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The Final Chapter

Hello all, I know it has been a long time since I have posted about my Task Force experience, but I’ve been busy but mostly I’ve been distracted – let me explain: In my last few posts I talked about the lead up and deployment to the “Island of Spice” AKA Grenada in October 1983. As good as it was for my soul to finally get my memories and thoughts written down it was a physiologically exhausting exercise. I had to dig deep into hazy and sometimes painful memories and then post what I found on the Internet for everyone to read. Scary indeed. With the 30 year anniversary of the invasion looming I just couldn't bring myself to "finish" the story.

What really prompted me to start writing again was meeting with my former boss from TSA. I hadn’t seen him since shortly after I resigned although I have talked to him on the phone a few times and exchanged occasional  emails, but that morning over biscuits and gravy and years after the fact, I asked him some pointed questions and he was finally able to respond completely. That story is for some other time, but his revelations that I had been more right than wrong with things with that job lifted a huge weight off my shoulders and as I drove away I decided that it was time for me to write the final chapter on my days in Task Force 2/505. Fast forward a few months and here I am again:

I have always questioned some of my memories as not honest enough. However, I’ve discovered that I’m okay writing about my screw-ups – of which there are many as I’m sure some of you can attest, but one fact remains. I always had the best of intentions and highest of expectations for those people who worked for me, but also myself.

There were times though that I just gave up. Mostly when I saw how some soldiers seemed somehow like Teflon-coated turds and could seemingly do no wrong. Officers who were more worried about getting a one-block on their OERs and worst of all - the NCOs, senior NCOs who made it their mission in life to crush the spirit in anyone who didn’t conform to their cookie-cutter idea of what a good soldier should be. Let me break it down:

So Much I Owe

There has been enough said about the bad officers, so I’ll leave it at that. Refer to some of my previous postings for those winners. However, there were some outstanding officers: Keith “Kit” Bonn is someone for whom I have reserved a permanent number one spot on my short list of personal heroes. Robert “Burning Bob” Shaffer was another upright officer and was a good example of what I could expect from most officers in Special Forces. Some officers I only knew by reputation but I hoped I would be able to work for someday – one who comes immediately to mind was Pedro Pedrozo. I first met him in passing after he’d left Bravo Company and was the battalion S4; I’d heard many stories about his skills and talents at soldiering. He ultimately went through the Officers’ SF Qualification Course (Hereafter referred to as the Q-Course) after which he had a stellar career in 7^th Special Forces Group and became a minor legend in the SF world. I’m sure he’s retired by now, but I don’t know for certain.

Another fine officer who I got to know later was Lt Greg Gerovac he saved my ass based on the word of a fine NCO by the name of SSG Joe Torres, the S3 Air NCO. The young LT was the rear-detachment commander because he had been recovering from an accident at the time of the deployment to Grenada and was not able to deploy – Good thing for me that he didn’t. He was able to (sight unseen mind you) to arrange a “rehab” transfer for me to our sister Battalion the 1/508, whose CSM had had dealings with Captain Rock already and became my savior. I had to soldier my ass off, but that was what I lived for so I did. Those are a few of my heroes who saved me or inspired me – thank you.

Many of the turds in uniform had certain skill sets that were rare in those days before computers became universal; therefore they became a protected species that (usually) took advantage of their newfound status. Again, I talked about them in a previous posting. There were notable exceptions and I had the honor and pleasure to serve with some outstanding soldiers: Kent Anderson, Tom Coulter, Freddie Hart, Mike Holzer, Dennis Johnson, Rick Kratzner, Thomas Maloney, David Potts, Tim Shaffer, Nelson Vaguchay, and Brian “Wads” Wadsworth to name a few.

The NCOs. After pondering it for some time I came to the conclusion that for the most part the last good SNCO I worked for in the 2/505 was SFC John Smythe. He told me to, “watch my six,” and get the hell out of 2/505. I should have listened to him. Anyways, that’s what leads me into this story. John’s warning was a bellwether for me that ultimately led to my time in SF.

