Got My HEMMT License; Rode in Oklahoma Winds

Today I had a 20+ mile ride in a large Army vehicle in the morning and a one-speed bike in the afternoon. After safety videos, classes, written tests, hands-on tests and driving in the motor pool, I drove the HEMMT in traffic and out on the ranges on both tank trails and paved roads. So now I have a license to drive yet another vehicle that did not exist during my first enlistment.

Actually, the only vehicle the Army still uses from my first enlistment is the M35A2 2-1/2-ton "Deuce and a Half" truck. And that is used only by the National Guard. I understand that by the time we get back they will all be retired from active service and replaced by the LMTV (Light Medium Tactical Vehicle).

LMTV


Fort Sill
We had most of the afternoon off so I rode around next Sunday's Race course backward. The wind was 20-30 mph steady with a high of 50 degrees. The terrain here is almost all rolling hills. Never flat. I was riding all of 5mph up some of the hills. But it was great to be out on the bike. I might be riding tomorrow afternoon with one of the pilots.

Borrowed Bike for the Race

Just before Noon I went to the Post Chapel and picked up a Cannondale road bike from one of the post chaplains. He offered to loan me one of his bikes for the race next Sunday. He is not a racer, but an avid rider. How avid a rider you ask? When I was getting ready to take the bike outside he said he needed to pump up the rear tire. He pulled a floor pump with a pressure gauge from behind the door in his office. A guy who keeps a floor pump in his office is somebody who loves to ride.

I will be going out to ride on Saturday. I did not ride or do any PT on Friday. My shoulder is bothering me and my right foot still hurts from the plantar fasciitis that was bothering me from last October. Joe and Gretchen, the physical therapists who treated me before I left told me to listen to my shoulder. I am trying, but my shoulder never says anything I want to hear.

One More Race Before Deployment

On March 8 at 0930, Fort Sill is hosting a 17-mile bike race through the middle of one of the ranges. They won't be firing that day. I registered last night on Bikereg.com. It looks like a citizen race from the registration. I called and they have a 55+ age group, which will be my first race in that category. It is a great course, rolling with several long and short 4-6% climbs and one 40+mph descent. I rode the course on the one-speed today and am hoping to borrow a bike with gears from the post chaplain tomorrow--he's an avid rider.

Drugs in the Army--Then and Now

This drug testing class is not very much fun. Forty hours of how to fill out paperwork and supervise urinalysis drug tests. This program started in 1971 and continues with more and more emphasis for nearly 40 years.

From the perspective of someone who served at both ends of the program, the class never addresses the really important difference 38 years of drug testing has made in the military. For me, the primary difference is that people inclined to use drugs know they are going to be hassled for all of their career and, thankfully, they mostly decide to get out.

Back in the 70s, that was not the case.

When our unit got a new platoon sergeant in the 1970s, everybody hoped it was one of the young guys with only one tour in Viet Nam, or better yet, none. Because you never knew back then if the guy running the tank platoon was going to be an experienced NCO who knew tanks and soldiering really well, or a burnout who was just trying to get to 20. The great thing that continuous testing does it make it hard for addicts to stay in. Most soldiers who really want to do drugs end up getting out before they are in charge of anything.

Most, not all. The bind the Army is in is that they instill pride in us. But pride is a sword that cuts in two directions. Once you make a soldier proud in a positive sense, you have given that soldier everything he needs to believe he can do anything. So there will always be a few cases of the senior sergeants and officers who take the pride that got them the rank and let it convince them they are smarter than everybody else.

Wrong End of the Digestive System

All this week--Monday through Friday from 0830 to 1630--I am in a class with 40 other sergeants on how to monitor drug tests--specifically how to fill out al the paperwork necessary to properly conduct a drug test. All of us were assigned this job as an additional duty. There are people from the unit I am in, various units around Fort Sill, drill sergeants and recruiters. Unfortunately, this testing is necessary because no one wants to give soldier on drugs a loaded weapon.

But I really feel bad for three people in that class. One is a cook, the other two are the instructors. First the cook. For various reasons, the Army does not have cooks cook our food. When my friend the cook gets deployed, he will be filling out papers about food service, but will not be baking, roasting or frying. Although the Army won't officially let him put our buns in the oven, he will be putting his initials on bottles of urine. I would rather see my friend the cook be a cook. But he's a good soldier, so he will be working the Exit of the digestive system rather than the entrance.

Maybe a worse situation than the cook is the instructors. These two must face a class of 40 or so men and women who have taught many classes and present information that dull hardly begins to describe. Both of the instructors are good natured and resist the temptation to make any of the jokes that are being whispered in various corners of the room. And since they are experienced teachers in this subject, they have heard all of these jokes over and over.

Tobacco

If you have been reading my recent posts you know that we are banned from sex and alcohol (except on pass) for the duration of our deployment. But a few a indulgences remain within bounds. There are no limits on music so devotees of Death Metal, Gangsta Rap, Country and Gospel can be roommates. Also tobacco, both smoking and chewing, is allowed. The smokers have to go outside to designated smoking areas, but they are no more restricted than in public places in civilian life. The 20-year-olds can, for the most part, smoke and pass the PT test. The most fit 30-somethings can also smoke and run.

The weirder tobacco habit, at least for me is chewing tobacco. A lot of ex-smokers turn to chew because they can be more fit and still use tobacco. Since I worked for several years on the dock at Yellow Freight, it looks reasonably normal to me to see a half dozen men in the motor pool with their lower lip swelled out spitting into Gatorade bottles. Gatorade had a wider mouth than a soda bottle.

What will take a while for me to get used to is seeing young women chewing and spitting into those bottles. I know we are all soldiers, but seeing women the age of my daughters carrying spit bottles still looks wrong to me. Maybe after a year, I will be completely used to it. I hope not.

Best Day in OK

Today we had nearly the entire day off. We had one formation at 1300 hours followed by a briefing from the commander than off the rest of the day. I went to chapel at 0830 then rode for more than an hour. After the the meeting and formation I rode again. altogether I rode 38 miles, the most I have ridden in one day this year. Usually riding in Oklahoma means fighting a steady 25mph wind. Today the wind was only 15 mph. It seemed like still air after the usual wind here. The temp hit 55 degrees, also better than the last few days.

Besides the bike riding, the Mob Cafe served real turkey with cornbread dressing for lunch and dinner. It was really good.

Tomorrow we are up before 5 for morning PT. But one day of sleeping in until 0730 was really nice.

Anthrax Chapel for Church

I returned to the Anthrax Chapel this morning for Church. The last time I was in it, I was part of a gas mask training exercise that ended with a test of how fast we could put on our mask. This morning there were no gas masks, but many of us had weapons.


Church looks different when 40 or so men and women in camouflage with weapons are singing hymns. The sermon was about the difficulty of hearing God's voice. The chaplain is a man who readily tells jokes and had one on himself on this topic. He opened the sermon by saying that if we traveled back in time a hundred years or more the thing we would notice most was the silence. (Since I was seated in the Amen corner, I shouted Amen at this point. I was alone.) Then he pointed to his shirt pockets saying he had two cell phones, and when he is home he lives alone, leaves the TV on and listens to the radio/CD the whole time he is in the car. His advice was to hear God's voice by seeing needs and meeting them.

But for many soldiers, they can have more silence in a barracks than in many places back in the real world. Soldiers are serious about sleep and lights out rules mean the metal music and slasher movie fans have to put on headphones at lights out.

We don't have formation today until 1300 (1pm) and the whole barracks is quiet because most everybody is sleeping in. Many of these soldiers live in homes with TVs and other media on constantly.

Going to war may be the best chance they have for a few months of real quiet.

Then and Now--My Team

Early in 1976, when I made sergeant for the second time and I was a new tank commander, I was in charge of three men, my crew. We trained together at Fort Carson, Colorado, for several months with the specific goal of qualifying at annual tank gunnery. As an ex-Air Force soldier, I really wanted to qualify distinguished (expert in tank weapons), since the Army considers service in the Air Force somewhere below the Cub Scouts on a difficulty scale. The three men on my crew were 19, 19 and 21 years old. One of the 19-year-olds was married with one child and one on the way. He was my loader. The other was married with no kids; he was my driver. The 21-year-old was single and my gunner. I was among the oldest 25% of the unit at 23-years-old.

