Sleep Deprived: The Suffering Built Into Every Military

Today is one month since I got knee-replacement surgery. Inside my stiff, swollen, sore left leg is something like the titanium and plastic parts above, replacing my worn-out bones with modern technology.

Every other day I go to physical therapy where Luke, an ex-Marine, gives me 45 minutes of exercises followed by intense stretching. Then Mike pushes my knee to get more range of motion. They were the subject of my last post.

At this point, the pain from the bone saw, hammer and other tools used to rebuild my knee has subsided.  But the sleep deprivation dogs me every moment in the day that I struggle to think clearly, and every moment at night I stare at the ceiling hoping to drift into sleep.

A few years ago I reviewed the book "Grunt" about the technology behind keeping soldiers fit for duty and keeping them alive after the horrible injuries. In the book, there is a whole chapter on sleep deprivation among submariners. As with so many things in the military, everything can turn into a competition and sailors pride themselves on how long they can go without sleep.

Careful study of submarine sleep habits showed that this built-in sleep deprivation leads to mistakes, injuries, accidents and could lead to something worse.  Changing submarine culture to build in more sleep led to better performance, especially under alert conditions.

All through my military career and parts of my civilian career, sleep deprivation led me to struggle with simple tasks and ache for a nap. Border patrol, tank gunnery, guard duty, long road marches, and a hundred other military duties took sleep from me and never gave it back.

Sleep deprivation is also a form of torture. It could be months before I get a full night's sleep again according to some people I know who have had this surgery.  When I finally do sleep four or more hours without waking to pain in my leg, I know it will be a wonderful feeling.

My Physical Therapist is a Marine

Marine Corps Basic Training

I started outpatient physical therapy yesterday. I have two therapists. One leads me in various exercises for about 30 minutes to work on flexibility and get my legs warmed up.  The second bends my leg as far as he can and a little farther to get more range of motion.  I need to restore range of motion to resume activities like bicycling.

The guy who does the warmup exercises is a former Marine who served in the Marine Reserve from 2012 until three knee surgeries ended his Marine career after two years.

The first thing I did in my therapy session was walk as straight and tall as I could with a cane, the length of the workout area and back.  Then I did side stepping and other exercises that led Luke and I to talk about marching songs.

Then we talked about Jody and I got jealous of being a Marine. Luke said that all through his 18-week Basic Training in 2012 they sang marching songs about Jody.

I told him I went to my last active duty school in 2013 at Fort Meade. I was not allowed to sing Jody songs when I marched the company or any songs that were sexist or talked about killing an enemy.

Jody is the guy back home who is sleeping with your wife/girlfriend, emptying your bank account, driving your car, and in every way taking over the life you left behind.  Back in 1972 when I was in Basic Training, Jody was a draft dodger. He had a rich dad and an infected hangnail that meant he did not have to go to 'Nam and we did. 

So Luke and I were laughing and quoting Jody verses as I exercised:

"Ain't no use in goin' home, Jody's got your girl and gone.
Ain't no use in feelin' blue, Jody's got your sister too."

"Ain't no use in lookin' back, Jody's got your Cadillac."

Then we talked about songs that were unique to our branch and sang bits of those:

"They say that in the Army the coffee's mighty fine, it tastes like muddy water and smells like turpentine,
Gee Mom I wanna go, but they won't let me go....."

After that Fort Meade school I wrote a post on the New York Times "At War" blog bitching about the marching songs in the 21st Century Army.

After a half hour of us laughing about marching songs as I exercised, Luke turned me over to Mike.  His job is get me increased range of motion by pushing my leg as far as it will go, then a little more. I was quiet for a lot of that session. It hurts.  Mike told that previous patients of his who he helped with recovery gave him a t-shirt emblazoned with "Mikey de Sade." I could see that.

I will be seeing Luke and Mike three times a week for the next month in the long process of recovery.  And once in a while singing about Jody or

"A yellow bird, with a yellow bill,
Just landed on, my window sill,
I lured him in with crumbs of bread, and then I crushed his.....

The end of the verse in the Marines and the 1970s Army is .....f@#king head.

At Fort Meade in 2013, it was .......little head.

Luke and I laughed about that too.

Screwed Out of Retirement at 19 Years

Yesterday, I got a call from a soldier I served with in the Pennsylvania Army National Guard. Her father is 59 years old, a Sergeant First Class, in Texas, training for a deployment later this year. 

If he goes, it will be his fourth deployment.  He first enlisted forty years ago, then had a long break in service to raise his kids.  I knew when I re-enlisted I could not get a retirement--I was too old and had too few years of service. 

But this soldier is right on the edge. With a one-year extension he would be able to complete his deployment and retire. 

It looks like what will actually happen is that he will deploy and return early and leave the Army without a pension.

I told my friend to get in touch with her Congressman right away. Her approach should be "My Dad........"  She is a veteran combat pilot in her own right.

There is not much chance he will get the retirement. Like me he will be asked to turn in his gear and all of his connection to the military will end. Fading away, as General McArthur said 70 years ago.

"Smoking's Not Going to Kill Us, They Are:" Tobacco on the Cold War Border

I started watching "Band of Brothers" again, the HBO series about American paratroopers in World War II.

