This essay was published in two parts by BreachBangClear.com on September 4th and 5th.
http://www.breachbangclear.com/site/10-blog/473-the-tyranny-of-risk-assessments-in-the-military-pt-1.html
http://www.breachbangclear.com/site/10-blog/474-the-tyranny-of-risk-assessments-in-the-military-pt-2.html
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No joke there I was, at a National Guard training camp’s range. This was in mid-2002, not long after the Twin Towers fell. I was in a tank unit, and we were pretty sure we’d be in combat somewhere in the Middle East before long.
I waited my turn to get on the firing line. My First Sergeant wandered among the troops doing something. I didn’t pay attention, until he walked to me with something flat and green in his hand.
“Let me see your watch,” he ordered. He looked pissed off.
I held out my wrist, puzzled. “What’s up, Top?”
He started peeling something off the flat green thing he was holding. “I have to put something on your watch face.”
I took a closer look at the object in his hand. It was a sheet full of adhesive green dots. He pulled one dot off, set it on his finger and reached toward me.
I drew my arm back. “What the hell is that for, Top?”
The First Sergeant gave me an exasperated look. “Give me your damn watch. I have to put this on it. It’s a green safety dot.”
A green safety dot? What’s that? “I don’t want that crap on my watch, Top. What’s it for, anyway?”
Anger flashed in the First Sergeant’s eyes. I knew it wasn’t anger at me. “It’s an order that just came down through battalion. We have to put these dots on everyone’s watches, so every time you look at your watch, you’ll think safety.”
Look at your watch and think safety. Even today, the memory of that phrase irks me.
I gave him an expression that fell somewhere between disgust and insubordination. Here I was, a combat arms, tank gunner sergeant, probably about to go to war, and someone wanted me to put this ridiculous dot on my watch so I’d always “think safety”. The term itself made me want to puke. I could almost imagine some guy in a pink uniform with a tutu, prancing around to the Village People, shrieking “Think safetyyyyyyyyyyy!” at the top of his high-pitched, effeminate lungs.
I exploded, “I’m not a f**king child, Top! That’s the stupidest sh*t I’ve ever heard! I’m not going to put that stupid ass dot on my watch!”
He blew up back at me, “Yes you are! That’s the damn order, just do it!”
We had a short shouting match over it. Within seconds, I realized the horrible situation he was in: he had to enforce a pathetically stupid, nonsensical, juvenile order. He knew soldiers like me would fight it, because we’re adults who were prepared to fight and possibly die in combat; we didn’t want anyone holding our hands and making sure we “think safety”. But he still had to carry the order out. Some colonel or major decided, “Hey, this is a great idea!” and sold it to their commander, who then ordered all the sergeants major and first sergeants to make it happen. Top couldn’t ignore it, and couldn’t publicly agree with me about it.
I decided to let him off the hook. I pulled my watch off and said, “Fine, Top. Give me the stupid f**king dot.”
He handed it to me. I stuck it on the bottom of the watch. “There. Now if some moron asks about it, you can honestly say I have the damn dot on my watch.”
Top nodded in appreciation and walked off to look for the next victim. He probably told every soldier after me to put the dot on the bottom of the watch. He was a good First Sergeant, well respected within the company. This was a man who actually teared up as he told us how he almost refused a promotion, because as a First Sergeant he would never again command a tank (to tankers, that’s a huge deal; I still feel like crying over it, and I haven’t been in a tank in 9 years). He was a good man, forced to act like a nanny to a group of grown men who were training for war. Handing out the green dots hurt him right in the soul.
At the time, I thought the “green safety dot” fiasco was just one person’s stupid idea that got out of hand. I thought the “war is hell, get used to it” mindset I had learned in the Marine Corps would permeate the Army, especially since we were at war. I thought nobody would try to make Soldiers, especially combat arms soldiers, into risk-averse worry warts.
A year later I went to Phase I of the Basic Non-Commissioned Officer Course (BNCOC). There, instructors beat a mantra into our heads: “I don’t care what you’re doing, you MUST have a Risk Assessment for it.” A Risk Assessment was an examination of whatever activity we were doing, plotted on a chart, identifying dangers and specifying ways to mitigate them. Not a bad idea if you’re storming a beach, or conducting squad live fire training, or even practicing land navigation on a blazing hot day. But we had to write up and brief Risk Assessments for everything.
One of our tasks was to give a class about what job we did in the military. To pass this task, we had to brief the Risk Assessment during our introduction. So a parade of sergeants went to the podium and began their classes with, “Make sure you don’t trip over power cords. Don’t fall asleep and poke yourself in the eye with a pencil. Don’t get a paper cut. If we get hit by a hurricane [you know, since they strike without warning], the latrines are designated storm shelters.”
I sat in class awaiting my turn, fuming at what I saw, and still see, as a desperate attempt to beat the motivation out of combat troops. So we’re supposed to charge into machine gun fire if need be, keep going while our friends are killed around us, not quit the fight even if we suffer crippling injuries, but a classroom in peacetime America is so dangerous we have to be warned not to hurt ourselves during a lecture?