We did fire distinguished in August of that year. Partly because I drilled my crew more than most of the other tank commanders and partly because my gunner was mostly a rumpled, grumbling lousy soldier, but he was an awesome gunner. The targets on the final test, the moving range, were pop-up panels the size of tanks in the open and tank turrets behind berms. We mostly fired armor piercing, a round with a flat trajectory at distances below 1000 meters. But the final shot that got us the top category was a truck-sized target at 2350 meters. We had to fire a high explosive shell at that target. HE is low velocity with an arc of 50 meters above the gun at 2350 meters distance. My gunner punched a hole in the center of that target with the second shot.


Tank Commander is wearing the beret, loader is wearing the helmet. The driver sits in the middle, front, just visible underneath the gun. The gunner is inside the turret just ahead of the tank commander.

My team now is simply three members of the maintenance team who tell me when and where they are when they are not in the barracks or at work. In the 1970s, I would have described the typical soldier as a 19-year-old from either the inner city or the rural south, married with one child and one on the way. His wife was 17. He enlisted because he needed a job with health benefits.

My team now are a 20-year-old welder, a 21-year-old dispatch clerk, and a 47-year-old mechanic. I see them at formations and get text messages from them when they go to the PX or the gym. I do work with the mechanic at times, but for the most part, everyone has different training specific to their jobs. Very different from the training combat units go through.

Anthrax Chapel on Improbable.com

Marc Abrahams, editor of "The Annals of Improbable Research" (Subscribe Today!) and the Web site www.improbable.com, posted The Anthrax Chapel on his site, complete with my camera phone picture, properly oriented. This may be the first connection between the Ig Nobel Prize and training barracks at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.


Marc at AIR staff meeting

"What Exactly is a Processing a Person?"

Today I was the escort for a soldier who is going home and not deploying with us. I told a friend who is a chemical engineer that I was getting this soldier processed.

"Processed," he said. "What Exactly is a Processing a Person?" He said his mind went straight from chemical processing to food processing to processing a chicken. I laughed at the image then told explained that processing in the Army means filling out all the papers necessary to get someone in, out or to a new duty assignment.


I could have posted some really disgusting chicken processing photos, but the cut-in-pieces image seemed appropriate.

I will try to be careful to explain the acronyms and Army-specific terms I use, but every day I am being "processed" further into the abyss of Army language. I am re-reading Strunk and White (The Elements of Style) now so I keep standard English in my mind while the acronyms pile up.




By the way (BTW), my friend knows by now that any three-letter military acronym with the letter 'F' in the middle is always the same participle used as an adjective. So a BFR (Big F#&king Rock) is a large stone and if a soldier uses it, BFF may or may not mean Best Friends Forever.

Specialist Dust Pan

One of the enlisted men in our unit lost his room key three times in a week causing him to be late for formation. His squad leader decided to make it harder for the young man to lose his room key, so his key ring is now connected to a black, metal dust pan. At every formation and when we are not training in the field, he has to carry his keys on a dust pan. 

If you haven't ever carried an M-16 rifle and a dust pan, I don't recommend it. By Saturday he should be able to turn in his dust pan and just carry a key ring. I, on the other hand, may become Mr. Clean. This morning I took a half-dozen soldiers form the motor pool back to the barracks to sweep and mop stairwells and hallways. Then two of us paste waxed a hallway floor in the afternoon. They tell us soon we will be training hard. Tomorrow I get driver training in a HMMTT fueler.

Anthrax Chapel

One of my co-workers back in PA asked for a photo of The Anthrax Chapel. It's not much more than a name painted on the wall above the door of a rectangular room in a military barracks. I guess about 20 by 50 feet. As noted before, this classroom also serves as the chapel for our unit. And according to one of our intelligence sergeants, the same room is where soldiers here got shots for anthrax immunization during the anthrax alert following September 11, 2001. So someone had the bright idea of calling the place The Anthrax Chapel.

This is a camera phone shot and I could not save it rotated 90 degrees. So turn your computer to the right if you want to see the photo correctly.

All Day Cleaning

Today most of the company was in convoy training or sleeping in after midnight fueling training. The few of us that were left had little to do so we cleaned and reorganized the stuff we are using while we are here in Oklahoma. So I volunteered to clean the latrine. With one platoon training all night and other people out in the field, the latrine looked bad, so I decided to clean it rather than wait for something to happen.

The other soldiers were surprised I would volunteer for that, but they weren't running after me saying, "Can I clean the latrine too?" So I spent the morning cleaning the walls and floors and restocking the supplies. One of the officers paid for real cleaning supplies (Clorox and Clorox spray cleaners) because we only have Simple Green and with all those guys, I wanted to clean with real chlorine.

In the afternoon I saw one of the sergeants in the headquarters company picking up trash behind the barracks building, so I told her I had a few soldiers killing time and we would get the front. When I got back to the motor pool, the idle soldiers were cleaning Humvees and the shop. So I got a bag and spent an hour picking up trash, mostly cigarette butts.

At the end of the day, the motor sergeant said the tool van for deployment would not be leaving for another three weeks so I could take the fixed-gear bike out of the van and ride it till then. He didn't hare to say it twice. I rode 10 miles after final formation yesterday. Riding a bike here MUCH harder than in PA. More on that later.


We have partitions--but I have been in barracks that looked like this and may be again.

Multi-Use Rooms

On Sunday the main classroom in the barracks is also the Chapel and the movie room. In fact the room has "Anthrax Chapel" painted above the doors on the inside. This morning there was a sign on the right door listing chapel services at 0830, 1000, 1800 and 1900--two Catholic and two Protestant services. On the left door was a photocopied sign for tonight's movie which starts at 2000 hours, right after the last chapel service. The Sunday night movie: Righteous Kill

Mob Cafe--Intellectual Corner

Seated near the drinks in the far corner of the Mob Cafe are the soldiers with some college who hang together and make jokes almost devoid of 4-letter words. If the Mob Cafe is a high school cafeteria, these are the smart ass kids that don't like the jocks.

Tonight I was doing my laundry when one of this group walked into the laundry room to take his stuff from the dryer. He is an ex-Marine with a shaved head in his late 20s. He was talking on a cell phone as he emptied the dryer. He was also carrying a cup he found that says, "Retired Navy." As he walked by, I noticed he was wearing a red CCCP t-shirt (the Cyrillic alphabet letters for Soviet Socialist Republic), blue sweat pants, shower shoes, and carrying an M16 rifle. An ensemble you just don't see everywhere.

Mobilization Cafe, Part 2

I got several comments back on the Mobilization Cafe. A co-worker who is also a Sopranos fan loved the idea that everyone calls it the (long O) Mob Cafe, but it looks like the Mob Cafe--like Tony, Silvio, Paulie, Bobby, et al would be sipping espresso and planning revenge hits.

Alas, there is no repose and no barista. In fact, the coffee is a good instant, but it's instant. And while the food is fairly good and there is lots of it, three meals per day more than 1,000 soldiers eat in just two hours.

At any given time there are more than 100 people in line. At a recent lunch I counted as follows: 50 people outside the door in line, 25 people between the door and the sign-in desk, 50 more between the desk and the serving line. It took 12 minutes to get to the sign-in desk, then 12 more minutes to get to the servers. Two minutes later I got the hot foot, dessert and went through the salad bar. Two more minutes to get drinks. Usually, I come to chow alone because of checking something on line or talking to someone. So while I am waiting, I look for someone who is 20 or 30 people ahead I can eat half of lunch with them. Typically, we eat in 10 to 15 minutes, so if you sit with someone who got their food 10 minutes before, they are done two minutes after you sit down. There are also a few of the older enlisted men who get to chow early and eat slow, so I can sit with them even if they have been eating for 15 minutes.

Today, the dinner choices were spaghetti with meat sauce, baked or fried chicken, and lasagna. Squash, baked or mashed potatoes and corn on the cob for vegetables. The fast foods tonight were corn dogs and grilled cheese sandwiches. A salad bar with fruit and about five dessert choices are available at every meal. The food really is pretty good. The plates and cups are styrofoam, the silverware is white plastic.

Weapons 24/7

In my room with my M16A4. We just pulled out all of our field equipment for a platoon inspection.



