Reynoso's platoon he would say every day "I hate that motherfucker! I wish he was dead!" I don't know if that bothers HotTrot or not, but I'd like to think he's made amends.

    The body was moved to the back of our truck. Davis and a photographer named Lucian Reed (Google his stuff, it is out of this world) moved it onto the flatbed. Even though we were under fire Lucian was cool. He acted just like one of us, except he carried a camera instead of an M4 carbine or M203 Grenade launcher. I hear they made him an "Honorary Marine". Which is a pretty damn big deal when you have to sweat and bleed in boot camp for thirteen weeks to earn the right to wear our sacred emblems- The Eagle, Globe and Anchor. Next time you see a truck or a bald guy with a fat wife driving down the freeway you'll be see the EGA somewhere on the bumper.

        The next thing that happened was awful. It still haunts me, and I know Davis is losing more sleep over it every night. The exit  wound on Sgt Reynoso was bigger than you would suspect.

        When Davis went to adjust the fallen Sergeant, his hand went completely though his skull. Far enough to where he could feel his eyes "from the backside." Davis was from there on covered in blood. There was so much of it from dead enemies it started to build in the back of the truck.

    Luckily, there was no obstacles to over come while I raced back to the FOB (Forward Operating Base) Lucian left to get more film. I just stood there with Davis and hugged him as hard as I could while he cried. Does that make you think we're pussys? Well, fuck you.. We  live, breathe, exercise and shower with each other. It's not sexual in anyway, it's just something that we all have to do. When your with a Company in the fleet Marine Force  you soon realize that you love  everyone in your tiny world. It's the most beautiful thing I can think of.

       We returned to the front lines in the cemetery without incident. Night hadown the night due to our night vision and more importantly, the AC-130 Gunship. It has a dozen ways to see everything on the ground from every angle. It uses an assortment of weapons, Mini-guns and turrets for sure, but the real surprise is it uses 155mm ARTILLERY rounds as direct fire. Imagine how shitty it would be to be in the blast radius of a High Explosive device that's eighty pounds.Now imagine the same thing except the thing hits you directly on the head after its fired downward with the added energy of a thousand foot fall. The 155mm shell is as big as your torso. The AC-130 never misses and the Iraqis know this and have the good sense to hide in one of the millions of graves in the Wadi-al saleem cemetery. The AC-130 is a loud rumbling monster that strikes fear into all on the battlefield. It's hard to sleep, because do you really know that the Gunship can tell the difference between a Marine and an Iraqi?

    Davis and I are happy to return to a subdued battle field. Even though we both know tomorrow morning all hell is going to break loose, now that we're in this ultra-sacred cemetery, we've effectively pissed off a lot more people who are most assuredly gathering arms to meet us at dawn.

       We didn't say much. Not until I parked in my security position. The back of the truck was saturated with blood and body parts. When I stopped, all of the blood sloshed forward, over the divider and right into the passenger and driver seat. We  were literally covered in the blood and guts of friends and enemy a like.

    What do you say when that happens? Surely laughter relieves stress as a safety mechanism. But when your soaked in blood with tiny pieces of flesh and bone all over your uniform Where is the funny? I'm a stand-up comedian, but there wasn't shit to say.

        I decided that Davis needed rest far more than I do, so I wanted first watch. Davis is from Wolf County Kentucky, and like most southerners and all infantry Marines dip. "Hey, Jack," I said, "here's my last dip, take it. I got another can in the back."

    Davis slowly turned in the passenger seat to look at me. His eyes were dilated too much for it to possibly be safe. Both of his eyes slowly drifted independent of each other, as if his eyes were trying to find something to look at other than this damn bloodbath of a war. "I..." he began slowly, "I can't man I just can't"

"What the hell?" I responded, "You've been dipping since you were ten years old and today is the most stressful day either of us have ever had."

"I just can't!" his voice was louder now, with a dangerous edge to it, I hoped he wouldn't stab me in the middle of the night out of pure shellshock, "I can't man! I just can't do it!"