The Marvels of the Internet (it’s not just porn and penis enlargers you know)

Through the wonders of the Internet, I have been able to reconnect with many friends and former squad mates. I treasure all of these reconnections because the ones that haven’t reconnected aren’t ones I had wanted to communicate with again anyway – and that’s okay too. If you are reading this Mark D. Rock or Terry Watts then fuck you. Ahem, anyway, I digress. Reconnecting with people who I knew as 18-19 YO Privates that are now parents and grandparents has been a kick in the pants. You guys are awesome and I consider myself very fortunate to call you comrades and more importantly friends. I never had an opportunity to tell you that before and I’m damn happy I’ve been able to do it now!

A couple guys shared the rumors they heard about my departure. Sadly, the real story was quite mundane compared to the stories that were flying around Task Force. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Radio Ga-Ga

Okay, some of you already know this story, but this is the straight poop on what got me kicked out of the war:

I was on radio watch and received a message from higher that a TV news crew and a psyops team would be in B company’s area the following day, I dutifully passed on the information, entered it into the log and went back to my crossword puzzle.  A few minutes later I got another call on the radio that the psyops team would not be coming to B Company’s area, information that I obediently passed on to the unit. Back to the crossword.  A short time later the B company RTO (Radio Telephone Operator) came up on the net and asked, “Is the publicity team still coming?” somewhat disgusted at this query I grabbed the handset and responded, “No B company, you won’t be getting your face in the news again.” Little did I know that those thirteen words that would soon put my world into a tailspin.

Feeling kind of smug, I tossed the handset aside, looked at my watch to see how soon my replacement would be there when the Bravo Company commander Captain Rock popped up on the net and stated that he wanted to see me the following day. “Roger that,” and back to the crossword puzzle. Unaware that something was already afoot to torpedo the drifting ship that was my life and career. In due time my relief showed up and off to bed I went, unwilling to join in one of the many card games being played.

A Major Ass Chewing

The following day I cleaned up and went about my duties. Soon it was around noon when as I was getting ready to eat my C ration I was called into the ersatz conference room. Sitting in a semicircle were BC, all of the staff officers, the S3 and Captain Rock. I knew this would not end well for me, setting down my ration I assumed the position of attention. Old Mark D. started reading from a piece of paper all of my transgressions and how I kicked puppies and stole lunch money as the S-3, Major Portant sat there listening and the Big Ragoo chewed on his cud of tobacco, slurping sounds punctuated by him spitting tobacco juice into a coke can. The rest of the Ops officers staring at me wordlessly as I was raked over the coals, I don’t remember if there were any NCOs in the room, I suppose Baldy Locks was there, but I don’t recall if the battalion CSM was in attendance.

Returned to the Mother Ship

After that flogging I was to get on the first thing smoking off the island back to Mother Bragg and to an uncertain future. My last official act was to escort two privates back to face charges for an incident I described in an earlier post concerning an ass whooping and an M60 machine gun.

I returned to the Mother Ship, tried to keep myself busy, help run the rear detachment and wait until my situation would be resolved one way or another.

One of the more distasteful tasks I had to do was to cut locks and search duffel bags returning from Grenada. We were to confiscate any poncho liners, two-quart canteens and jungle boots we found. The rationale was that we needed to return the items to the war stocks. Remember, I told you the Division Commander’s nickname was “The Bean-counter,” not a very pleasant task, especially since I was certain that we were taking some items that had been purchased by the individual soldier but there was no way for certain to discern one from the other.

Job Hunting

I started looking for jobs up and down Ardennes Street and even made a surprise office call on the 5^th Special Forces Group, CSM. He was encouraging and suggested that I get my SF packet together and submit it for approval. As quickly as possible I slapped the packet together, got a physical, etc. and dropped it off at the SF recruiting office with crossed fingers.

Time continued and while I was waiting I had to do one of the worst things you could imagine. I had to go into Bravo 2/505 barracks and put together Dinish Rajbanjary’s Class-A uniform. We had just gotten word that he’d been killed and I was directed to help the chaplain prepare for Raj’s return to the States. I knew him, not really well, but he seemed like a pretty squared away trooper. When I heard about how he was killed it broke my heart – killed by an AD or Accidental Discharge seemed more tragic than enemy fire, but you are still very much dead. When I heard I said a quick prayer for both of the young soldiers involved.