My turn came. I walked to the podium and started my introduction. I talked about my military background, my unit, and my civilian job. I told the class what I was going to lecture them about. Our lead instructor sat at the back of the class, checking off which required points I mentioned. I knew he was waiting for me to address the Risk Assessment. I stopped talking, looked over my fellow students with a dejected shrug, and said this:
“Risk Assessment. If you manage to hurt yourself during my class, you f**king deserve it.” Then I went on with my presentation.
The instructor kept looking at his checklist, but his eyes went wide. He made a mark. Later, when he sat down with me to discuss my grade, he pointed to the Risk Assessment box. It was checked. He smirked a little and said, “You mentioned the words ‘Risk Assessment’. Good enough for me.”
So I made it, even though I knew when I blew off the Risk Assessment and dropped the F bomb I risked failing out of the course. I was happy the instructor, an old-school Sergeant, thought as little of the Risk Assessment requirement as I did. But I also noted something else: nobody but me argued. Every other student in the class just rolled over, took it right in their fourth point of contact and blathered on about nonexistent dangers in our classroom. That was a sign of bad things to come.
In 2004 I was called up for Iraq (if my wife asks, I did NOT volunteer). And surprisingly, during trainup we weren’t murdered with safety rules. There were dumb things, like an urban combat instructor blowing up at a student for firing a blank round within ten feet of him. But overall, nobody beat us to death with risk assessments. In Iraq in 2005 we were pretty much left to our own devices about safety. I had the faint hope that mister “green safety dot” had actually gone on a real mission, had the crap scared out of him, and decided never to try that stupid nonsense again.
But after Iraq, the risk assessment monster started raising its head again. My friends in the regular Army told stories of having their vehicles inspected and having to turn in risk assessments on Friday afternoons before weekends off. Suddenly, Soldiers were wearing reflective belts everywhere. When I went to Afghanistan three years later, bases like Bagram were so choked with safety rules that many troops would literally rather take their chances getting killed on a patrol than get screamed at for safety violations. Speed limits were ridiculously low. Reflective belts had to be worn after sunset. Troops running on the road in the morning couldn’t wear sunglasses. If a Soldier was going to drive a “Gator” 4-wheeler, he had to wear a helmet, eye protection and reflective belt. And attend a “Gator safety class”.
In Afghanistan, commanders kept adding safety rule after safety rule. Some troops had to wear every piece of body armor they had, even on missions where they carried crushing weight up and down mountains. Units were forbidden from going on missions in any vehicle smaller than a huge MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected armored vehicle). Not only did this severely inhibit some units’ abilities to carry out missions, it also made the Afghans, in their Ford Ranger pickup trucks, think we weren’t willing to take the same risks they were. That didn’t help build respect between our armies.
Many of the troops believed the rules weren’t as much to keep us alive as they were a Cover Your Ass exercise for the leadership. “My soldier got shot by a sniper? Not my fault. I made him turn in a risk assessment and wear his body armor with Kevlar collar, throat guard, groin protector, shoulder attachments, side plates, helmet with nape pad, gloves and eye protection. So he was too weighed down to run to cover? Maybe so, but he didn’t die due to his leadership’s failure to document and mitigate risk.”
Of course, this wasn’t true in all cases. Many leaders genuinely believed all the armor and risk assessing would protect their troops. In some cases, they were right. In others, all the armor and risk assessments showed was a lack of appreciation for the operating environment. And maybe a lack of backbone.
I was extremely fortunate to be at an outlying firebase instead of Bagram, where I was more or less shielded from the safety craze. Nobody wore reflective belts where I was. You could drive a Gator naked and high on crack, and nobody would say a word. The war was not far outside the wire, and we had to become real soldiers, real quick.
By the time I came home, the War on Terror had lasted 9 years. In Afghanistan I saw that we soldiers had become more skilled, aggressive and eager for battle. The highest levels of the Army, however, seemed to have gone the opposite direction. And, in a development that terrifies me, too many troops seem to be following them.
I’ve seen Soldiers running on closed tracks, in broad daylight, in civilian clothes, wearing reflective belts. At a recent training exercise a senior NCO ordered everyone to wear reflective belts at ALL times, everywhere on a tiny National Guard base where nothing happens. And to always have a battle buddy. So we wouldn’t get raped.
Not long ago I was looking for a place to give a small group of Soldiers a physical fitness test. Just pushups, situps and a two mile run, early in the morning. We tried planning it at one base. But at that base you have to submit a request and risk assessment over a week beforehand. And have a medic present. And an aid bag. And ice water. And a cooling blanket. For pushups, situps and a two mile run.
So we tried another base. And found out we could use its track anytime we wanted. If we had a risk assessment. And a medic. And an aid bag. And ice water. And a cooling blanket. For pushups, situps and a two mile run.