"Listen, fucknuts," I was starting to get pissed, "You clearly need the nicotine more than I do, so you are going to take it," Davis and I were the same rank, so the authortive was really just posturing, "you'll take the fucking tobacco if I have to shove in your fucking mouth."

Davis snapped his head to the left and stared at me  like he was contemplating where to hide my body after he cut it up "real good". "Listen to the words coming out of my mouth," it was a Chris Tucker line, but a good one for the circumstances, "I. Can't.Take. A. Dip." A long silence occurred, "fucker."

"Why the fuck not, Jack? Did you meet God through all the death and he told you to quit using?" I was being friendly-sarcastic to bring the mood to a calmer state. "because I sure as shit wish he'd tell me if the Socks are going all the way this year. Finally."

Davis looked like a man tired of fighting anybody, much less a Marine in a petty argument. "Look man,"  He sounded somber and took a deep breath, "I can't take a dip. Look at me. My hands are covered in blood. Lots of it. See?"

I felt like a dick for not noticing. But my brain was fried from no sleep in the past Thirty-six hours. "Come here, brother." I pulled out one of my piss warm canteens and proceeded to wash his poor bloody rough hands. They were callused from years of hard work on a farm and then in the Corps. Once finished I put the canteen back in its pouch and dried my hands. "Open your mouth, Marine." He complied, and I gently placed the last of my Copenhagen Long Cut gently in the pocket of his mouth, between the lower lip and his gums. It was the least I could do.
         I started to hallucinate on post that night, but I was determined to let Jack sleep for four or six hours.

    The things I thought about on post were horrific, as I knew. What I didn't know was that as soon as I left the Corps, the whole grisly day would play in my head every night as soon as I closed my eyes.

By Corporal Robert L. Black, USMC

1. You will attempt to shower everyday. In the event that the heads are secured in H&S berthing by Engineers (Mondays, Tuesdays, Twice on Thursdays, Fridays, Saturday and Sundays) you will dry the sweat from your body with the Engineers'  linen. This will continue until they find something better to do.
2. Navy personnel will walk through the Passage Ways at a rate of no faster than 13 steps a minute. Navy tradition mandates that the walking method will be similar to that of LL Cool J with palsy.
3. When late for a formation, it is within the full regulations of the UCMJ for Marine personnel to push the Navy down the stairs to clear room for people who actually have fucking work to do.
4. Navy Trousers will never be worn higher than the crack of the ass.
5. Furthermore those sailors on mess duty will not wear their trousers above the line bisecting the bottom of the scrotum and the thighs.
6. In keeping with the highest traditions of the Navy, all personnel of E-7 and above are prohibited from speaking English. Marine Gunnys and above may simulate this phillipino/nonsense language by slicing the tongue, removing no more than three(3) to seven(7) of their teeth and putting live ferrets down their trousers.
7. The smoke deck will be secured everyday at 0800, 0900, 1013, 1456 and 1907:34. At this time the navy will clean and partake in "blue side smoke time." Also known as "Did you see those Jarheads out there? They look like the could really use a smoke." Time.
8. All hands will consume no less than eight(8) cups of coffee and/or six(6) monster energy drinks every 24 hours. It should be noted that it is perfectly natural for the heart to palpitate, accelerate, relocate, or ignite during extended periods at sea. Pissing blood and fire is also to be expected.
9. When "cleaning stations" is sounded the mess decks, passage ways, ladder wells, berthings, hatches, hanger deck, flight deck, well deck, and lower v will be secured. This is to be repeated during random intervals in the day for absolutely no reason.
10. H&S Physical Training will consist of increasingly strenuous "field ready" exercises. Week one: Flak jacket. Week two: Gas mask. Week three: CH-46 pull. Week four: HMMWV carry relay. Week five: Fat-Navy-guy-push-through-the-damn-hatch free for all. Week six: HM2 Curfman group deadlift. Lessons on how to make sweet, sweet love to the non-skid can be given by Captain Wallace upon request.
11. All white Navy personnel will refer to each other as "Gangsta', killa' or playa'." The fact that these sailors are from the pan handle of Florida is to be ignored.
12. All Navy/Marine aviators will wear sunglasses at all times. No exceptions.
13. Any Navy personnel who refers to a Marine as a Jarhead, devildog, or "those fucking Marines" will be beaten severely. Insults to the navy are encouraged. New insults may be made by putting the word "ass" in front of common nouns. (i.e. 'ass gardener')
14. Out of respect for all people whom are not deaf, and to retain the respect of the international warfighting community, Cpl Thompson is not allowed to be within one hundred meters of any microphone at any time.
15. Deadly force is authorized to keep Cpl Sabbatini at the same distance.
16. All maintenance on vehicles is level one maintenance, and not motor-Transports problem. In the case that the entire engine is to be overhauled and replaced that is level three maintenance, and also not motor Transports problem.
17. LCpl Schmechel is to be gagged and bound for a minimum of three(3) hours a day. This is to be done to prevent the Company First Sergeant from going insane and killing all H&S personnel with his bare hands. Under NO circumstances is Schmechel allowed to answer any questions, tell any stories, or say anything while he is "kickin' it freestyle."
18. In the event of an emergency, navy personnel can be used as floatation devices.
19. The S-3 does NOT have every piece of gear you cannot find. If you need 16 rhesus monkeys to do tests on, they don't fucking have that. Leave them alone.
20. Comm Marines are not authorized to set each other on fire.
21. All complaints to the Marine Computer help desk are to be blamed on the Navy. All complaints to the Navy help desk are to be blamed on the Marines. It should be noted that the "help desk" offers no help, and has no desk.
22. The S-2 will be responsible to remind Marines why President Clinton incited the "Don't ask, don't tell policy." All S-2 personnel are required to wear PANTS during working hours.

ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT THE RULES CAN BE REFERRED TO CORPORAL BLACK

On Medals

                By Corporal Robert L. Black, USMC

         It has come to the attention of the author that many Marines have come under the traditional disease affecting all E-5 and below at the end of a deployment: Medal Fever. (Not syphilis, unless you're in the Intel shop) What warm blooded United States Marine doesn't want some more shine on his chest? It makes a wonderful clinking noise and is directly connected to the size of your penis. But at the end of this deployment you have to ask yourself: what have we done this deployment? I know that the Marines who have been with One Four for more than this tour will say "Not much," and the Junior Marines might say "When's chow?" but what makes a medal worth the price to get it mounted? I've heard of people wanting, demanding really, something more than the standard sea service deployment ribbon and GWOT. Actually, I only heard it because I live with the Admin shop and their ability to bitch about paperwork for awards deserves a medal in itself. Granted, if we were army unit we would rate approximately 143 different awards including non-sensical ones like "Grenade Expert" and "Haven't Shot Self in the Foot [yet] Medal."

        As Marines we're used to getting awards that are too low for heroic actions in combat and too high for day to day life in garrison. Corporal Criss shot a rampaging waterbuffalo while flying through the air and he didn't even get a certificate of commendation. And some people get Navy Achievement Medals for filing reports in the office. Please. I'd be more proud for "Successful Completion of Arts and Crafts, First Kindergarten Division, 1990."

        For the sake of argument, lets look at the most outrageous discrepancy in awards One Four has ever seen: First Sergeant Lehew's  Navy Cross. Not to say it was too high of an award, oh no, his Navy Cross should have been a Congressional Medal of Honor. As a matter of fact, the military should have made a higher award than the Medal of Honor and gave it to First Sergeant Lehew…twice! Like "The Presidential Poon-tang 100% Awesome Award" or "Distinguished Achievement in the field of American Ninjas." And that's just off the top of my head. I'm not even an elected official, but I did nominate Sergeant Bonham the Commanding General of the Joint Sexual Deviancy command and am only five ranks away from E-9. What's the Senate's excuse for such blatant laziness?