Negative Ratings?

On one of my forays down Ardennes I ran into Raj’s platoon sergeant who’d been relieved by Rock for dereliction of duty. Both he and the LT had been relieved after another witch-hunt
. I don’t remember either one’s name, but the (former) PSG gleefully showed me the Relief For Cause NCOER he’d gotten from Rock and Watts. I didn’t know you could rate someone with negative numbers! I’m kidding of course, but not far from the truth. He then showed me his most recent evaluation for comparison and the difference was brutal. I don’t know whatever happened to him or the LT, but I’m certain it wasn’t fun. Just like a sycophant to immediately cut away from the platoon chain of command to protect himself from any fallout.

Movin’ on Up

Back to Joe Torres and Lieutenant Gerovac. Unbeknownst to me Joe was talking to the LT, let him know that I got a raw deal and to help me out if possible. And help me he did. The rear detachment commander for the Brigade (1/508's BC) was known as “Pac-man” because he gobbled up soldiers' careers. His first response to my situation was to chapter me out no questions asked. However, providence interceded on my behalf (Thanks LT and Joe) and I moved over to the ’08 to a mortar platoon no less. Other powers were in play too. I found out I had a few people in my corner. It would be up to me to soldier my way out of this mess that my mouth had gotten me into.

When I reported to the ‘08’s Command Sergeant Major Forsythe he had me sit down and he shared with me how he already knew all about my situation and he’d already experienced Mark D’s way of doing business and that as far as he was concerned I was good to go. However, there was one small problem. He had no place to put an 11B SSG other than slotting me as an assistant mortar platoon sergeant in Bravo Company. The current PSG was a shit-shot mortarman but the CSM said he was not so strong in NCO business. Therefore, my job was to help him out and his job was to teach me mortars. Come to find out, SSG Johnson was far more squared away than the CSM knew and I learned a lot about NCO business from him. The platoon leader was pretty squared away too, but sadly his name has faded away with time.

A choice?

Fast forward a few months after the final troops from the 82d had returned, I found myself staring at an overseas movement warning order. I was going to Panama! Shit. How did that happen? Right about the same time, my orders for the Q-Course came back approved, so here I was, in a pretty good assignment with the mortar platoon with things starting to click but in one hand (literally) Orders to Panama and orders to the Q-Course in the other. I scheduled an appointment with the S1 and asked him what should I do, he looked at both sets of orders and then looked up at me and chuckled, “Well, Sergeant Woods you get to pick which orders you want.” Holy Crap! I get a choice? It didn’t take me very long to decide on going to the Q-Course. My reporting date was in just a short time and I had almost no time to try and get myself into some sort of physical shape to pass the PT test.

Déjà Vu All Over Again

I had experienced the SFQC PT test once – actually twice before. Upon my return from Italy I had started the Q-course once before and failed miserably. I had been putting lots and lots of miles in Italy and hitting the gym on a manic schedule, but I discovered much to my dismay that the Q-course still ran the PT test in boots whereas the rest of the army had gone to running shoes for PT. I made it, barely. But what got me the first time was the pushups. I thought I was ready, but the grader was ULTRA strict and few of my pushups were even counted! One week later the CO of the training company graded my PT test personally and you can imagine how well I did.

Part of my problem had been that I didn't understand physiology very well. I worked out every day like a madman – between work details of course – right up to the day before the test. With no recovery time I was asking my muscles to do the almost impossible! Rest days were an unknown factor to me at that time.

Fast-forward a few years I understood physiology and the importance of “G2ing” the PT site first. Suffice to say, I passed the PT test. More on the Q-course later….

Thanks Mark & Terry!