I seem to recall, back in the late 80’s and 90’s, just going out for runs with my unit. No medics or corpsmen were around. No ice water or cooling blankets. Canteens and bottled water, sure. We kept eyes on each other in case of heat casualties. But we didn’t treat an easy PT test as if it was a combat mission. And gosh darn it, I don’t remember seeing Marines and Soldiers dropping dead from two mile runs.
Back then we didn’t have policies that convince troops any risk is to be avoided if at all possible. Heck, we might have even welcomed risks. After all, we were training for war. We expected to be in life-threatening situations. We wanted to be on the two-way range. To a degree, the risk-taking urge that inhabits most Soldiers and all Marines was then, and should be now, nurtured. It’s a necessary part of being an effective warrior.
No, that doesn’t mean we need to be suicidal kamikazes. It does mean we accept that combat is a dangerous world, where even those who take every precaution can still be killed or wounded. It means we embrace the courage of those who disregard mortal danger and do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done. It means we shouldn’t reduce bravery to a chart balancing risk versus safety. It means we don’t train Soldiers to believe something as mundane as talking in a classroom requires a careful analysis of danger (no, not even if it’s just a training method). It means we shouldn’t act as if a physical fitness test, which we’re all supposed to be able to pass at a moment’s notice, requires mission planning more worthy of a combat patrol.
I hate to say this, but I’ve seen experienced soldiers – GOOD Soldiers – embrace the Army’s risk aversion. I’ve had sergeants ask, when I suggested we just run our PT test on a civilian high school track without a medic, “But what if something happens?” I’ve seen a fantastic training exercise shut down because we were going to fire Simunition rounds (soap pellets, similar to paintball rounds) at each other. Sim rounds are designed, intended to be fired at people. The trainers had all the protective gear we needed. But a senior officer thought “That’s just too dangerous.” I’ve seen an instructor on a range not allow Soldiers to run a simple drill, just a 40 meter sprint with an unloaded weapon and no gear, over flat ground in broad daylight, because “Somebody might get hurt.”
This kills me. High school kids run on high school tracks every day, without a medic. Preteen girls play paintball. Civilians with no military experience participate in dynamic shooting matches every weekend, where they run around on flat ground with weapons. But it’s too dangerous for Soldiers? For combat vets?
We didn’t join the military to be 100% safe all the time. If we wanted that, we wouldn’t have joined. We’d never even leave the house, much less endure years of training, travel thousands of miles and suffer through Army-inspired utter foolishness, for the chance to bail out of an MRAP or humvee into a firefight just once in our lives.
Sometimes I wonder when the Army is just going to hang rape whistles around our necks. And make us attend mandatory “Stranger danger!” classes. And issue those ropes with multiple different colored handles like preschools use, so platoon leaders can pull their troops around like children.
Haha. Just kidding, Army. No matter how tempting it might be, please don’t try to actually do these things. Or all the Soldiers, the warriors, who really want combat will just say “Screw the Army” and get out. And all you’ll be left with are troops with green dots on their watches who think a classroom lecture is so dangerous they need a risk assessment for it.
AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK ON AMAZON, iTUNES/iBOOKS, BARNES AND NOBLE AND AT TACTICAL16.COM
Filed under: Afghanistan, Iraq | 61 Comments
Tags: risk assessment, u.s. army, usmc, veteran writers, war on terror
AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK ON AMAZON, iTUNES/iBOOKS, B&N AND AT TACTICAL16.COM
A reader made a very interesting comment in response to my last essay, An unarmed woman stops an active shooter; what that means, and what it doesn’t (http://chrishernandezauthor.com/2013/08/27/an-unarmed-woman-stops-an-active-shooter-what-that-means-and-what-it-doesnt/). I think this comment deserves its own post. This comment is, in a nutshell, everything that’s wrong with the argument against armed teachers.
Of course, not everyone who opposes allowing teachers to carry does so for the same reasons. I don’t accuse them all of being stupid or unreasonable. But I do see these trends:
1) they tend to view the active shooter as so highly trained and skilled, resistance against them is futile;
2) they tend to view armed citizens as so untrained and unskilled they’re absolutely unable to perform even a task as simple as covering a door from six feet away, and emptying a magazine at an active shooter as soon as he enters;
3) they tend to have no tactical training, experience, knowledge or understanding (which doesn’t stop some of them from very arrogantly preaching tactical “truth” to people who actually do know what they’re talking about);
4) they tend to think the active shooter will enjoy every advantage, while the armed citizen will suffer every possible misfortune (i.e., police will immediately shoot the armed citizen on sight); and
5) they seem to think police can’t differentiate between an armed good guy who is being cautious and targeting one person, and a mass murderer who is targeting everybody.