Tonight at 6pm (1800 hours) we drew our weapons from the arms room--permanently. We will have our weapons with us for all training until we leave. And it makes everything we do some part of weapons training. Because if it rains, our weapon gets wet along with us. And we have to clean them. The smart soldiers clean their weapons THEN themselves. I hope that neither me nor any member of my team is the first one to forget, misplace, or God Forbid, lose their weapon.

Sleep in a Building , Eat in a Tent

For the two months or so we are in stateside training, we are living in three-story concrete buildings more than 600 feet long with four entrances on each side. The two main buildings our unit lives in are side by side and together are almost 1/4-mile long. In front of the buildings is a 100-foot wide paved area with parking near the buildings. On the far side of paved strip, more or less centered between the buildings is a 200-foot-long, 100-foot-wide pair of tents with shipping container-sized enclosures in between. The tents are our dining facility called The Mobilization Cafe.

If you are curious this Web site has photos of the Mob (long O) Cafe, our barracks and other local landmarks.

Each side of the Mob Cafe seats 288 soldiers at tables that seat 16. I'll say more about the food and the service in my next post, but the seating is definitely high school cafeteria with uniforms. Junior officers sit with junior officers, pilots with pilots, fuelers with fuelers, sergeants with sergeants (also junior with junior, senior with senior), enlisted soldiers divide by age and sex, above and below 25 years old. For all the dividing up by age and sex and rank and job, almost no one divides by race. When I first joined in 1972 I was surprised how integrated the military was compared to civilian life. It's even more so now. But if all mechanics of all races sit together and talk shop, they don't generally sit with clerks and fuelers. I don't think that will ever change.

Day 2 at the Range--I Qualified

This morning we went to the rifle qualification range. It has pop-up targets from 50 meters to 300 meters that come up randomly for 3 to 5 seconds. To qualify, you have to hit 23 of 40 targets with 40 rounds of ammunition. I got 27. I passed. Since I was last on an M-16 range in 1972, I was very happy just to pass.

Cheap Bike Helmets

Apparently the Army REALLY wants soldiers and their families wearing bicycle helmets--or at least they want to remove one excuse for not wearing one. "Helmets are expensive" is not something you could hear at the Post Exchange (PX). My folding bike showed up in a shipping container that will be here just two weeks. I won't have much chance to ride it, but I took it out anyway, just because I miss riding a lot. My wife mailed one of my helmets here, but till it arrives I thought I could buy a helmet if it wasn't too expensive. I went to the PX to buy a helmet and found ANSI approved adult helmets on sale less than half price. So I bought one.

The original price: $4.28
This week: $1.99!!!!

The original price is the same price as a Venti Carmel Macchiato (my favorite) at Starbucks. The sale price is less than a tall coffee.

"That's What a Soldier Looks Like"

Today I had the biggest anxiety attack since this whole deployment started. It was first of two days of live fire with the M-16. Although I spent 11 years in the military back in the 70s and 80s, I have not fired an M-16 on a qualification range since Air Force basic training in February in 1972. Worse, in AF basic we did not go through the whole qualification process: zeroing the weapons, pop-up targets, night fire, firing in gas masks. In the Air Force, they handed us a weapon, we shot at some targets, they took the weapons and that was the one and only day in my Air Force career I handled a personal weapon.

When I joined the Army, I went straight to tank training. For the next eight years my personal weapon was a 45 cal. pistol. So this morning we boarded a bus to go to the range wearing our new bulletproof vests and helmets.

On the first range we zeroed the weapon. To zero, you shoot three rounds at a paper target at 25 meters. To zero the weapon, you must put 5 rounds in a 4 cm square. Since the M16A4 we use has both traditional iron sights and the new close quarters optical device, we have to zero the weapon twice, once with each sight.

So to zero the weapon with both sights, you have to shoot at least 12 rounds--six with each sight--and hit at least five out of six. Most of the 25 of us who were shooting fired 36 to 48 rounds. I fired 60. A few soldiers fired more. One soldier, a female sergeant, fired 12 rounds and was done.

We fire side by side in 8-foot-wide "lanes" with very prominent numbers. When the safety NCO told the tower the woman in Lane 6 zeroed with 12 rounds, the tower told her to walk down the embankment we shoot from and clear her weapon. As she walked toward the ammo point to turn in her unused ammunition, the tower told all the rest fo us to turn around and look at the female sergeant walking to the ammo point.

The sergeant in the tower said on the PA system, "Take a look ladies and gentlemen, that's what a soldier looks like. Now turn around."

Horror Movies Before Breakfast

This morning we all got up at 0430 for PT at 0530 and at 0510, they canceled it. No one asked why, we just went back to bed. But one of my roommates got up an hour later, went to chow early and came back before 0700 when I woke up. When I sat up in my upper bunk, I saw one of my roommates hunched over his computer with his back to me at the other end of the room watching a movie--Saw V.

The guy in the lower bunk on my side of the room was already gone to breakfast. Our other roommate was still asleep. Since it was time to get up anyway, the movie fan took off his head phones. As I dressed I heard yelling and screaming. I had set up the coffee pot the night before so I turned on the switch while my other two roommates stared at the screen.

While the coffee started to drip into the pot, a woman was being electrocuted in a bathtub on screen. A few seconds later, both of my roommates started sniffing and got alarmed. They both turned around and said, "What's burning?" Then they realized I was making coffee.

For a minute they were having a real multimedia experience, thinking they could smell the on-screen murder.

As I reported before, we get weekly warnings that porn is illegal and can get you busted for watching it. From the 15 minutes I saw of this movie, it's OK to watch people get crushed, stabbed, electrocuted, and bled to death. At least they weren't having sex!!

More Than the Sins of the Flesh

Two days ago our battalion commander spoke to several hundred of us on the parade field about what he expects for the training ahead and the deployment to follow. Since the deployment began and most recently last night, we have been getting official warnings about the sins of the flesh, but very little about the sins of the spirit.

If you need a brief refresher, the Seven Deadly Sins (from least to worst):
Lust
Gluttony
Anger (murder)
Sloth
Greed
Envy
Pride

The first three are the sins of the flesh. The last three are the sins of the spirit. Sloth can be either.

We get warned regularly about all the penalties of lust: No sex with other soldiers being the primary warning. We have also had many warnings about porn, but several thousand young men with DVD players and computers makes that warning hollow at best.

Gluttony gets two mentions: We cannot drink during training or on deployment, and those who do not meet weight standards don't get promoted, no matter how proficient they are as soldiers or technicians.

Anger gets covered in Rules of War briefings.

Sloth (meaning lack of motivation in a military context) is penalized in many ways, both official and social.

Of the sins of the spirit, greed gets mentioned mostly in the context of stealing, but is very little tolerated.




But when our commander spoke he brought up Envy. He said specifically that envy can destroy unit cohesion--which is the military way of saying it destroys community. He then said, "If someone else is getting something you are not getting, go find out how to get it. Don't sit back and complain." He's right, of course, envy does destroy community. It's just the first time I have ever heard it condemned in a military briefing.

I don't suppose I will ever hear Pride condemned in a military formation. It is hardly ever condemned in Church. But Envy is a big step forward. My friend Bruder Timotheus of the Franciscan Brotherhood in Darmstadt Germany was my roommate at Wiesbaden Air Base in 1978. He left the military to become a Franciscan and lived in Germany ever since. He has said more than once that his vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience lets him and the other brothers get on with the really difficult work of living in community for the rest of their lives. By pushing aside the sins of the flesh, they can begin the difficult work of spiritual warfare against Envy and Pride, the sins Dante put at the very bottom of Hell.

Training While We Wait

The best laid training plans get delayed and fall apart for a variety of reasons. So with 20 minutes between training sessions today, our platoon sergeant paired us off for 20 minutes of martial arts training. We learned two moves: how to parry a jab to the face and hit your opponent below the belt in one smooth move, and how to disable an attackers arm when he swings a fist at you. The second one is called a "destroy" move on the attackers arm.

Our platoon sergeant is a martial arts instructor, so he can fill in down time with martial arts instruction. Other sergeants fill in with different training.