A very wise woman recently pointed out to me that the debacle I caused with my poorly chosen words might have had some help. I will never know if the RTO might have relayed my message in such a way to make me look bad, or if good old Mark was leaning over his shoulder.  Bottom line was I should have kept my comment to myself. Nonetheless, I’ll take the hit on this one. I never should have said it.  Anyway, I do want to thank Mark Rock and Terry Watts for being the way they were so I was pushed into a change. Had things gone along on an even keel I might very well have stayed with the 82d for the remainder of my career – however long it might have been and I don’t know if I would have ever worked up the nerve to “go down the street.”

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht

Since earlier this year we have been acknowledging the centennial of the First World War and hopefully reflecting on its impact on our lives. Starting with the assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand on June 28^th until the anniversary of Armistice Day in 2018, we as a world community should remember the events that make up the “War to end All Wars.” This story is of one of those events, that if it had come out of Hollywood would have been dismissed as so much fantasy. However, it did happen and it has been well documented. On Christmas Eve, December of 1914 something miraculous occurred all along the Western Front.

The indelible image that people identify most with World War One is trench warfare.  Trenches were an unintentional outcome of 19^th century tactics running headlong into the industrialized warfare of machineguns, rapid-firing rifles, barbed wire, and quick-laying artillery. Poison gas, tanks, and airpower would later be used with the intention of breaking this stalemate. Nonetheless, trenches were the reality for the duration of WWI.

As the Germans raced through the Low Countries intent on capturing Paris, their attack was blunted by Allied counter-attacks during the early fall of 1914 as well as the tremendous failure of their logistics train keeping up with their operational needs. Finally, opposing sides dug in with the intention of quickly renewing military operations, the space between the opposing sides became known as “No Man’s Land.” In some cases, a distance less than the length of a soccer field separated antagonists. By Armistice Day in 1918, trenches stretched unbroken from the North Sea to the border of Switzerland, a distance of some 440 miles.

By December the cheerful youths and boastful jingoes of 1914’s summer had been transfo6rmed into weathered and worn veterans of Germany’s thwarted attempt at conquering France in a fortnight. The Kaiser himself had guaranteed his soldaten that they would be home before the leaves turned their autumn hues. Much the same on the other side of the English Channel, members of the British Expeditionary Force, or BEF, that had helped the French halt the German juggernaut had also been assured that they would be home before Christmas. Neither prediction came true as both sides dug deep into the chalky loam of Europe. Summer became fall, and winter followed closely behind, and no one would be home by Christmas. But, what happened on Christmas

Eve, 1914 is a story worth remembering:

A cold, cloudless night, the moon would not appear for some time. The soil churned up by war had turned to mud and with the winter weather the mud froze and clung to the sentry’s brogans* as he shifted sleepily back and forth in the vain hope of warming his feet; his puttees** seemed to soak up the moisture in the air and froze to his woolen pants legs adding further to his discomfort

With no moon, listening carefully, more than watching would be necessary to detect movement in the enemy’s line. Peering over the parapet into the darkness the sentry would cup his hands behind his ears to help hear any telltale sounds that might betray a German probe. The Germans were so close that he could hear murmuring voices and the enemy moving about in the trenches glowing dimly from warming fires. “Hmm,” he thought, glancing at his watch, “it’s late, why aren’t they singing tonight?”

The thoughts of those soldiers still awake were most certainly of home on this cold, clear night. This was Christmas Eve, and in a few hours it would be Christmas Day. Private Tommy Atkins# surely chuckled at the irony of being at war on the celebration of the birth of the Prince of Peace as he continued with his duty. Those soldiers lucky enough to be asleep were wrapped up in their overcoats wedged into cubbyholes scratched into the side of the trench that would hopefully protect the occupant from nearby explosions. Other, luckier soldiers were somewhere below ground within the relative comfort of subterranean chambers known as “Bombproofs.” While usually not as well constructed as the Germans’, they were at least somewhat warm and dry.

As the moon began to rise, a pale, cold light crept onto the scene. Able to see more of their sectors, sentries peered through the gloom. Suddenly, the sentry saw movement in the German trenches! Quickly and quietly he alerted his fellow soldiers.