This “Don’t even try to fight back” mindset has become so strong on the left that writers on liberal sites actually argue against anyone without a badge resisting an active shooter. Bob Cesca, in an opinion piece which also reaches ridiculously illogical conclusions about specific shooting incidents (http://thedailybanter.com/2013/02/good-guys-with-guns-will-not-stop-bad-guys-with-guns/), said “No. I don’t want some other dude with a gun in the room. Generally speaking, the addition of a second gun has effectively doubled my chances of being killed by one of the gunmen, intentionally or not.”
Somehow the anti-gun side of the argument seems to equate a coward trying to murder everyone, with an armed, trained good citizen who is trying to stop the killing.
As you read the comment below and my response to it, please look for the mindset I’ve described above. Correct me if I’m wrong, but all I see in this argument is, “Don’t even bother trying to fight. Just give up and die. It’s the best way to save lives.”
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Reader “ivyfree2″‘s comment:
Agree with much of what you said, but not all. The shooter could easily have been wearing bulletproof armor (like the Aurora theater shooter). In which case, shooting him first would have been completely ineffective. Second, it’s not easy to shoot a human being. It takes training. It takes reflexes. Even then, it’s hard to do. We are socialized not to attack others. Yes, that can be overcome with training. I doubt very much if university teaching programs will start courses on “shooting a crazed teenager.” Seeing somebody come in with a gun and start loading it after verbalizing his intentions? Okay, MAYBE somebody would have had time to shoot him first. That person would have had to be either carrying a loaded weapon on his person (while at a school) or have to unlock a drawer or shelf to get the gun, making himself a target. Even if you shoot at a human, can you hit him? Most people who use guns practice with paper targets. Hitting a moving target is different. Going deer-hunting or whatever, that’s also different. Killing a human crosses a line that most people can’t do.
But suppose you’re special. You have a loaded gun on your person. You comprehend the situation as soon as the impending criminal (who hasn’t done anything illegal yet) announces that he’s going to kill and pulls out a gun. You grab your gun and you shoot. Maybe you have great aim and hit him, and maybe he’s dumb and hasn’t bought a bulletproof vest off the internet. Maybe you shoot several times and he (the person who has still, at that point, done nothing illegal) is dead. At that point, anyone who has heard your gunfire has grabbed their cell phone and called 911, reporting gunfire at a school. You hear the sirens approaching and police in armor storm the building, looking for the man with the gun. Bang: you’re dead.
My response:
Ivy,
First, thank you for your comment. Despite the fact that I am about to tear your opinions to shreds, I do honestly appreciate your willingness to speak up here. As I’ve said before, I don’t want this site to become an echo chamber, where I write opinions to an audience that parrots them right back to me. Dissenting opinions from reasonable, intelligent people are extremely valuable to national-level debates, and to me personally as a way to ensure my views don’t contain logical fallacies.
Second, your post leads me to these conclusions: you have zero tactical training, knowledge or experience. None. Nada. Zilch. And you probably only discuss topics like this with like-minded people who never challenge your blatantly ridiculous assumptions.
I’ll start with this: “The shooter could easily have been wearing bulletproof armor (like the Aurora theater shooter). In which case, shooting him first would have been completely ineffective.”
This statement alone is enough to prove that you have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been wearing body armor on a regular basis for almost 20 years. As a cop I wear soft concealable armor, and as a soldier overseas I wore either a military issue IBA vest with protective plates, or a plate carrier with no soft armor. I know the capabilities and limitations of body armor very well. “Bulletproof” vests leave significant areas of the upper body exposed (head, neck, abdomen, etc). They have seams that rounds can penetrate. Soft armor does not stop all calibers. I find it hard to believe that you’ve never heard of a single incident where a police officer was shot and killed, even though he was wearing body armor. It happens at least dozens of times every year. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of a soldier being killed by small arms fire, even though he’s wearing heavy body armor. As a cop wearing body armor, do I no longer have to worry about being shot? I know officers who were shot and wounded, and one who was killed, while wearing body armor. No, bullets don’t become “completely ineffective” if the suspect is wearing body armor.
Next: “…it’s not easy to shoot a human being. It takes training. It takes reflexes. Even then, it’s hard to do.”
As a longtime cop and two time combat vet, I’m aware that becoming proficient with a weapon takes training. I’ve actually had quite a bit of it. However, I’m also aware that we have about 20,000 gun homicides every year. Based on media reports and just about every gun-related murder scene I’ve ever been on, it’s pretty damn easy to shoot a human being. I don’t think the kids who killed the Australian student recently were weapon experts. Neither was the young mother in Georgia who repeatedly shot a burglar last year. Because actually, it’s pretty easy to shoot someone if you have the will. Weapons are designed to be ergonomic, easy to use with a minimum of training. The weapon I carry is extremely easy to operate, with no external controls [correction: it actually has one, not none]. You just draw, point it at your target and pull the trigger. With a few hours of training on the range and the correct mindset, just about anyone is capable of shooting a human being with it.