More PT

This morning we got up at 0445 (WAY before sun up) for an hour of PT beginning at 0530. We stretched then did timed sets of pushups followed by sit up ladders and other exercises. We did the exercises in pairs so with the sit up ladders, I did 5, he did 5, then 10, then 15, then 20, then back down the ladder. It looks like PT at 0530 will be the rule until April. The only change will to an earlier time. Most everyone in our platoon managed to eat breakfast and change between 0630 when PT ended and 0800 formation. But in another platoon only half of the 40 soldiers ate. So if the other platoon does not eat, we get up earlier. We were almost all civilians until two weeks ago. I am sure that the prospect of getting up even earlier will get the soldiers who missed breakfast into the chow line--or at least saying they weren't hungry.

My New Wardrobe

We are still getting new equipment, medical exams, filling out forms and waiting for the rest of the unit to arrive before we start training. Yesterday we got our new body armor--the latest version with a quick-release system and an eight-layer cold weather suit. I am wearing the outer layer in the photo.

Good Time to Take Leave from my Day Job

I just got a note from one of my friends at my day job. The economic crisis just caught up with CHF and nine people were laid off or about 15% of the employees. A few weeks ago, I was joking with my boss about how much money she saved by not paying my salary and benefits for the next year or so. I hope having me on military leave allowed one more person to keep working.

Our New Love Life

This morning fifty of us were out in the cold and the dark waiting for a bus that, among other things was going to take us to get cold-weather clothing. While we shivered, the motor platoon leader (a first lieutenant in his mid-20s in charge of the motor platoon) came to the front of the formation to talk to us. He began by asking how many of us were married--about a third of us raised our hands.

Then he said, "How many of you are married to a soldier in this platoon. . .In this company. . .In this battalion? Good. No one. That means no one should be having a sexual relationship with anyone in this command."

He said this policy was one of the general orders of the Army. He then asked if anyone in the formation could explain the Army policy on this kind of relationship between soldiers. A voice from the back of the formation yelled, "DON'T F#CK YOUR BUDDY SIR."

After we stopped laughing the LT continued without missing a beat, mentioning the terrible penalties for getting caught.

Then we were dismissed because the bus was not going to arrive for another 20 minutes.

A Shot in the Arm, Actually Both

Today I got shots for smallpox, anthrax, hepatitis, and typhus--three in the left arm, smallpox in the right. They also took three tubes of blood for various reasons. They asked before the shots whether I was left or right handed. I said left and almost immediately I got the smallpox vaccine in the right arm. Since this one is the most painful, that would be a good idea normally, but the right shoulder is the one that got operated on. I suppose it will keep all the pain in one place. So far it doesn't hurt too much.

Tomorrow we get more equipment for Iraq. Because we are leaving about the time the chow hall opens for breakfast we will be eating SunMeadow Shelf Stable Meals. My squad will be eating meal M033:
Two (2) 7.5 oz. Can Spaghetti
One (1) 4.0 oz. Fruit Cup
One (1) 1.0 oz. Trail Mix
One (1) 1.0 oz. Wheat Crackers
One (1) 4.0 oz. Pudding
Two (2) Packets Hot Sauce
One (1) 11.5 oz. Drink
One (1) Wrapped Peppermint Candy
One (1) Cutlery Kit

Spaghetti for breakfast. Yummmm!

If you check out the SunMeadow Web site, you'll see their main business is assisted living and nursing homes. I am going to run back to the chow hall and get some fruit.

Good Food

At dinner last night, several of us were talking about how good the food is here--and it really is. Several different options, a good salad bar, good deserts. But talking about food always brings up the perfect meals that someone's mother, grandmother, wife, even a mother-in-law got a nod in this list of roast chicken, sweet potato pie, meat loaf chocolate cake, and other memorable foods.

I got the table laughing telling them that I loved military food from the first day. My Mom burnt nearly everything. In basic training when the other guys we moaning about the meat loaf I was saying, "You gonna eat that?" She did cook things I like, but I remember I got into the habit of drinking coffee only after I left home. My Mom had a plastic percolator.



She made a full pot of strong coffee in the morning then unplugged the coffeemaker when she left for work. She plugged it back in when she got home and drank the re-perked coffee in the evening. I grew up thinking that when you put milk in coffee, the resulting liquid was gray. I liked Army coffee. But when I went home on leave, I only drank coffee at Dunkin Donuts or diners. I let my Mom think I didn't drink coffee. She still had that percolator.

First Day on the Ground--Cattle Car Buses

Next time we ride in Fort Sill buses I will post a picture. The troop transports that took us to the base theater for the welcome briefing were not buses, they were tractor trailers with seats--cattle car bodies with multi-level seating borrowed from Boston T subways. They actually were comfortable, but they look so strange, a lot like cattle trucks. On the second ride we filled all 50 seats and had 20 standing. There were "moos" every time the truck turned a corner and the standing riders bumped into each other.

Among the welcome briefings was a captain who introduced us to his team and told us that they were the ULNO for our unit. He had a dozen PowerPoint slides and and never once spelled out what ULNO meant. I suppose many soldiers know that ULNO is Unit Liason Office, but I didn't. I asked the captain what ULNO meant after the briefing. He said Unit Liason Office, but didn't explain the "N." So I asked another member of his team during the break. The soldier I asked was a lieutenant who had been an enlisted man for many years before becoming an officer. He looked like a guy who take a joke so I said, "WTF ULNO." He smiled and said, "It should really be a small "n." (ULnO). I was using the first definition of WTF in Wikipedia.

Hollywood Again

The Lancaster Sunday News published another story about the old soldier going back once more. My kids told me that the print edition includes a photo of the whole family, but the online edition doesn't. Follow this link and you get the story, but only a photo of me. We all arrived safely this morning. Training starts tomorrow. Superbowl party tonight.

Goodbye at Physical Therapy

On Wednesday, Joe and Gretchen, my physical therapists, gave me final instructions for keeping my shoulder healthy. At Lancaster orthopedic Group they have a wall of shirts of athletes they have treated in one of the therapy rooms. Joe asked me for an Army t-shirt to hang on the wall. Joe is about my age and well remembers the John Wayne movie The Green Berets. In that awful film, a dying sergeant asks that if they are going to make a memorial to him, they name a latrine after him--that way all the men will see it. The sergeant got his wish. And Joe hung my t-shirt above the entrance to the men's bathroom.

Goodbye Ceremony

Tonight we had an official goodbye ceremony for our families courtesy of a group known as the Mechanicsburg Club. We got a catered dinner at the Farm Show. My family and I shared a table with another soldier from our unit and his parents. My youngest daughter Lisa, who is a vegetarian, sat next to the soldier. He got the beef. In fact his all time favorite restaurant is a Brazilian Churrscuria--the ones where more than a dozen kind of meat are served by waiters moving around the restaurant offering various cuts of mostly red meat. He and Lisa made a lot of jokes about what constituted a real meal. My wife said Lisa actually just wants to kill vegetables.

Even better, they had a Kids Food table, so my son (no vegetarian) could have hot dogs, pizza, chicken nuggets AND mac and cheese!!

My First Day & First Additional Duty

At 0730 we had our first formation of the deployment. During that formation we heard again what we had heard ever since we were told we are getting deployed: Accountability is the First Priority. Every leader has to know where his or her people are at all times. So we had a roll call. We traded cell phone numbers. We met the new guys. When I went to the gym at lunch time, I made sure my squad leader knew where I was and when I would be back.

And just before lunch (Chicken with Noodles MRE--I never opened it) my platoon leader let me now he would be in charge of Physical Training (PT) while we are at Fort Sill. I knew he would need a sergeant in charge so I volunteered immediately. I was wondering how I would find time to work out during our training phase. But by volunteering to be NCO in charge of PT, I could volunteer for the aerobic training which nobody ever wants. So the lieutenant gets to be in charge of the PT people actually like, and I get to run. Although it will be with up to 80 guys, some of whom do not share my enthusiasm.

I'm a GO

Just a few minutes ago, I got a call from my unit saying I am officially a "Go" for deployment and should report for duty tomorrow morning at 0730.

I have been sure I would get cleared for the big trip. And when I spoke to the administrative specialist on the phone I was making jokes. But when I got off the phone, I was both excited and felt like all the strength went out of my legs.

I am happy and having the biggest "Oh Shit" moment I have had since the pain killers wore off after my last surgery. After all this time and all that distracting paperwork, it's finally real. The one-year clock starts ticking tomorrow.