At the beginning of episode 2, the paratroopers are on a C-47 transport plane flying toward Normandy in the middle of the night of June 5-6. In moments they will be the first invading troops, crowded on slow-moving airplanes flying into intense anti-aircraft fire then jumping from the planes.

By morning a third of them will be killed, wounded or missing. The men in the plane rub Rosary beads, drum their fingers, tap their feet, and stare vacantly. Some pray. A few others light up cigarettes.

My well-trained, health-focused 21st Century mind immediately thought "that's unhealthy" and I smiled. Then I thought of a joke about second-hand smoke in a plane with its jump door removed, open to the night sky.

I smoked when I was a tank commander on the East-West border in the late 1970s. I looked across that border and thought the Soviet Army would invade and my tank would be part of a vastly outnumbered defense of the free world. And that I would have the survival potential of a rabbit at a wolf reunion.

"Smoking's not gonna kill us, they are!" I could say with some confidence looking East.

The Soviets did not invade. I quit smoking before the Soviet Union collapsed, so I am still alive to write this blog post.

By then end of World War II, less than a year later, the majority of the men in those planes on D-Day were dead or wounded. Smoking didn't kill them. The Nazis did.

Talking Racing and Cheating with a Richmond Cab Driver

Cale Yarborough, NASCAR Champion

I took a train to Richmond to visit my daughter and son-in-law. I took a cab to their house from the station. The driver was a local guy in his early 70s with six-year-old Chrysler 200 cab. He had the gravely voice of an ex-smoker and was very friendly.  In a couple of minutes it was clear we were both veterans. He was drafted and served in the late 60s, getting out just before I enlisted. 

The other thing we had in common was being NASCAR fans from the 60s through the early 2000s when we both drifted away from being fans.  In between the directions announced by GPS, we talked about being fans in the 60s. Ed drove slowly so we had a lot of time to talk on the 9-mile trip. 

Ed had followed the many drivers who drove for JuniorJohnson, one of the NASCAR originals. Ed met Cale Yarborough when Cale drove for Junior. We also talked about Darrell Waltrip a three-time champion who is now an announcer. 

Then I mentioned seeing a couple of races at the Richmond track and wishing I could have ridden my bike at the annual bicycle race on the Richmond NASCAR track.  This led us to talking about in NASCAR and bicycle racing. So we talked about Lance Armstrong and Waltrip and how different cheating is in motorsports and endurance sports. 

He knew Armstrong cheated, but he didn’t know how. I explained blood doping. I told Ed after Armstrong and Floyd Landis I never watched the Tour de France again.  We talked about how in motorsports the cheating is done in the car, not in the driver’s body, so when the cheater gets caught, the offending part is removed and the driver can race the following week. 

We also talked about the death of Dale Earnhardt at Daytona in 2001. Both of us stopped being fans soon after because NASCAR made all the cars identical and both of us had become fans when it was actually modified street cars that raced on short tracks and the high banks at Daytona and Talledega.

Always interesting to meet up with a Cold War veteran.

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Two Guys Comment on the Book I am Reading: How Fascism Works

Reading Hannah Arendt's "Origins of Totalitarianism" led me to start reading Jason Stanley's "How Fascism Works." I happened to be reading the fascism book on a bench in 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. There was a guy napping on the bench opposite me. He woke up, looked at the cover of the book, came over and sat next to me.

He said, "Tell me how that works. Just a quick summary." So I said, "Attack the press, discredit opponents and all history, attack a scapegoat minority and you are on the way." He thanked me.

Then he said, "My girlfriend told me the FBI said I can't ever call her or see her again in my entire life. I think they have to take me to court or arrest me or something. They wouldn't just tell her. Right?"

I said I don't know much about law, but that sounded right. He kept talking. I went to my train.

On the train, a conductor I see once in a while, a veteran, saw me reading the book and making notes in it. He said, "You are always reading some crazy shit." He laughed and kept checking tickets. When I got off the train, I passed him in the doorway.

"You take care Sarge," he said and started laughing again.

We both served in Cold War mechanized units. We talked about the Cold War a couple of times and how crazy it was that it ended. Once in a while when we were on the same train he would see me studying Ancient Greek or Russian and say, "You are one weird dude."

The Heel Thing: My Bone Spur and Deployment

Ten years ago, I was at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, training to deploy to Iraq. With just a week to go before the long flight to the Middle East, I developed a bone spur. It ached every day. When I first stood up in the morning, it felt like I had a big rock in my right boot.

I said nothing, because I could have been left in the US and missed the deployment. Once I was in Iraq, I got a cortisone shot from the medics because they would not send me home over just a bone spur once I was in country. Cortisone and a month of stretching several times a day fixed it.

In this week in which Cadet Bone Spurs is attacking John McCain, a real American hero, I can't stop thinking about the soldiers I have known over the past 40+ years who covered up medical problems or got them fixed in order to serve.

I really cannot understand any veteran supporting Coward-in-Chief. During the Vietnam War, rich draft dodgers like Trump not only avoided service, they sneered at people who served. And he can't even remember which heel had the bone spur.