Rousted from their sleep, some soldiers feared the worst – that the Germans would stage an attack on Christmas morning of all times! Canvas covers were pulled off machineguns as the gunners settled in behind them, stiff fingers adjusting the sights. Assistant gunners checked to see that the belts of ammunition could feed properly.

Some men surely said a silent prayer that they would be spared this night as they snapped bayonets into place and checked in the darkness for boxes of extra ammunition and hand grenades. Sergeants and corporals moved about, checking the line. Stretcher bearers moved to designated places in the trench line that would allow them to remain out of the way but close enough to move the inevitable wounded to the relative safety of the aid stations located in support trenches a few dozen yards to the rear. Commanders and subalterns peeked up over the trench to see if this was an attack or merely a diversion as they fingered the cold brass of their flare pistols, ready to send a flare skyward to alert the rest of the line. But for now they would wait.

As men at war tend to do, soldiers on both sides would frequently sing wistful ballads or popular tunes to help assuage their homesickness. British troops would also often sing “God Save the King” and be answered with Germany’s unofficial national anthem, "Heil dir im Siegerkranz," “Hail the victor's crown,” which ironically was sung to the same tune as the British national anthem. Many British soldiers thought the Germans were mocking them and their King when they first heard the German song. But, as Christmas drew closer, English voices would often join the German singing Christmas carols. “Stille Nacht” was especially favored. As the carols wafted over the broken land, they were just as likely to be accompanied by a British harmonica as a German accordion. There was even a case of a brass band accompanying one impromptu sing-a-long. But on this night - the holiest of nights, something else was stirring.

There! Movement in the enemy trenches!

Shapes began to appear over the trenches again - odd, man-like shapes, but they had small pinpoints of light adorning them. One after another, they appeared in the darkness. Christmas trees? What on earth were the Hun#* doing?  The German trenches were now adorned with the tannenbaum Kaiser Wilhelm had ordered sent to the frontlines along with chocolates, tobacco, schnapps and other treats. The British soldiers stared at the spectacle unsure of what they should do.

Shortly, a German soldier lifted himself up on level ground and walked haltingly towards the British lines. Then another lifted himself over the parapet, then another, leaving their weapons behind, their hands empty except for maybe a tin of tobacco, a flask or some other offering.

In these days of poor communications between the frontlines and the commanders safely ensconced in the rear, local commanders had the painful decision to make to be the first to draw blood on Christmas or to trust that their enemy was truly interested in at least a short respite from the life and death reality of the trenches. Certainly most of the combatants were hoping for a reprieve from fighting.

It wasn’t just soldiers who wanted a Christmas Truce during this first year of the war, Pope Benedict XV begged for an official truce between Germany and Britain, and asked “that the guns may fall silent at least upon the night the angels sang”. However, both sides rejected the pope’s attempt at peace.

Eventually, someone from the British lines set his rifle aside walked through the tangle of barbed wire and joined the growing number of Germans in the middle of No Man’s Land.

What happened next was a truce brokered neither by diplomats nor generals, but rather captains and sergeants who decided that, at least for this day, no one would die. This spontaneous eruption of peace occurred all along the Western Front. Junior leaders arranged the details of their truce and at first, each side sought out their dead that had lain where they had fallen during previous battles. The bodies were moved to areas behind the trenches where Germans and British working side-by-side buried each other’s comrades with respect and honor. After completing their grisly task, a soccer ball appeared, an impromptu game was formed, and the British and Germans fought a different kind of battle.

Like his cousin the Kaiser, the King of England had also directed that special gifts be sent to the front lines along with thousands of hand-knitted socks, gloves and hats. British tobacco was traded for German chocolates. Bully beef was swapped for German rations and all along soldiers showed off pictures of their families back home. Anyone who spoke the other language was pressed into translation duties, but even without that there was no mistaking the loneliness that each man shared. One lonely German talked about his English-born wife and children and pressed a hastily written letter into a British hand in the hope that it would get to his family. British soldiers who had worked in Germany before the war asked about favorite bars and restaurants, or arranged for a reunion with their newfound German friends once this current “dustup” concluded.

