Too good not to share! May we all remember those willing to sacrifice so much so we may sleep safe in our beds at night...
A Different Christmas Poem
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Chris tmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear..
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Chris tmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Chris tmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.."
" So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
PLEASE, would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many
people as you can? Chris tmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to
our
U.S service men and women for our being able to celebrate these
festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe.
Make people
stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves
for us.
LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN
30th Naval Construction Regiment
OIC, Logistics Cell One
Al Taqqadum, Iraq
23 December 2009
18 December 2009
through the mind of a penguin, pt 1
Why do people give us the stereotype of being mercenaries? I mean, yeah, some of us are the out-there, in your face, military type, but honestly, not all of us are. Some just want to live a peaceful life, not be involved in taking over the world, or stealing beer and women. Some of us have other talents, thank you very much.
I, for one, can tap dance. No, not as a scheme to distract people while my compatriots take their money, or inflict some kind of hypnosis on them. No, sir! I am a legitimate tap dancing penguin. The nice thing is I don't have to worry about dressing up, or dry cleaning a tux. Mine is fully attached to me, causing my clothing bill to be very minimal. Of course, I have to buy tap shoes, but you know, when those have to be custom made, they can be expensive! I mean, tap shoes aren't exactly cheap to begin with, but regular ones just don't fit flippers. But, that doesn't mean I go around getting the money for them illegally. Nope, I started out young, and tapping in just my flippers on the street corner with my hat on the ground looking for handouts. Those don't come easy people! Especially when you are a penguin and people think you are going to hurt them somehow, or turn them into zombies or what have you.
That's like one of my good friends from South America. He, like me, is on the small side, but you know, that doesn't get him down. I mean, it's better than being an Emperor penguin. Those guys have some issues. They think that they already rule the world just because the word Emperor is in their name. Talk about a complex! Anyway, back to my friend. He writes. Mostly news articles, giving the people a first hand view of what is happening on the penguin front so they can be informed. He's the one that first got people to see through that "cute and cuddly" front. Now, that took courage. He had all the other penguins up in arms against him, had hits out on him from the penguin mafia, death threats, attempts on his life. He had to go into hiding for a while there and only came out of hiding after making a deal with the Penguin Mafia Overlord saying that he wouldn't infiltrate their ranks and report their tactics to the common man again, that if the people wanted to resist the Front for Liberation of the Internal Penguin Population Revolution, that they would have to figure it out on their own.
Now, the Front for Liberation of the Internal Penguin Population Revolution, FLIPPR for short, in my opinion is a load of crock. What do we need liberated from? And who exactly is the Internal Penguin Population? Half of their title I am convinced is there for the sole purpose of having an acronym that sounds like flipper. Cruel to our kind on their part. I mean, it's not like we have those awesome thumbs or anything, or even fingers for that matter! Do you know how hard it is to grab a cup of hot chocolate with a flipper!
Wait. wait... Oh no! I hear them coming! First they silence my friend for his comments, and now they are coming after me! I can hear them on the steps. If anyone reads this, please....PLEASE remember that not all the penguins are ba.....
I, for one, can tap dance. No, not as a scheme to distract people while my compatriots take their money, or inflict some kind of hypnosis on them. No, sir! I am a legitimate tap dancing penguin. The nice thing is I don't have to worry about dressing up, or dry cleaning a tux. Mine is fully attached to me, causing my clothing bill to be very minimal. Of course, I have to buy tap shoes, but you know, when those have to be custom made, they can be expensive! I mean, tap shoes aren't exactly cheap to begin with, but regular ones just don't fit flippers. But, that doesn't mean I go around getting the money for them illegally. Nope, I started out young, and tapping in just my flippers on the street corner with my hat on the ground looking for handouts. Those don't come easy people! Especially when you are a penguin and people think you are going to hurt them somehow, or turn them into zombies or what have you.
That's like one of my good friends from South America. He, like me, is on the small side, but you know, that doesn't get him down. I mean, it's better than being an Emperor penguin. Those guys have some issues. They think that they already rule the world just because the word Emperor is in their name. Talk about a complex! Anyway, back to my friend. He writes. Mostly news articles, giving the people a first hand view of what is happening on the penguin front so they can be informed. He's the one that first got people to see through that "cute and cuddly" front. Now, that took courage. He had all the other penguins up in arms against him, had hits out on him from the penguin mafia, death threats, attempts on his life. He had to go into hiding for a while there and only came out of hiding after making a deal with the Penguin Mafia Overlord saying that he wouldn't infiltrate their ranks and report their tactics to the common man again, that if the people wanted to resist the Front for Liberation of the Internal Penguin Population Revolution, that they would have to figure it out on their own.