“Seeing somebody come in with a gun and start loading it after verbalizing his intentions? Okay, MAYBE somebody would have had time to shoot him first. That person would have had to be either carrying a loaded weapon on his person (while at a school) or have to unlock a drawer or shelf to get the gun, making himself a target.”
The entire point of allowing teachers to carry at school is to have them carrying at school. Yes, they should have the weapons on their person. With reasonable training, someone can draw and engage within a couple of seconds. Do you think an active shooter is an eagle-eyed, sharp-witted genius who sees all movements made by everyone in view? Why do you assume that drawing the weapon would automatically make the teacher a target? And what about situations like Columbine or Virginia Tech, where some teachers heard shots outside their classrooms for several minutes before they saw the shooters? Is it possible those teachers could have drawn their weapons long before the shooters were in view?
Your perspective is extremely common among many anti-carry people I’ve debated. You assume the shooter is a tactical genius, all-seeing and unstoppable, while the average good-guy with a gun is so outclassed that he might as well just give up and die rather than fight back. You are objectively wrong about this. Most mass shooters have been untrained, unskilled cowards who folded as soon as they were threatened by good guys with guns. George Hennard stopped shooting people at Luby’s as soon as he heard an officer fire a round into the ceiling. Cho at Virginia Tech shot himself as soon as he heard officers breach a door with a shotgun. Adam Lanza shot himself as soon as he heard police sirens outside. These guys are not SEAL ninja Delta Force Rangers. They are cowards, usually with no tactical training or even awareness, who are only enabled to commit murderous rampages by people like you who view them as mythical, omnipotent gods.
“Even if you shoot at a human, can you hit him? Most people who use guns practice with paper targets. Hitting a moving target is different. Going deer-hunting or whatever, that’s also different.”
You need training and a good understanding of your and your weapon’s capabilities to hit a human. At close, defensive pistol range, the average shooter can hit a human. We’re not expecting an armed teacher to take an active shooter out at 100 yards with her Beretta .380. We’re talking about shots fired within about 10 feet, within a classroom or office. Again, untrained criminals do it all the time. And trained people perform better with a weapon than untrained criminals.
“Killing a human crosses a line that most people can’t do.”
Standing there and doing nothing before someone kills you crosses a line. Taking no action at all as a murder massacres children crosses a line. You think the resistance to killing another human is so great, people would literally rather watch someone murder dozens of children than take action to stop them?
“But suppose you’re special. You have a loaded gun on your person.”
How is that special? Hundreds of thousands of Americans (and that may be a low number) carry a weapon on their person every day. That isn’t special. I’ve carried a weapon on my person daily for almost 20 years. Strangers have no idea I’m armed. Having a weapon doesn’t make anyone special and isn’t some far-fetched idea.
“You comprehend the situation as soon as the impending criminal (who hasn’t done anything illegal yet) announces that he’s going to kill and pulls out a gun. You grab your gun and you shoot. Maybe you have great aim and hit him, and maybe he’s dumb and hasn’t bought a bulletproof vest off the internet. Maybe you shoot several times and he (the person who has still, at that point, done nothing illegal) is dead.”
This is one of the more astounding parts of your post. So a guy walks into a school with a gun, announces he’s going to kill people and draws the gun, and you make the point, twice, that “he hasn’t done anything illegal”? In Texas he has, as well as any other state that doesn’t allow weapons in schools. Besides that, he’s presented an imminent threat to everyone in the area. The only reasonable response is the threat or use of lethal force. If you draw your weapon, he sees it and drops his, then no need to fire. If you draw your weapon and he’s still armed, engage and keep engaging until he’s no longer a threat. If you think the armed teacher has now committed a crime, you need to brush up on criminal law.
And the vast majority of active shooters and criminals in general are “dumb”. Do you think criminals always wear body armor? How many active shooters wore body armor? Can you think of any besides Holmes in Colorado?
“At that point, anyone who has heard your gunfire has grabbed their cell phone and called 911, reporting gunfire at a school. You hear the sirens approaching and police in armor storm the building, looking for the man with the gun. Bang: you’re dead.”
And here’s another beloved fallacy of the anti-defense side: don’t fight back, because the police will immediately kill you. Unfortunately, a police response takes time. At Newtown, police arrived in about three minutes. At Virginia Tech two fully geared-up SWAT teams were on campus when the shooting started. They still took several minutes to reach and enter Norris Hall. Chances are, if you encounter an active shooter at a school you’ll have several minutes before police show up.
And police today are trained NOT to shoot someone just because they have a weapon. We know many people can be legally armed at a shooting; teachers in some districts, off-duty cops, plainclothes cops, parents with concealed handgun licenses, etc. Simply having a weapon does not mean the police instantly shoot you.
And in your scenario, the armed teacher kills the bad guy, hears police sirens and hears the police “storm” the building (which is something else we don’t do; again, please take some time to learn something about this subject), but is still holding the weapon when police reach her? She couldn’t put the weapon back in the holster or simply drop it during the several minutes it takes them to arrive?