Communication Without Words--On the Phone

Today I called my No-Go Counselor again. As soon as she answered the phone I promised I would not ask her anything about my status, because, of course, she was not allowed to say anything. So I told her I did not want to bother that one sergeant's major (SGM) in the whole world whom I could ask about my status. Then she said that the SGM was a very busy guy processing many people for deployment. Since she told me yesterday that she would be lloking for a doctor to sign my form after I sent the additional info from the surgeon, I asked her if she was successful in her work yesterday. She said she was and then added there was no need to bother the SGM about my status and said I should ask the full-time guys in my unit to check the deployment roster tomorrow afternoon.

By telling me to have the full-time guys check the roster, she was saying (if I correctly heard the smile in her voice) that a doctor did sign my form and that by tomorrow I will be a Go.

If the governor of Illinois had the communications skills of my No Go counselor, he wouldn't be on his way to impeachment and prison.

The Mute Counselor

In December when I went through the second round of pre-deployment medical evaluations, I was officially a "No Go" because of the shoulder surgery on October 30. I was assigned a No-Go Counselor who said it was her job to "get me through the process of clearing the No Go and getting me ready for deployment." She sounded like a customer service rep.

And she was. Until last Tuesday. That was the day the surgeon who did my shoulder surgery examined me and said I was good to go. He then filled out an Army form saying I was ready to pushups, swimming, carry 48 pounds of gear, etc. At that point, my No-Go counselor became my No-Talk counselor. Once she confirmed she had the form from the surgeon, she said I could not ask about my Go, No-Go status.

What? It turns out Army regulations prevent them from discussing actual decisions on status. What else WOULD I want to talk about except my status with a No-Go counselor?

So this morning I put on one of my best suits and went to the Army Medical Records office at Fort Indiantown Gap. My youngest daughter went with me. It is her 18th birthday and she wanted to get a military ID card. She was also very well dressed. The sergeant at the service window took my information right away. He confused me with a Colonel Gussman. To be fair, he did continue to help me when he found out I was a sergeant, not a colonel.

He said they would call back today. And they did. It turns out the Army form I sent was not enough, they needed another piece of paper. By a very good coincidence, when my No-Go Counselor called, I was at my Physical Therapy appointment, in the same building as the surgeon's office. I went straight to the surgeon's office keeping the counselor on the phone. The surgeon's admin assistant was in and willing to get me the document I needed while the counselor was on the phone.

A half-hour later, I called the counselor back. She said she thinks she has the right piece of paper now and just needs to get a doctor to sign it off. She also apologized profusely, but Army regulations prevent her from discussing the status of my case. She did tell me there is one sergeant's major on the entire who is authorized to discuss my case. She gave me his name and suggested the full-time folks at my unit contact him.

So as of now I am still a No Go and waiting for a doctor's review.

Goodbye For Now at Church

This morning I spoke for a few minutes at both services. We are members of a Presbyterian Church, so this kind of testimony is written out. Here's what I said:

Good morning brothers and sisters. If all goes according to the plans the Army has for me as of now--and they could certainly change--the next time we will worship together at Wheatland will be in February of 2010. For those of you who don't know, I am going to Iraq in May after spending the next 2 1/2 months at Fort Sill in Oklahoma then a couple of weeks in Kuwait to acclimate to the rather warm weather in the Middle East.

So I wanted to say goodbye for now and to let you know I will be praying for you as you face the difficult months ahead.

I know, you thought you would be praying for me, and, of course, I welcome your prayers, but really, it is you who are facing the greater danger, while I will be experiencing many blessings that you folks can only wish for.

Because we all agree, or at least if we are members of Christ's Body we have affirmed many times, that the purpose of our lives is to Love God and enjoy Him forever. And we know from the life and words of Our Lord and the Apostles and the greatest saints that have followed in His footsteps, that the surest path to beatitude is through suffering--not to mention poverty, grief, and forsaking the blessings of this world.

Even in the current economic climate you will all still be spending money on things you need, choosing among competing brands and stores, faced with a dizzying array of choices. You have to decide where to eat, when to eat, what to eat. You can quit your job, choose your doctor, sleep in a room with fewer than 10 roommates, choose your wardrobe, make your own schedule, even have Budweiser and Twinkies for breakfast if you really want to.

In fact, a few of you may even be in doubt as to whether your work is valuable or you are doing the right thing with your life.

I, on the other hand, will not be spending time choosing my clothes, my meals, my forty or so roommates, meal times, or what I am eating. While I may have doubts about the wisdom of the US getting into the Iraq war, I have no doubt that someone needs to be there now and I no longer have any choice about being one of those someones. And I have the distinct comfort of having no choice, that I am obeying the Lord simply by following my orders and giving my will to the Army to which I have sworn allegiance.

Of course, I will need your prayers. I will be without my family and they will be without me. I will be lonely and having spent 55 years getting my own way, the months ahead will hurt as the Army crushes some of the rebellion in me which I have not submitted to Our Lord.

But I will pray for you. The most vibrant faith grows in suffering and persecution, and you are full citizens in the one of the most blessed corners of the richest nation in the history of the world. You, my brothers and sisters, have a real and difficult burden to bear. So I hope you will pray for my family and pray that I will accept the blessing that awaits me. And I will pray that your souls thrive amid the most pervasive temptation on this earth.

I Got to 21! (Not My Age)

At Physical Therapy on Friday, did four sets of pushups, 10, 10, 17 and then the magic number (for age group 52 to 56) 21 pushups. So if I need to do a PT test on the spot to convince the Army doctor I am ready to go, I can do that. I probably should not have worried about 21 pushups, but I feel a lot better now that I know I can.
On Monday I will be going to the Army medical records unit in person to see if there is anything I can do to get my records marked Go instead of No Go. I'll have PT gear with me just in case.

Nigel's New Truck

I bought a die cast truck very similar to this one for Nigel at a hobby shop near where I work. When I brought it home I told Nigel one of my favorite stories about my Dad. Those of you who read earlier posts about him know he was a Teamster, but he was also a childhood friend of the owner of the company he worked for, so he had more freedom and responsibility than most of the men who worked at Food Center Wholesale Grocers in Charlestown MA. He mostly worked in the warehouse, but sometimes when they were short of drivers, Dad would drive a semi. One Spring day when I was in the third grade, as Nigel is now, we had just finished lunch in Mrs. Day's class when a huge semi with a bright red Mack tractor pulled into the driveway and stopped right in front of the window to our class. Dad knew my class faced the semi-circular driveway in front of the school. A few minutes later, Dad walked into the class in work clothes and asked Mrs. Day if I could go with him to New Hampshire. As well as I can remember, Mrs. Day consented, if for no other reason than to get the truck out of the driveway and the rest of the class back in their seats.

Did I mention Dad drove into the driveway so that the passenger side of the truck was facing the school. Everybody got to see me climb into the cab of the red B-67 Mack tractor. Status for grownups can be very complicated, but Mack trucks with 40-foot van trailers are as cool as it gets for 8-year-old boys.

B-67 Mack Tractor

Schedule Change One

This change is good. We just got an email saying we report for duty on January 29, but we do not yet have a departure date. So unless something changes, we will be at our drill hall until 5pm on the 29th, then soldiers (like me) who live within 60 miles can go home for the night. The next day we have a morning formation, work until 2pm, then go pick up our families for the going away ceremony. After the ceremony and dinner, we go home again and report for the day on the 31st. Right now, we go home again on the 31st. I'll be home on February 1. We may leave that day for our US training base, but if we don't I may be home watching the Superbowl with Nigel.

Speaking of Time. . .

When I leave for work tomorrow, I will have exactly one week (168 hours) to go until I begin the deployment. Tomorrow I will be on a business trip to NYC. My last work day is next Tuesday. There will be a "Goodbye for Now" party at 315pm. The place I work was founded by a British professor so every Tuesday at 315 pm we everyone stops working and goes to one of the big meeting rooms for "Tea and Biscuits."
Maybe later this year I will have Tea and Biscuits on Dirt.