Now, the Front for Liberation of the Internal Penguin Population Revolution, FLIPPR for short, in my opinion is a load of crock. What do we need liberated from? And who exactly is the Internal Penguin Population? Half of their title I am convinced is there for the sole purpose of having an acronym that sounds like flipper. Cruel to our kind on their part. I mean, it's not like we have those awesome thumbs or anything, or even fingers for that matter! Do you know how hard it is to grab a cup of hot chocolate with a flipper!
Wait. wait... Oh no! I hear them coming! First they silence my friend for his comments, and now they are coming after me! I can hear them on the steps. If anyone reads this, please....PLEASE remember that not all the penguins are ba.....
A story from Basic
In my half asleep disorientation, I saw the tent I was in, and the one next to mine, both belonging to my platoon. I also saw the other Soldiers and our gear, but it was blurry like I was trying to look through a piece of plastic and make out exactly who and what I was seeing, which would tell me where I was. I knew these people, but what were they doing here militarizing my room with their drab green tents, uniforms and bags of gear? And what did they do with my nice soft feather pillow?
As I was puzzling this strange, seemingly out of body experience, I saw these Soldiers grabbing weapons, helmets, and masks on their way out of the tent. I was overcome with different signals in a pattern of sets of three: shoulders touched three times, three claps in a row, and something I couldn’t quite make out shouted three times. Then a smell hit that was faint at first, but its strength grew exponentially with each second that passed. The smell was indescribable to anyone that hadn’t smelled it before, like explaining how salt tastes: sickly sweet, yet incredibly sour, sharp, and so painfully strong even in a small amount it felt like the inside of my nose had started on fire. Once you have the privilege of smelling it, it is a smell you will always recognize, even if you can't explain how it smells to someone.
A flash of memory hit from a few weeks ago when we were all being oriented to the finer details of how our gas masks worked and, more importantly, the chamber where we got up close and personal with CS gas or, as it is more commonly known, Tear Gas. That realization along with the one that it was the word “gas” being shouted in sets of three hit me at the same time. The two combining meant only one thing: the Drill Sergeants had begun their fun on the first night of the Field Training Exercise.
Reoriented after waking up a mere five seconds ago, I grabbed for my gear. The face mask was to go on in less than seven seconds; I had it mastered in five. The helmet was next because contrary to popular belief, without one you are screwed. Finally, as I was headed out, I grabbed my weapon. By this point, it was part of my body a necessary accessory to my daily outfit: without it, especially here in the field, I was naked. Luckily, the chance of me leaving my weapon behind was as likely as me leaving an arm behind.
As I was running for our designated safe zone, engineer tape in the form of a square on the ground marking our makeshift bunker, I again misplaced my surroundings. The cloud from the CS gas had caused a hazy fog to form, whiter than regular fog. The gas that touched my skin burned like a thousand tiny paper cuts with lemon juice poured on them, all over the skin that was exposed. My pores were rejecting any amount of the gas that touched it, causing a thin layer of perspiration to form on top of the burning. Because of the claustrophobia caused by the mask and the feeling of choking the gas caused due to muscle memory from the last time I felt this burn on my skin, breathing was nearly impossible.
The mask I had on had been used and washed so many times that the plastic eye pieces were so scratched that everything appeared hazy under normal circumstances. That combined with the distracting sensation of my skin on fire and the cloud of white gas surrounding me caused me to be running in the wrong direction by about 45 degrees or so. I removed my mask, thinking I was out of the cloud enough that it wouldn’t hurt me as bad, in an attempt to reorient myself. Bad idea. Not only did my sinuses explode the second the gas hit them causing me to lose what little sight I had with the mask on, but I saw briefly that I was headed straight for the Drill Sergeants’ tent.
In this situation, the last person you want to come across while alone and disoriented was a Drill Sergeant, especially one that didn't belong to your platoon. They have the power to strike the fear of God into the majority of people, as well as having the luxury of this being their day job. So, showing the weakness of being lost and alone during a training situation while in front of one of them was not something I was willing to do at that point. I heard him say through the fog, “I see you. Don’t follow my voice or you will regret it! Better start running!” in a very uncharacteristically sing-song voice. The surety of this voice, who it belonged to, and what would happen if the owner of it caught me was enough to cause some semblance of clear, logical thought to pass through my brain. The normal punishment for being caught by a Drill Sergeant while alone would only be expounded since I didn’t have my mask on like I should, and was headed in a completely wrong direction.