I hope you understood my point. Your views on this subject are devoid of actual experience or knowledge, riddled with fallacies, formed by unrealistic myths, and probably supported by legions of others with fallacious, unrealistic beliefs who tell you that you’re right.
What amazes me is that so many of you who oppose armed defense lack even basic knowledge on the subject, yet still feel justified making sweeping pronouncements about it. How does that happen? There are subjects I refuse to debate because I don’t know anything about them. I have opinions on them, but no actual knowledge or experience. So I stay quiet about those subjects because I know my uninformed opinion adds nothing to the debate and just makes me look stupid. I might ask questions, I might say, “I don’t know anything about this, but what about…” and ask a question. But I would never tell a doctor he’s wrong about medicine. I would never tell an economist he’s wrong about the economy. I’d never tell a pilot how to fly.
But many people who are anti-gun and have zero knowledge, training or experience with guns feel completely justified telling me, a longtime cop and combat vet, the “real truth” about armed defense. More often than not they say it’s futile to even try to fight back against an active shooter (as you did). Active shooters are just so amazingly skilled, nobody could possibly win against them. It’s better to just give up and die. It’s better to just let them walk into a school and mow down masses of children. “For god’s sake, please don’t make the situation worse by shooting the worthless, unskilled, untrained, cowardly piece of crap who’s massacring helpless people.” So help me, I can’t think of a more pathetic mindset than that.
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Am I off base, guys? Your thoughts?
Filed under: Cops | 87 Comments
Tags: active shooter, armed citizens, self defense
Before I tell you about the brave woman who talked a school shooter into surrendering in Georgia last week, let me tell you a quick cop story.
Back in the mid-90’s I worked for a small police department in Southeast Texas. One of the officers there, “Rick”, was known for two things: being a smart-aleck, and having no concept of officer safety. One afternoon Rick received a call about shots being fired on a residential street. When he drove onto the street he saw residents standing in their yards looking toward the other end of the block. He drove further down the street until he saw a man and woman standing together in their front yard. So he pulled over, got out of his car and walked into their yard to ask if they had seen anything.
Around the time he stepped onto their grass, Rick noticed a couple of things: the woman was crying and hunched protectively over an infant. The man looked furious, almost out of control. He was behind the woman, had one arm wrapped tightly around her like he was holding her there. And in his other hand, he held a pistol in the air.
At this point, Rick should have recognized the horrible situation he had put himself in; the man could have opened fire at Rick, who wouldn’t have been able to return fire without hitting the woman and child. The irrational man could easily have killed Rick, his wife and the child. Rick should have drawn his weapon as he backpedaled to the cover of his patrol car. He should have ordered the man to drop the weapon. He should have gotten on the radio to call for backup.
Instead, Rick simply walked up to the man and said, “Give me the gun.” The man didn’t respond. Rick reached up and took the gun out of his hand, went back to the patrol car and locked it in the trunk. Then he walked back to the man and handcuffed him.
When I heard about this incident, I thought, That was the stupidest way any cop could ever have handled a shooting call. Later I found Rick at the station and asked him, “What the hell were you thinking?”
Rick dismissively answered, “I knew he wasn’t going to do anything. I already know I’m going to die in a plane crash some day, so I wasn’t worried about that guy.”
I couldn’t believe that Rick, or any cop for that matter, could have that mindset. I guess he figured, “It all turned out okay, so I must have done the right thing.” Rick later left the department to pursue a new career. In aviation.
What lessons did I learn from how Rick handled that shooting call? I learned not to drive into a call with my head up my [censored]. I learned to keep an eye out for the nearest cover. I learned that sometimes an officer can be an idiot, get lucky, and the situation still turns out alright. But I definitely didn’t learn from Rick how to handle a shooting call.
This week, much of America needs to learn something similar. Just because something turned out well, doesn’t mean it was handled well.
On August 20th, an unarmed bookkeeper named Antoinette Tuff stopped a school shooter by talking to him. The shooter, 20 year old Michael Hill, walked into a Georgia elementary school office with an AK and several hundred rounds, took Tuff and others hostage, and exchanged fire with police officers. Tuff talked to the shooter, expressed sympathy, gave critical information to the 911 operator while Hill fired at officers, and eventually convinced Hill to drop his weapon and surrender.
Over 800 students were in the school when Hill, apparently intent on mass murder, walked in. According to an article in the Huffington Post, Hill announced his intentions to the office staff and loaded his weapon in front of them. Yet, in the end, nobody was killed, nobody was wounded. Antoinette Tuff is being recognized as a hero. In my opinion, she absolutely is. When faced with what appeared to be a madman intent on mass murder, she had a choice: run and hide, or risk her life to engage the shooter in a sympathetic conversation. She chose to risk her life and talk to him. And it worked. She deserves all the praise she can get.
