Respect on Demand?

Leon,

I awoke this morning to the sound of my NCO knocking on my door. I wasn't late for work, but I did manage to sleep through his morning racket, which usually consists of anything from blaring Prodigy to something out of the Godfather sound track. I answered the door, looking and feeling very hung over despite my two month sobriety — which I'm now convinced will be a regular occurrence for the rest of my rotation.

I threw on a uniform that I had tossed in my chair last night when I shed it just before crawling into my bag. I wandered to the showers, brushed my teeth, then headed to the chow hall for coffee and a muffin – not bothering to shave – and sauntered to the office.

Following the untimely crash of my graphic station, I've been forced to work from a laptop that happens to have my monitor attached to it. Both a blessing and a curse; I've had few requests for specialized graphics since then. This has left me with quite a bit of time on my hands, which for someone like me, who contemplates the very existence of the universe on any given day, tends to wear on my sanity.

I've been passing the time reading various Wikipedia articles and doing simple busy work, such as cleaning out the desks in our office or seeing what I can procure from the chow hall and supply. I also finished Scar Tissue, the autobiography of Anthony Keidis, which was an excellent read.

My seniors around me are beginning to stress the need for me to become an NCO, and I've been thrust into a leadership position on a few occasions, with another one on its way. However, I currently have no drive or desire to become a "leader" of any sort and have already declined attending the board once, for which I was given a counseling statement. Not necessarily a negative action, just an aid of sorts to help me reflect on my decision and the advancement of my "career."

The military, as it stands, will not be a career. The prospect of working as a writer or poet is too appealing to me.

Yesterday, I was given the opportunity to assess the military's beloved concept of respect. This is the belief that anyone of a higher rank than you deserves your utmost respect and obedience — most of which is purely by demand. Early in life, I adopted the "Respect those who deserve it" creed. And I'm a firm believer in the fact that respect should be inspired, not commanded.

The military fails miserably at understanding this concept. NCOs, especially those in the E-7 range, demand that they receive the highest respect and honestly believe they deserve it. These people follow the "I am Alpha and Omega" concept of leadership. This is something I despise, but given the military's policy on customs and courtesies, I have no choice but to concur. As it stands, I can no longer suffer my military service and anxiously await the day — four years from now — when my contract is over. Unless I can find a way to cut it short without causing damage to my civilian reputation.


And now:


The Dogs of War

Bark
Growl
And howl ye Dogs of War
Do as your master commands
And tear at our enemies' hands

You are merely beasts
Wild and feral
Suffering no will of your own



Peace,

Feelgoode

Whispering Morrison in the Sand

Poetic musings from the Front.

******

The Wolf

A howl
Somber and cold
The Wolf cries out in loneliness
A low melancholy moan

For him alone
Cry not my brother

For we are kindred spirits
You and I
Though the pack has abandoned us
We will find our way
Lift your weary head
And howl in pride

For you
My friend
Are a testament to our
Freedom

******

Retreat

Run! Soldier! Run!
Or the Mad Men w/ beards
Will kill you!

******

Solitudarity (Or Observations: On Solitude)

Alone in my little box of wood
The carpet collects dust
My bed will break
And my weapons will soon rust
Outside
Airplane roar
Jet fighter scream
The Ghosts walk the white Earth
The Big Voice
Oh it's her again

Time out of Mind

Leon,

I found myself awake at roughly 0200 this morning to the sound of my cell phone screaming its cheerful beat of Super Mario fame. Peeling myself out of my sleeping bag and reaching for my phone, I glanced at the caller display which read "Unknown."

No sooner had I read this, the music stopped abruptly, as if the phone had suddenly been placed on silent. Understandably disgruntled, mostly in part due to my rude awakening, I rolled off of my bed, unable to sleep due to an excruciating, hangover-grade headache and nausea that had manifested itself out of the abysmal confines of my weary mind.

Recent nights have been laden with unusual, almost delirious, dreams, often involving friends, new and old, family and an icon — Jim Morrison — on numerous occasions. Now, normally I would chalk these up to the mefloquine — a drug we're required to take once a week to fight malaria. But these are slightly more awkward than the standard mefloquine dream.

These dreams have led to a rereading of Morrison's published poetry and a reassessment of my existence as a whole. I've spent a number of hours since my arrival in this country looking back on the choices I've made in my life and the odd and unforeseen twists and turns I've taken to reach my now not known goal in life.

I don't see myself maintaining a military lifestyle. It goes against everything I am, or at least everything I believe I am. I consider myself a nonconformist, which, as you know, is a major staple of military service. You're expected — commanded — to think and act a certain way and anything otherwise calls for on-the-spot reprimand and "corrective" training — brainwashing, if you want a call to extremes.

I feel I've lost the very freedom I'm supposed to be fighting for. I've grown disgusted with my current lot in life. Simply put, I want to start over. I've grown tired and want so badly to sleep. I'll grow a beard, find a place to myself, and write a book under an alias of sorts. Or even travel the country and write of my misadventures and experiences when I'm finished and spend the rest of my life as an anonymous poet.

Perhaps I should take inspiration from Jack Kerouac and indulge in a little spontaneous prose — see what magic my tired thoughts may concoct. In fact, I may start on that today and e-mail a verdict.