Drinks were shared and even old friendships renewed. A German who had been a barber in London before the war even gave haircuts and shaves to previous customers. Undoubtedly fueled by British Port or German Schnapps, Christmas carols were sung, English and German voices joining together. Nonetheless, there were some soldiers who refused to participate in the festivities, preferring to remain in their respective trench line. It is said that a certain Austrian-born corporal refused to associate with his British enemies. Corporal Adolph Hitler sat in his bunker fuming at what he believed was treasonous behavior by his fellow Germans.

All too soon morning came and with it orders to renew the fighting. With the growing light of day the soldiers bade farewell and parted company, some wearing bits of the others’ uniform, others shaking their heads and wondering if what they had just experienced had been real or just a wonderful dream. Soon enough the business of war intruded upon the only peace that the Western Front would know until the guns finally fell silent some four years later.

No one really knows where or how this truce originated or by whom, it is agreed upon that many of the calls for a truce came from the Germans with the area around Ypres, Belgium most frequently mentioned. Some reports also mentioned signs that appeared over some trenches saying, “If you don’t shoot we won’t shoot.”

Some units had been meeting in No Man’s Land over the course of the month, French Poilus## surprisingly had arranged a truce to recover their dead and wounded and a yuletide peace was initiated. Spontaneous occurrences all along the Western Front were recorded. As far as anyone knows this sort of thing has not been repeated since that cold December evening 100 years ago this month. Commanders on both sides were apoplectic when they heard what was going on. Threats of mass courts-martial and execution emanated from headquarters and were sent down to the lowest echelons, but in those days of spotty and inefficient communications these threats arrived too late to be of any consequence.

In order to avoid a recurrence of this event, British high command was willing to levy a heavy punishment upon anyone who attempted to broker a similar peace the following year and the German General Staff was also prepared to mete out stiff punishments should it happen again. They needn’t have worried. Although there were a few attempts to repeat the Christmas Truce, the New Year ushered in a level of total war to European battlegrounds that helped grind out the humanity shared in 1914 from both sides.

Nothing like this temporary peace occurred on the Eastern Front. The vast cultural differences between Germany and Russia created a gulf that would not be crossed. Only over the contested European soil where it was likely that soldiers on both sides prayed to the same God in the same manner or had worked with or for each other during peacetime was a negotiated truce by combatants made possible.

Later, after the embarrassment of common soldiers being able to find common ground with their enemy, military training included not-so-subtle efforts to dehumanize the enemy, thus avoiding familiarity that might lead to a recurrence a truce during future battles. By emphasizing the differences between the two sides and portraying the enemy as somehow less human than themselves, armies went about the business of killing without pause. To reinforce this sentiment even in the “neutral” United States, propaganda portrayed Germans as an evil and rapacious animal. By blaming them for atrocities real and imagined it helped reinforce the belief that they were indeed “Huns.”

Ironically, in modern times, nations that had been enemies during the two world wars have become allies. Similar belief systems have usurped nationalism so that even traditional European enemies have joined forces with their former enemies to fight the common foe of religious extremism, narco-terrorism, and non-state-sponsored terrorism. Such is the case of the modern battlefield.

Based on the nature of modern warfare, a grassroots truce like the Christmas Truce of 1914 is unlikely to ever be repeated. The cultural, ethnic, and religious differences between modern antagonists are so vast that this possibility is almost nonexistent. Even relationships between some regional allies have become dysfunctional because of “Green on Blue” attacks throughout the Middle East. Distrust and dislike for other cultures has even trumped the old adage, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Therefore, this instance of Peace on Earth and Good Will towards All Men will likely remain a singular event in modern history.