Army Time, Not My Time

Today, I called the admin sergeant at our unit to check if he had heard anything about my status. He said if the civilian surgeon signed off there should be no problem, but he would check later today. In the meantime, I go a clear "Don't call us" message from my "No Go Counselor." The woman who answered the phone said that when the Army doctor signed off on my status they would report the result to the unit. I know it is mostly a matter of privacy--only authorized doctors and my commanders are allowed access to my medical records. So the people on the phone can't say anything about my medical status on the phone. I suppose if I showed up in person they would be authorized to answer the question, but then I would be interfering with their procedures.

No news yet.

Surgeon Says OK!!!

This morning, the surgeon who operated on my shoulder checked every box "Yes" and signed the form that clears me for duty. After he signed the forms, one of the office assistants faxed the signed forms to my "No-Go Counselor" at Fort Indiantown Gap. If all goes well I should hear officially today or tomorrow that I am now a "Go." If the answer is Yes I can breathe easier and concentrate on enjoying today's inaugural celebration. Just 9 days and a wake up till I go. I was up most of the night last night, I suppose from thinking about the shoulder evaluation.

I have been treated in past by Lancaster Orthopedic Group for a broken collarbone, a separated shoulder, and knee trouble. They do good work.

Finally Back to Exercising

Yesterday at the gym I did 35 pushups: 5, 10, 10, & 10. It will be a while till I can do that many at one time, but it is great to get back to working out again. Because of the cold and the ice on the roads, the rest of my exercise spreadsheet looks very different than any other year. Usually bicycle miles are the big number and everything else is smaller. As of yesterday I have ridden the bike 79 miles, walked 59 miles, and run 29 miles. I suppose this year in particular, my walking and running miles might go ahead of my riding miles.

Thanks to the CINC on His Last Day

On this last day of the Presidency of George Bush, I have to say I owe him one last thank you for raising the enlistment age twice in 2006, first to 40, then to 42. (For prior service soldiers like me it is the enlistment age plus years of prior service.) Without that change, I would not have been able to enlist.
So, Thank You Mr. President.

Enlistment Diary--Part 2

So in the late summer of 2006, I realized I could re-enlist if I acted quickly. But I didn't. I did make a major change in my life though. All summer in addition to thinking about being a grunt again, I was listening to my teammates and competitors in Masters bicycle racing. For all of my adult life I have heard men bitch about their wives. The more competitive the guys, the more they thought the world revolved around them and the more they were likely to bitch. So bike racers and Teamsters complain more than graphic artists and copywriters, for example. (I worked on a Teamsters loading dock for four years during college.)

But in 2006, the guys my age were spreading out their complaints across three generations. These guys mostly have good jobs, adult children and at least one living parent. The new complaints: "My son with a degree in Art History is living at home and working at McDonald's." "My mother just broker her hip and wants to come and live with us. She hates my wife and bitches about everything." And a hundred variations on the theme.

I was not worried about my kids, but I realized I was right on track to be one of those 80-year-old ogres those guys were complaining about. Because an "independent" 80-year-old is a joke. Most 80-year-olds are experiencing the failure of many body parts, they need lots of medicine, etc. I know that I am going to be a dependent person when I am 80, maybe way sooner. So I decided I would start thinking that way now. Habits are so hard to make and break and I knew I better start now if I was not going to be that old codger who won't give up his car keys. And bicycle racing is a sport that seems to be OK for older people, but really falls don't get easier with age. I decided to start walking with my family.

Walking lasts as long as I have legs. and it gave me a chance to talk more with my family on the walks. So I cut down my riding and walked more. I also started to work out in the gym--again with my wife and kids. I was working toward some vague time 20 to 30 years away when I would lose my independence to injury and disease and trying to remake myself into someone who would not be a demanding SOB to take care of.

I didn't know at the time I would get a chance to check out my progress in less than a year.

Physical Therapy Going Well

I still have to wait for January 20 for my shoulder evaluation, but therapy is going well. Today I did five real pushups in addition to the incline pushups and other exercises they have me do. The pushups hurt, but not too much. I think I should be fine for the 20th. And if I don't do anything stupid between now and then, I should be a "Go" by Tuesday afternoon.

Dropping Off Bags at Fort Indiantown Gap

Yesterday my wife and I drove to Fort Indiantown Gap (40 miles away) to drop three of my five bags off. In the next few days they will be loaded and shipped to Oklahoma. Yesterday I dropped off two duffel bags and the footlocker--The DBag of a post earlier this week. That leaves just the backpack and one duffel bag to go with me on the 29th. The DBag weighed a lot. I have an extra laptop and a dozen books in the footlocker along with everything else I supposed to have in it. After all the rehab I have been doing, I'll have to be careful not to hurt myself moving my luggage!!

Attention K-Mart Shoppers--Fill your DBag

My wife and I are going to K-Mart today to get the last few items recommended on my Army PowerPoint slide: eyeglasses cleaning and repair kits, fitted sheets, handheld mirror, locks for duffle bags, foot powder, talcum powder, surge protector, extension cord, battery-operated alarm clock, etc. All of these items go in the footlocker--the fifth of the five bags that go with me: A backpack, three dufflebags and the footlocker. For whatever reason, the backpack is not counted as a bag and the others are called Bags A, B, C, & D (the footlocker). One of my kids seeing the printed listed noted that the PowerPoint printout for the footlocker started laughing and said, "Dad, this is a DBag?" DBag is a common insult among high school kids. When I was in high school, we used the same insult but didn't abbreviate. According to the Urban Dictionary DBag is most commonly a "playful insult" though it can be nasty. In the 60s I remember it only as a harsh insult. I suppose there is always something to learn about language even when stuffing a footlocker.

Enlistment Diary

During the coming week I will be on vacation, packing, cleaning up final details. I was looking at my enlistment diary and thought I should post some of my recollection of how I got here.

I left the Army reserve July 21, 1984. I completed all the classwork for an MA in American Studies and now had the opportunity to write a book for my Masters project. I needed more time. I could not quit my full-time job loading trucks at Yellow Freight, so I left the reserves. It wasn’t an easy decision. I liked the Army in some ways, but I wanted to get a job as a writer, so I had to cut something and the Army reserve was it.

At that point I knew I had served six years and ten months on active duty, two and one-half years in the Air Force and just over four years in the Army. I thought I had three years in the reserves, but it turns out I had 11 years, 2 months and 2 days of Federal Service. This would be important 23 years later.

I turned 50 during the very successful campaign to invade and capture Iraq and take Saddam Hussein from power. I was very proud to (formerly) have been part of the Army that won such a swift and sweeping victory. And I was envious. The Army I joined in 1972 was about to withdraw in defeat from a far-away jungle war. The Army that defeated the Japanese and the Nazis in World War II was unable to fight a limited war. Despite the great tactical victories in Iraq and Afghanistan, the situation after the major fighting turned bad.

In the fall of 2003 I looked at an Army Web site just to see the age requirements for re-enlistment. I satisfied myself I was too old to join by almost five years. I made jokes about it with my family. Probably too many.

In January of 2006, the military enlistment age went up from 35 to 40. I was three years older, still too old. Then in June of 2006, the age went up from 40 to 42. I was not sure, but now I could go back, but I just laughed at myself when I thought about it. The trouble was, I could not stop thinking about it.

More later.

Packing for the Big Trip

This week I started stacking all of my Army eqiupment in the living room. This weekend I'll start packing a backpack, three duffle bags and a footlocker for training in the US, then on to Iraq. I have a five-page PowerPoint presentation that tells me what goes into each of the five bags. Then I will have to decide what books I will take with me and where they will go--three per bag and ten in the footlocker? Three in each bag and let my kids send me one every other week? How about running shoes. One set in my A bag that goes on the plane to stateside training, one extra pair in stuff that gos by truck, two more for Iraq? We'll see how everything fits.

Junk Food in my Future

One way or another I am going to be eating junk food in the coming year. I watched a news segment recently about a guy who has eaten at least one Bic Mac every day for nearly forty years! He didn't look healthy. But it did remind me of one of my favorite jokes which I wrote down for no particular reason when I was in grad school.


(Should be Told With Exaggerated Gestures and Feeling)

Once there was a town in Western Pennsylvania that was so small it had only one school, one school bus, and one school bus driver--a nervous little man.

One day the school bus driver called up the superintendent at 6 a.m. saying, "It's time for me to pick up the kids and the bus won't start and its six o'clock. . .What am I going to do?"