My only saving grace of that moment was having the training from earlier that day come to mind where, if we got lost, we were to find the line of stars that had been pointed out to us and follow it to the bunker. As this thought passed through my head, I looked up, and started running again, this time in the right direction. Half a minute, three stumbles, and a headlong trip into a ditch later and I was to the bunker, finally finding that safe zone.
As I was puzzling this strange, seemingly out of body experience, I saw these Soldiers grabbing weapons, helmets, and masks on their way out of the tent. I was overcome with different signals in a pattern of sets of three: shoulders touched three times, three claps in a row, and something I couldn’t quite make out shouted three times. Then a smell hit that was faint at first, but its strength grew exponentially with each second that passed. The smell was indescribable to anyone that hadn’t smelled it before, like explaining how salt tastes: sickly sweet, yet incredibly sour, sharp, and so painfully strong even in a small amount it felt like the inside of my nose had started on fire. Once you have the privilege of smelling it, it is a smell you will always recognize, even if you can't explain how it smells to someone.
A flash of memory hit from a few weeks ago when we were all being oriented to the finer details of how our gas masks worked and, more importantly, the chamber where we got up close and personal with CS gas or, as it is more commonly known, Tear Gas. That realization along with the one that it was the word “gas” being shouted in sets of three hit me at the same time. The two combining meant only one thing: the Drill Sergeants had begun their fun on the first night of the Field Training Exercise.
Reoriented after waking up a mere five seconds ago, I grabbed for my gear. The face mask was to go on in less than seven seconds; I had it mastered in five. The helmet was next because contrary to popular belief, without one you are screwed. Finally, as I was headed out, I grabbed my weapon. By this point, it was part of my body a necessary accessory to my daily outfit: without it, especially here in the field, I was naked. Luckily, the chance of me leaving my weapon behind was as likely as me leaving an arm behind.
As I was running for our designated safe zone, engineer tape in the form of a square on the ground marking our makeshift bunker, I again misplaced my surroundings. The cloud from the CS gas had caused a hazy fog to form, whiter than regular fog. The gas that touched my skin burned like a thousand tiny paper cuts with lemon juice poured on them, all over the skin that was exposed. My pores were rejecting any amount of the gas that touched it, causing a thin layer of perspiration to form on top of the burning. Because of the claustrophobia caused by the mask and the feeling of choking the gas caused due to muscle memory from the last time I felt this burn on my skin, breathing was nearly impossible.
The mask I had on had been used and washed so many times that the plastic eye pieces were so scratched that everything appeared hazy under normal circumstances. That combined with the distracting sensation of my skin on fire and the cloud of white gas surrounding me caused me to be running in the wrong direction by about 45 degrees or so. I removed my mask, thinking I was out of the cloud enough that it wouldn’t hurt me as bad, in an attempt to reorient myself. Bad idea. Not only did my sinuses explode the second the gas hit them causing me to lose what little sight I had with the mask on, but I saw briefly that I was headed straight for the Drill Sergeants’ tent.
In this situation, the last person you want to come across while alone and disoriented was a Drill Sergeant, especially one that didn't belong to your platoon. They have the power to strike the fear of God into the majority of people, as well as having the luxury of this being their day job. So, showing the weakness of being lost and alone during a training situation while in front of one of them was not something I was willing to do at that point. I heard him say through the fog, “I see you. Don’t follow my voice or you will regret it! Better start running!” in a very uncharacteristically sing-song voice. The surety of this voice, who it belonged to, and what would happen if the owner of it caught me was enough to cause some semblance of clear, logical thought to pass through my brain. The normal punishment for being caught by a Drill Sergeant while alone would only be expounded since I didn’t have my mask on like I should, and was headed in a completely wrong direction.
My only saving grace of that moment was having the training from earlier that day come to mind where, if we got lost, we were to find the line of stars that had been pointed out to us and follow it to the bunker. As this thought passed through my head, I looked up, and started running again, this time in the right direction. Half a minute, three stumbles, and a headlong trip into a ditch later and I was to the bunker, finally finding that safe zone.
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