        In the interest of non-biased and fair explanation, and because I don't want this to get blown out of proportion, I'm going to throw this on the table right now: First Sergeant Lehew is God. Was that over the top? It's true. Ask any Marine that has served with him in combat and they'll tell you that bullets change trajectory around him, mortars simply don't fall near him, and body armor clings to him for protection. Get that Marine a couple of beers and he'll also tell you that First Sergeant won a game of connect four in three moves and Chuck Norris ran away (after he soiled himself) when they got into a fight.

        My most notable memory of the First Sergeant was the Cemetery in Najaf, in August of 2004. The fighting had been heavy for the last two days and I was running casevacs for the Battalion. First Sergeant and I were standing next to my Humvee talking about Lt. Shickling who had the shit mortared out of him with hilarious results. (Thank God he wasn't hurt, find me and ask if you want to hear the whole story) Tactically speaking, it's difficult to describe. Just keep in mind that we were only half way covered to our left, waist high by the truck, and totally covered to our right by a six foot tall wall. Suddenly, rounds crack out from the mass of graves on the other side of the street, and impact in the four foot gap in between us while we're talking. I do the first thing that comes naturally to me: trip over my own feet and fall backwards, now in the complete cover of the Humvee. What does First Sergeant do? Return fire? Take cover? Call for Close Air Support? No. That crazy bastard walks away from what little cover he has, turns and stands tall towards the hidden shooter, and proceeds to flip him off with both hands while calling him every dirty word and ethnic Arabic stereotype in the book. The shooter flipped his weapon to full auto and simply sprays the area, trying to hit this insulting short little man. How do I know this? Because I'm less than 6 feet away watching the rounds impact the wall. They crashed into the concrete spraying gravel in all directions in between his legs, over his shoulders, next to him, most only missing by inches. Soon, the shooter runs out of rounds. First Sergeant brings his fingers down, shrugs, and comes back towards me, picking up the conversation where we left off as if nothing had happened. I got checked out by the BAS when we got back because being next to that much awesome can cause cancer.

        Don't take my word for it, let's look at his Navy Cross warrant. I won't show the whole thing here because most of you magnificent bastards are one step above illiteracy, so here's the gist:

        -In the initial invasion of Iraq in March of 2003 (then) Gunnery Sergeant Lehew's AAV unit was ambushed on a bridge in Nasiriya.

        -Gunny Lehew provided suppressing fire, killing at least a dozen Iraqis. The Iraqis then went under the guise of surrendering, using women with babies as spotters for RPGs and mortars.

        -Gunny Lehew didn't fall for any of that shit, and killed nearly all of them when they attempted to launch a surprise attack from the back of an ambulance.

        -Gunny Lehew pulled all of the dead and wounded from the wreckage of several AAVs and army transports, treating the wounded with the help of a Corpsman and arming anybody who could fight.

        -The Iraqi counter-assault wisely realizes it's time to retreat, Gunny Lehew gets on top of a building and calls in a medivac.

        Jesus Christ! If that doesn't give you at least a if that doesn't arouse you sexually you're either a robot or a gay robot. Since the warrant ends there, and I don't have any reliable sources to fill in the rest, I'm going to use the next best thing: hearsay and rumor.

        Gunny Lehew jumps off the building and breaks the fall with his face, just because he's hard like that. He then runs into an Iraqi woman acting as a spotter while holding a baby. He eats the baby and simultaneously impregnates the woman. Moving up the street he kills 42 republican guard and completes his crossword puzzle. Finally, he uses his magic dragon breath to light the tree on fire and uses its smoke to signal the nearest friendly bird for medivac.

    Marines, let's not dwell on what we think we should be awarded this deployment. Let's prepare for the next deployment to Iraq and look back at the Marines who rated so much more and didn't complain; those who made the ultimate sacrifice without hesitation, and those who will never have their stories told unless we perpetuate them throughout time.