"Calm down," said the superintendent. "The Sesame Street people are in town. Why don't you run over to the hotel and borrow their bus."

He asked. They loaned him the bus.

The first kids the driver picks up each morning are two little girls named Patty who live next door to each other. Actually these girls are not little. They are so fat that they have to sit on opposite sides in the front or the bus will tip over.

The next kid is Special Ross. Special Ross is the mayor's son, so he can sit anywhere he wants. So he sits on the floor in the middle of the bus.

The last passenger is Leonard Snead. Leonard Snead has bunions and his feet smell, so he has to sit on the back of the bus.

What do you have?

You've got two obese Pattys,
Special Ross,
Leonard Snead with the bunions on a Sesame Street bus. . .

November 9, 2001

The road to my enlistment is longer and more twisted than I thought. I got laid off from a dot-com job in 2001. Here's what I wrote the next week:

Friday, November 9

Can lightning strike twice in the same place? Certainly. Especially if the place in question is prone to storms. So, Friday, November 9, is a place in time I will try to avoid.
November 9, 1973, just after 9 a.m. was my first lightning strike. I was connecting wires to detonators at a U.S. Air Force missile test site in Utah. Someone turned on the power, and my world turned bright blue and white. Several minutes later I was strapped in an all-terrain ambulance headed for the first of six eye operations that would eventually restore my sight. Along with the eye operations, I had surgery to reattach two fingers on my right hand and to remove wires, screws and various pieces of metal from my face, arms and chest.
It was Friday. I had planned to ride my motorcycle up into the mountains for the weekend. My plans changed.
On November 9, 1973, I woke up an agnostic. Before the day ended, I believed in God and a few months later, I went the whole way to become a Christian. I would have preferred a smoother path to faith, but at 20 years old, I test-fired missiles for a day job and rode a motorcycle in mountains of Utah for recreation. I was not inclined to listen to a still, small voice—blindness was the right size for God’s megaphone.
Fast forward 28 years. Friday, November 9, 2001, just after 9 a.m., lightning struck at the same place in time. My supervisor took me to a vacant conference room to tell me I no longer had a job, effective immediately. Twenty-eight years before (almost to the minute) I had no faith and no obligations. This time I had faith, a house, a wife, four children and am part of a faith community. Now that I am listening to Him more closely, God can be more subtle. The moment of crisis is over and I can still see just fine. All my fingers are attached and when I shave I don’t feel metal scraping.
But I was not listening as well as I could. The long hours and hectic pace of my job frustrated many of the good impulses I had to serve people in need. If it was my job that tied my hands, then God just cut the ropes clean through.
For most of the year since I started my current job, I have felt uneasy, felt I should be doing something else. But good pay and great co-workers made it hard to leave. Now I am more free to listen. And I can exercise faith in a way I never have before. I worked summers and weekends since age 12 and have never taken more than two weeks off in the 36 years since. Work has defined me. In recent years, I have tried to keep work locked in a compartment away from the rest of my life. I have had some success at this, but at the expense of commitment to my work.
Now I have the opportunity to find work that either serves people in need more directly, or that keeps me closer to home and more involved with my family and community. Wherever God leads me in the coming weeks and months, I’ll be thankful for the time I have had to think, reflect and to reconnect with friends.
But I will also be careful. Friday, November 9, happens again in 2007, 2012 and 2018 before the next 28-year interval ends in 2029. One thing I am sure of: If I am still alive on Friday, November 9, 2029, I am staying in bed.

What Me Worry?!

OK. The most likely outcome of my shoulder evaluation will be: Sergeant Gussman is a Go for deployment. But I have nagging doubts. I am dealing with a bureaucracy and I am currently a No Go. To do nothing is the default setting for paperwork of any kind. So on the 20th I will take the results from my surgeon's evaluation directly to the "No Go Counselor" (really--that's a job title) handling my paperwork.
I'll continue to be optimistic--and make sure my paperwork is correct.

My Wife's Holiday Letter. . .Is Amazing

My wife's letter to family and friends:

One of my resolutions for 2008 to was refrain from complaining about being busy.  That’s a surprisingly hard resolution to keep, I discovered.  Like many people I know, I like to brag about being indispensible and overworked, so when people ask me what I’ve been up to lately, I have to bite my tongue to curb my own self-importance.  And just like dieters who find that people urge them to have one more helping just-this-once, I kept bumping into well wishers who fondly greet me with a, “So, have you been very busy lately?”  I finally learned to respond, “My life has been rich and full.”

Which it has. 

This year I taught a bunch of fun courses, ran a summer workshop, organized the Grand Opening of Bonchek College House here at Franklin & Marshall, and did other things at work that made me happy and kept me out of trouble.  I have one more semester as the don of the House, and then I’ll go on sabbatical.  In spite of the fact that I promised not to complain about being too busy this year (Is it 2009 yet?  Can I complain now?), I admit that I’m looking forward to May when I’ll have time to read, spend time with friends, and do math again.  In the meanwhile, I’ll continue to be grateful that my life is rich and full. 

Children one-through-four are doing well.  Lauren and Io have gone their own ways.  In the order that I listed them, but not the other way around, they are halfway through their sophomore years at Juniata and Bryn Mawr; they are majoring in social work and classic languages; they are playing soccer and acting in the “Rocky Horror Club”; when they’re home for the holidays they enjoy shopping in New York and going square dancing with their fathers. No, definitely not the other way around!  Lisa is running fast, perhaps to catch up with her sisters.  She’s applying to colleges and enjoying her senior year of high school.  And Nigel is wiggling and squirming his way through third grade, learning his multiplication tables and telling anyone who asks him about his favorite subject:  “Math”.  So I must be doing something right.


Greetings, and Happy 2009!

The quest for child number five in our family is still plodding along.  We’ve filled out all the paperwork, including financial statements, life histories, and a dozen criminal background checks.  We attended classes, photographed our family as it currently exists (see the picture here), and had our home study. When they ask us what kind of child we’re looking for, we say “hyper, to keep up with Nigel.”  Now we’re just waiting for the social workers to type up the final reports and enter us into the system.  The wheels continue to grind slowly. 

Neil and I took an inadvertent one-year break from reading books to each other, because we got caught up (I am embarrassed to admit) in watching DVDs from two old television series.  We have also been spending time running and walking together in the evenings, which is less embarrassing to admit – or it would be, if I were in a little better shape.  I pretty much manage to keep up with my guy, and that’s saying something because keeping up with Neil isn’t particularly easy to do through all the plot twists in his life. 



If you recall, when we last left our hero Neil, he had recovered from a devastating bicycle accident and joined the Pennsylvania National Guard.  In this year’s series, Episode 1 opens with Neil getting news that his unit will head out for Iraq in January 2009.  There ensues the physical fitness test, which Neil passes despite his advanced age and recent injuries.  In Episode 2, Neil, who joined the military partly to escape materialism, gets a packing list for overseas and realizes that he can take two bicycles and his espresso machine.  Jubilation follows.  Then, in Episode 3, our hero begins to have shoulder problems—his loyal viewers discover that the old bike accident tore up his shoulder more than his doctors originally realized, and he has surgery to repair his rotator cuff.  He heals well, and is running and on the bike again in no time.  Episode 4 opens with a new physical fitness test.  Can Neil pass?  Alas, no: he’s declared “non-deployable” because his shoulder isn’t yet healed enough to do 22 push-ups.  But wait!  He’s actually “temporarily non-deployable”!  He gets a chance to try again on January 20, just before his unit heads out.  Like any good television show, the season ends on a cliff hanger:  will Neil go to Iraq?  Will his espresso machine go, too?  If so, will he leave it there and come back as frugal as his wife? Tune in again next year to find out!

Lancaster has been a hot-bed of political activity this year; our little Norman Rockwell-esque town got to host many visiting political dignitaries, including Chelsea Clinton, Barack Obama, and the team of McCain/Plain.  Nigel spent the year doting on Obama, and in fact he goes to sleep on an Obama pillow at night now, and Nigel’s mother (me) was so inspired by Obama’s acceptance speech that I memorized the Gettysburg Address, even though the world will little note, nor long remember, that I did so.  Rather, it is us who shall be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us: that our Nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom.  Three cheers for government of the people, by the people and for the people!

Hugs and kisses, and wishes for a rich and full New Year!