"The 'stranger' was sensed as greatest menace in ancient communities" ~ Jim Morrison.

Peace,

Feelgoode

Observations: On Afghan Winter

Awake
2 am
Eyes burning and mind reeling
The Ghosts are wandering the white Earth
Glowing in the darkness
Shallow broken hearts
Delerium
Ashes in the air
Burning garbage
The thick stench of shit

The Mad Men with gray beards are coming to kill us all
The snow is blood red
There's blood on my boots

The RG-31: No Ordinary SUV

Leon,

Sorry about the extended moment of silence, but for the past week I've been pleasantly occupied and haven't had much to complain about. I've been spending my free time watching Japanese TV dramas and a hysterical BBC sitcom called "The IT Crowd."

Now, penny for my thoughts: I recently had the chance to play around with the RG-31, one of the Army's new toys. This piece of equipment is a large SUV-style vehicle that comes heavily armored with portholes in the thick windows that can be fired from.

It's been seen to survive IEDs and is predicted to drastically reduce the deaths of American soldiers like myself. However, the gravy on those potatoes is the fact that the vehicle is equipped with remote-controlled .50-cal or Mark 19 turrets that can be fired from the safety of the inside of the vehicle, via a joystick and computer screen.

Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Well, it is.

Despite these advantages, the vehicle has its defects. First of all, let me point out that I now know what a sardine actually feels like — minus being dead of course.

The vehicle can be configured to accommodate 10 personnel, but ours had room for the driver, the Truck Commander, the gunner and four passengers. Now, being the former three of that list isn't really a problem. It's the passengers that have it the worst.

There are two seats that line each side of the back of the vehicle, each one just barely large enough to conform to my ass — and I am by no means a large person. Add the fact that there's roughly an inch of space between each side-by-side seat and about one-and-a-half feet between the opposing seats. This fact left me shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy next to me and sharing the experience of having someone's knee, and my weapon, in my crotch with the guy across from me.

The top hatches on this vehicle can be pushed open, allowing soldiers to stand up to provide fire from outside the vehicle, with the armored hatch providing cover. Of course, as is the case with the seating, there's barely enough room for two. When the time finally came to exit the vehicle through the new-fangled hydraulic back door, it felt great to work some feeling back into my left leg and ass cheek.

This brings me to actually exiting the vehicle, which is a timely and cramped task, making the procedure sorely inefficient, should it be required in a firefight.

Now, you may be thinking, "What about the turret?" Yes, the turrets provide excellent coverage and suppressive fire, but this brings me to the next issue: reloading said turret.

Having had first-hand experience with this weapon allows me to say that its accuracy is something to be envied, and applying the three-round burst to any target with the .50-caliber munitions is more than enough to neutralize the opposition before having to reload. However, in the case that you do have to reload, you're looking at a genuine Matrix: Revolutions situation.

Any available soldier will have to climb on top of the vehicle, break open an ammo box, and reload the ammunition cache and weapon before it can open fire again. If the weapon malfunctions, it's usually an easy fix.

I do have to give credit where it's due, though. Provided there's a convoy of these vehicles — maybe four or so, like I had — the problems I've listed above most likely won't be much of an issue. But let's hope this new piece of equipment does what it's designed to do. Namely, protect us and neutralize the opposition.

Peace,

Feelgoode

Travails of a Poster Boy

Leon,

Good evening, my friend. I've just finished dinner and have found time to dwell on recent tasks which serve as this entry's muse. It would seem that word of my occupational specialty has made its way across the camp, as numerous fellow soldiers have come to me with various requests. Most of these requests revolve around the same thing; that is, they want a special logo just for them.

Naturally, these kinds of tasks fall to the bottom of the barrel as I have a multitude of other tasks that take priority. One such task is the creation of a propaganda poster for the Afghan National Army (ANA). My problem is that we already have one.

The issue is that the top brass, for some reason or another, doesn't like the one we already have, after I took the trouble to frame it and hang it in the conference room. You see, our current poster was put together by the PSYOP command, but what these guys want is their own claim to fame.

So, they task me, one of two illustrators — the other never really does his job, so all tasks get pushed to me — to create a brand new one from scratch. But wait! There's more! They want this bitch to read in Dari. So, on top of creating a brand new poster, I have to somehow pull an English-to-Dari translation from the deepest recesses of my colon — a very difficult process, mind you.

Of course, a task coming from the highest ranks in the unit precedes everything, but there's a problem with this. I've been working toward some designs for some T-shirts and sweatshirts for the re-enlistment NCO. I've been working on this project for roughly two weeks now, with other tasks interrupting the process at every turn. This is wearing on my client's patience, which in turn is wearing on his clients' patience. This all comes down on me in the end, which wears on my overall sanity — and I'm disgruntled enough as it is, I assure you.

There is a light at the end of this long tunnel. I put in many an extra hour in the office last night working on said poster, which is currently near completion. I'm just waiting on the Dari. With this extra time, I was able to work on another design for the shirts, which I will turn in to my client as soon as possible.

Oh yes, four more years.

Peace,

Feelgoode