But no, that doesn’t mean all active shooter situations should be handled with unarmed empathy instead of armed self-defense.
Surprisingly, the Huffington Post’s story about the incident (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/08/22/antoinette-tuff_n_3792683.html) didn’t seem to have a “See? We don’t need armed teachers!” angle. Some comments to the story, on the other hand, are just what I expect from typical HP readers, and by extension much of the left.
Here’s a small sample of comments from HP:
“Interestingly, the usually vociferous gun advocates don’t seem to have much to say about a terrible situation averted using intelligence versus firepower.”
“A true hero. So much for Rush Limbaugh’s and the NRA’s childish and over-simplified contention that the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”
“Note to NRA……What stopped a bad guy with a gun was a good WOMAN WITH A HEART! What a concept…”
“I guess a little bit of love and understanding is more powerful than bullets.”
“How highly unAmerican. We shoot first and ask questions later round these parts.”
“Too bad SHE didn’t have a gun too, then this could have all been prevent…oh, wait.”
“Hey NRA how do you deal with a BAD guy with an assault weapon? With a GOOD person who is compassionate and has a brain.”
Get it? If you’re intelligent, you don’t need a weapon. Armed defense, even defense of children, is only for us dummies.
As an almost 20 year police officer and former active shooter instructor, I’d like to make a few points for anyone who believes Ms. Tuff showed us the “right” way to handle active shooters. To do this, I have to ask them to please put aside the desire to simply throw out a snide remark, and actually engage in critical thinking instead.
First, I’ll say this: Hill should have been shot as soon as he walked into that school. This may sound harsh, especially considering what we’ve discovered in hindsight. According to Hill’s family, he suffers from bipolar disorder and ADD. His words and actions to Ms. Tuff indicate to me that he wasn’t a violent sociopath hell-bent on mass murder, he was a troubled young man desperate for attention and sympathy (which Ms. Tuff provided). Hill was the kind of man who was receptive to dialogue, not the kind of guy who would only stop killing if he was killed himself.
But nobody knew that at the time. All anyone knew was that a man walked into a school with an AK and announced his desire to kill. If we as a nation allowed teachers to carry, or mandated armed police or security in schools, a good person with a weapon could have immediately engaged, and kept engaging until Hill was incapable of pulling a trigger.
In any potential active shooter situation, the suspect should be disabled through the use of lethal force as soon as the threat is recognized. No, that doesn’t mean we dump a magazine on anyone we think might do something dangerous. It does mean that if a 20 year old walks into an elementary school with an AK, we ask ourselves a few questions. Is there a good reason a 20 year should be in an elementary school with a rifle? Does the school have an AK marksmanship class this man teaches? Is there some school-sanctioned AK-47 event going on that day? Is there some reasonable, rational explanation for a troubled-looking (based on his booking picture and description) man to walk into a school with an AK? If the answer to those questions is no, then someone needs to make a reasonable, rational decision to respond with force.
In this case, Hill made the decision even easier by announcing his intention to kill and loading his weapon in front of the staff. If even one of the staff members had been armed, they could have drawn on Hill and engaged him before he loaded the rifle. But what happened instead? Hill was allowed to load the weapon and fire at will. Had he decided to do so, he could have killed a lot of people. The entire outcome was left in his hands, he had total control of the situation. The fact that he decided not to kill any students or staff, and failed to kill the police officers he shot at, doesn’t mean this incident is proof that teachers or staff shouldn’t be armed. It means he failed to carry out what he intended to do. It was the school shooting equivalent of the man who tried to blow up an airplane with an underwear bomb but only managed to set his genitals on fire. It’s objectively NOT a lesson on how to prevent school shootings in the future. As far as handling future active shooters, maybe we shouldn’t make plans that require the cooperation of the guy who’s trying to murder people.
Anyone who insists that this incident was solved by unarmed empathy alone needs a reality check. One aspect of this incident that keeps being ignored, or at least hasn’t gotten the attention it deserved in the press, is that police officers had closed distance on Hill and engaged him with gunfire. Hill was under pressure and facing death when he surrendered. If Hill was like the “typical” active shooter, once the threat of his death appeared (and not death at his own hands, which he would control), suddenly the fantasy was over. It wasn’t fun anymore. The police officers who fired at him may have pushed Hill to listen to Ms. Tuff’s voice of reason.
Finally – and this is a big one – we should consider the big picture. Rather than listening to rather immature voices crowing over the alleged victory of an unarmed woman over an active shooter, we should ask ourselves this: why, eight months after Newtown, was a mentally ill man able to walk unopposed into an elementary school with an AK? Why have we as a nation chosen to follow the same paths and policies that enabled the Newtown massacre?
Despite the anguished, indignant handwringing from the political left about gun control, even the strongest proponents of “tougher” gun laws acknowledged they wouldn’t work (witness VP Biden’s impromptu speech to supporters in the White House). We know that new gun control measures, even if they were implemented perfectly, would take years before having an effect. So why have huge portions of the government and public chosen to throw time and money behind symbolic efforts which, even if they had been passed, still wouldn’t have prevented Michael Hill from carrying an AK into a Georgia elementary school?