* Brogans: a coarse, stout leather shoe reaching to the ankle

** Puttees: a long narrow piece of cloth wound tightly and spirally around the leg, and serving to provide both support and protection

# Tommy Atkins: Slang name for the common soldier in the British Army

#* Hun: Derogatory name used to describe German soldiers

## Poilu: Slang name for a French soldier, especially the front-line soldiers of WWI

The Butcher's Bill

To Paul "the Coward" Ryan,

In a cowardly move that tops even this congress' poor track record you have once again taken money from those who can least afford to lose it. The reduction of the Cost Of Living allowance for military retirees was passed in an unholy bipartisan move that protects special interests and pares away the eroding benefits that have served for so long for the United States to develop and maintain a core of professional “lifers” who stayed in with the promise of a monthly stipend and medical care for life. But, if you put it side-by-side with the original benefits established for compensation you would see that there has been steady erosion that can be traced back to some self-serving, self-aggrandizing blowhole in congress that ignores the Butcher’s Bill paid by service members.

It’s a sweetheart deal right? Yeah, well, maybe you should look at it realistically. Retiring at 40 years old means you can start a new career so you don’t NEED all that money because you can get another job, start a new career, blah, blah, blah. Not quite that easy Buckwheat. That is unless you want to do contract work and with each passing day a military retiree becomes just a little more unemployable. I’ll use my experiences as an example. After I retired, I went to college to become a teacher, a history teacher to be exact. Despite being highly qualified (I thought) to teach, I have so far been unable to obtain a full-time teaching job. I have become a first year teacher with eleven years of “non” experience. No one is going to hire me. Among other things, I don’t have a coaching endorsement. No one is going to hire me. So I keep substituting and hoping for a break, a break that will not come because with each passing day I become that much more unemployable. No one is going to hire me.

Lets take a look at medical benefits now. Most retirees I know personally have knee and back injuries that make our middle-aged joints look positively decrepit. A doctor once said that my knees look like they should be on an 85 year old, not a 40-something. Most of my medical care has been directly related to injuries sustained over 22 years under a rucksack. Funny thing though, a persistent skin problem that manifested itself with tiny blisters all over my hands and arms disappeared after retirement – not so the broken bones, strained ligaments and torn muscle.

I don’t deserve what I’ve earned? No sir, I earned it with every parachute jump that consumed just a little more cartilage. With every step I took under an overloaded rucksack that pounded down my spine – pushing discs out of alignment – I earned it. The constant ringing in my ears and deafness caused by hours upon hours riding in military aircraft, firing weapons and just generally around loud noises – I earned it. Years of being exposed to the most extreme weather you can imagine, the hottest hots to the coldest colds, my body now reacts to the slightest temperature change – yes sir, I earned it. But, my injuries pale in comparison to many other retired service members. Thankfully I have all my limbs, many others do not. 

Now the question that I’m dying to ask, “Just what the hell have you done to alleviate the debt mister congressman? Have you taken a pay cut? Have you taken the liberty of cutting your COLA? What about your sweetheart medical care? What about all of the special interest groups that you have been protecting? Why have you targeted such a small percentage of the populace? Could it be that we are the only faction of America with almost no lobbyists? Or could it be because in the end no one gives a damn about veterans – much less the disabled ones.

Of course there is the usual platitudes about “everyone” doing their share, a thinly veiled attempt to make veterans feel guilty about demanding their due. Usually works doesn’t it? Civilians who have never served their country cannot fathom what each service member sacrifices on any given day – peacetime or wartime. We did it out of patriotism, we did it out of personal pride, and we did it because we truly do love our country. However, we also did it because we were promised (there’s that word again) a certain package of benefits that we could depend upon after we did finally retire.

I doubt very much that you have read this far mister congressman. But let me tell you that this bill you pushed through has far-reaching effects that your pea-sized brain cannot even fathom. Our Republic is in more danger now than at any other time in our history. Social scientists, apologists and all the other scummy people who really do want to destroy our country have succeeded in emasculating and desensitizing our youth about their responsibility to the nation - and now you have shown that a promise means nothing.  Why would anyone join an organization where the only thing you can depend on is to be used, abused, and lied to?

Today 1%, tomorrow 10% and so on until the United States is nothing more than a third-world country with a first-world debt.

Our first commander and first Commander in Chief George Washington said it best:

“The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional to how they perceive veterans of early wars were treated and appreciated by our nation.”

At the end of the day do you really believe that you did your job?

Michael R. Woods

Master Sergeant

US Army Special Forces

Retired