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That's it! Best wishes for the New Year.

Some Forms are Worth Filling Out

I am just two generations away from my grandparents getting off a boat from the Old Country, so I like helping immigrants.

I've heard the critics: Who? How many? From where? Focusing on who gets in, we can lose sight of how our own lives are changed by those who fulfill their dream of coming to America.

In December 1994 when death squads exacted revenge for generations-old offenses in the former Yugoslavia, Vladislav and his 9-year-old daughter Branka escaped Bosnia and came to Lancaster to find a new life.

They came to America with a suitcase and a passport each.

At the time they arrived, Branka's mother was being held in an internment camp: a prisoner-of-war camp for civilians.

Almost as soon as they arrived, Vladislav went to work at any job he could find.
No job was too dirty or menial.

Through local churches and relief organizations Vladislav and Branka got money for rent and food and they also got help with the many papers that people who struggle with English are asked to "Read and Fill Out Completely."

Vladislav needed money and was determined to earn all he could. He knew that to get his wife out of detention and out of Bosnia, he would need money. His house, his cars, and all he had before the war were wrecked and burned before he left Bosnia.

Slowly, steadily, he saved money. A year later as Christmas of 1995 approached, he was beginning to sound confident.

The calls and faxes were paying off.

He believed Branka's mother would be in the United States sometime in 1996. Vladislav was also delighted with his latest job.

He had found a place near Lancaster that paid him $1 each to tie together handmade Christmas decorations. He said they hired women who would make 10 or 15 and then go home.

As it turns out, the fir branches cut the hands of the workers and it was difficult to wear gloves. Vladislav showed up early each Saturday morning and stayed till they sent him home.

One day he made 200.

The next day at church he was grinning. His hands looked like they had been stuck in a blender, but he couldn't have been happier. The following year Branka's mother came to America--he got her out of the internment camp.

Vladislav got a full-time maintenance management job.

He wanted his daughter to go to a private school so she could go to a good American college. So he asked me to help him get her into the school my daughters attended.

I filled out all the paperwork for financial aid that would allow Branka to attend Lancaster Country Day School and put my name down as the contact person.

Vladislav kept careful records of his income and expenses so the multi-page form had all the proper information, including his first federal tax return.

Several weeks later I got a call from the agency in Princeton that makes financial aid decisions.

The polite woman on the phone verified the applicant information, the parents' current employment status — all the routine questions — then asked me with evident curiosity and some skepticism about an item under "additional expenses."

The item: "Phone calls, faxes and transportation expenses to get applicant's mother released from Bosnian Prisoner-of-War Camp $4,417.12."

She asked if this was true.

I said it was.

"I must tell you," she said, "I personally always disallow 'additional expenses.' People try to say trips to Disneyworld are educational experiences. But getting the applicant's mother out of a prisoner-of-war camp is nothing I've ever seen before. You may tell them we are granting the full amount."

Branka's application reminded that financial aid administrator why she got into her job in the first place.

And I have never had more fun filling out a form before or since.

The Engagement Present

Another story about my family and Fort Indiantown Gap

All around us are married couples obviously mismatched but just as obviously devoted to each other. The basketball player married to a woman barely five feet tall. The flight attendant married to a guy who will only travel on the ground. A stage actor wed to an accountant.

My father was a boxer, a soldier, a Teamster and a AAA league baseball player. He grew up in Boston in a big Jewish family and was a big guy with hundreds of friends. The brothers were a loud bunch. My mother was a quiet woman who read a lot and preferred quiet. She grew up on a farm outside a small town in western Pennsylvania. Meeting her future in laws she said, “Everybody talks and nobody listens.” When they married she was 24 and he was 39. Somehow they stayed together until my father died 37 years later. It was the war that brought them together in Reading, Pennsylvania. But it was the romance wrapped up in my father’s engagement present that helped to keep them together despite all their differences.

Scene: U.S. Army Administrative Offices, Prisoner of War compound, Reading, Pa., spring 1945. The camp, now the Reading Airport, was home to 600 German prisoners of war, mostly former members of the Afrika Corps. Guarding them is a Military Police (MP) company commanded by Capt. George Gussman. Civilian clerks and typists handle most routine administrative duties.

Bang! The thin door slammed open at the push of a burly soldier in the white helmet of an MP. In a moment, the buzz of the busy office dwindled to silence. Even on an Army base with a prison camp, a squad of MPs marching into an administrative office cut the buzz of conversation and the clackety-clack of typing. The first two MPs flanked the door, rifles at ready. Four more soldiers marched in behind, the last man carrying a wooden ammunition crate.

Without a word, they marched in close order to the back of the open office space and the gray metal desk of pretty, dark-haired typist. The sergeant at the front of the line called “Detail halt!” He faced the astonished typist and said, “Are you Arnetta Boul?”

The hush was complete. Arnetta was was a graduate of a one-room school in Mercer, a small town south of Erie. A wartime job on an Army base north of Reading got her off the farm and on her way to the life she only saw in magazines. She tried to answer but only nodded yes.

He coworkers, mostly typists and clerks, didn’t move. The MP with the wooden crate faced left, took two steps, faced right and set the box on the desk. “Compliments of Capt. Gussman, ma’am.”

The detail faced about without another word and filed out of the building. When the door closed the other typists ran to Arnetta’s desk. “Open the box.” “What’s in it?” “Is there a note?”

There was a note. Her name was typed on the envelope. The note inside was written in the in an oddly beautiful hand that made her smile and blush. It said:

Darling Arnetta,
Please accept this small token in honor of our engagement. With Love,
George

She flipped the wire closures, raised the lid and saw Hershey bars. Hundreds of Hershey bars. Rationing made chocolate, sugar, tires and all sorts of things hard or impossible to get. Arnetta loved chocolate, but allowed herself almost none since the war started. Almost all the chocolate went to soldiers. Gold was scarce also. George had proposed to her the previous weekend giving her a band from one of his cigars and promising a real ring as soon as the war ended. What more could she expect during this time of national self-sacrifice? She said yes.

George made a vague promise of an engagement gift, but this was stunning even for the garrulous commandant of the POW camp. Her doubts vanished.

Inside the crate was an official packing list. “Confiscated: 608 chocolate bars from prisoners in Reading barracks.” Now she knew how he did it. The rowdy German prisoners had driven the two previous commandants to beg for transfers. The prisoners knew their rights and lost no opportunity to petition their American jailers for privileges. Then, all of a sudden, they got a commander who straightened the place up.

Capt. Gussman was the fourth of six sons of a Russian Jewish couple that escaped the pogroms of the Czar in the 1890s. He was 38 years old and had joined the Army just a year before he was too old to serve. German prisoners from the Reading camp worked on local farms and were paid five cents per day. Most of the prisoners bought American chocolate and cigarettes with their wages. One of the prisoners caused trouble for the guards on the farm work detail, so Gussman suspended the farm work. He also declared Hershey bars contraband. When no prisoners turned in their chocolate, Gussman led the guards in a search of the barracks. They confiscated 608 Hershey bars. Gussman made very clear who was in charge of the camp, and, despite the privations of war, he presented his bride-to-be with an engagement gift only Milton Hershey or a very rich man could match.

George and Arnetta were married at the base chapel, Fort Indiantown Gap on July 31, 1945. The legend of this amazing gift of plenty during an era of scarity lived on in their marriage and in their children. It is stories like this that keep us going; these stories are gifts of plenty that carry us through the inevitable times of need.
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I wrote this story for my kids. My Dad died before they were born and my Mom died five years in her 80s after a long illness.

From the Books & Culture Weekly Newsletter

John Wilson sends a weekly on-line newsletter about books and his bi-monthly book review magazine Books and Culture. He just posted my latest article (with Brigitte Van Tiggelen) on line.

FROM THE NEWSLETTER:
In two French-themed articles from the November/December issue of Books & Culture, David Hoekema of Calvin College celebrates the centenary of composer Olivier Messiaen, while Brigitte Van Tiggelen and Neil Gussman tell a story of "Technology in Translation." Neil, a regular reviewer for B&C, re-enlisted in the Army in 2007 and will be deployed to Iraq in January. Most of his fellow soldiers are young enough to be his kids. You can follow his story on his blog, Back in the Army Now (at 54).