The answer to that is, of course, “blowing in the wind”. It’s all about the show, with no more impact than words from an old folk song. I don’t have a clue why someone would choose to make a statement rather than actually handle a problem. But I do know this: no law stopped Michael Hill from murdering people last week. A sympathetic woman, police officers with guns and Hill’s own failure of will did. Our children’s defense shouldn’t consist of the faint hope that a murderer will respond to kindness, any more than a police officer should expect an angry moron firing a pistol in the air beside his wife and child to peacefully give up his gun.
Those who point to last week’s incident as proof that homicidal violence can be defeated with kindness need more than just a proverbial hard slap across the face. They need to be ignored and their ridiculous words disregarded by rational people. The next time some pathetic aspiring mass murderer walks into a school with a rifle, he should be met by armed, trained staff who are willing to defend children with immediate lethal action. He shouldn’t be met by unarmed, hopeful leftists who truly believe their kind words can protect my children from a murderer’s gunfire.
AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK ON AMAZON, iTUNES/iBOOKS, BARNES AND NOBLE AND AT TACTICAL16.COM
Filed under: Cops | 37 Comments
Tags: active shooter, Antoinette Tuff, school shootings
Of Carnivores and Cavalrymen
This was published August 16th by Iron Mike magazine. http://ironmikemag.com/of-carnivores-and-cavalrymen/
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I’ll start by saying this: I don’t, generally speaking, have heroes. But recently I think I found one. I’d really like to tell this man why he’s such an inspiration, but I’m fairly certain I’ll never meet him face to face. So I’ll tell you about him.
This man’s name is William O. Taylor. He was a U.S. Army Cavalry soldier, and took part in one of the greatest, most memorialized events in American history. He wrote a first-person account of that event, without embellishing his small part in it. After he was discharged from the Army he led a quiet, normal life focusing on marriage and career. No media appearances, no desperate quests for 15 minutes of fame, no sacrificing honor and integrity for a few dollars. Just a man with his wife and job, unfading memories of the battle he barely survived, and a passion to tell the honest truth about it.
Like me, William O. Taylor joined the military at 17. Like me, Taylor wound up in a far off, desolate, exotic land with a hostile native population. Like me, Taylor watched, with a jaundiced eye, the military’s effort to on one hand defeat the enemy through force, on the other hand convince them they should change the way they had lived for millennia. Like me, Taylor was deeply affected by his combat experience. Not in the sense that he was psychologically damaged, but rather that he felt driven to spread the truth of his experience through writing.
Decades after Taylor’s frantic, frenzied experience of a battle lost, he finally completed his handwritten manuscript about it. When he finished, I’ll bet he felt the same sense of pride and accomplishment I did when I finished my first book. Unlike me, Taylor had taken part in a huge battle that had held the public’s attention for years. But way too much like me, Taylor found a literary establishment that wasn’t interested in the story of a regular Joe. Taylor’s efforts to get his story published ended six years after he finished his fantastic manuscript.
William O. Taylor had been under the command of a certain Major Reno of the 7th Cavalry. Taylor’s unit charged an enemy force, only to be counterattacked and forced to flee toward relative safety. Taylor was nearly killed during the near-panicked retreat. Friends were killed around him. He reached cover, only to be pinned down for two days while fallen comrades decomposed in the heat. When reinforcements finally reached his small unit, he learned that his regimental commander, a legendary soldier and leader, had been killed along with over 200 other soldiers a short distance away. Taylor and his friends eventually reached the battlefield where his commander had died. There he experienced the horror of having to recover, identify and bury the horribly mutilated bodies of men he had known for years.
William O. Taylor’s regimental commander was Colonel George Custer. Taylor was a survivor of Custer’s last stand. He died in 1923 at age 68, never having seen his work published (given my agnostic skepticism about an afterlife, as I said, I doubt I’ll ever meet him). His wife carried on the effort. She died in the 1950’s, after achieving no more success than her late husband. Taylor’s manuscript wound up in a museum, among miscellaneous documents in an old tin box. Decades later a passionate Old West historian named Greg Martin bought the museum’s contents, and discovered the manuscript. In 1996, 120 years after Custer’s last stand, the manuscript was finally published as With Custer on the Little Bighorn.
I’m not a student of the Old West or Indian Wars. They never held much interest for me. But despite my lack of knowledge on the subject, Taylor’s account simply rings true. He didn’t write – not one word – about his own bravery. He makes the explicit point that when his comrades marched into the attack, he was the “number four man” who stayed behind with his and three other men’s horses (a cavalry troop counted off by fours, and every fourth man had to stay behind during a dismounted attack). Taylor described watching his unit’s bravado-filled advance, even pointing out that Major Reno had to order soldiers to stop yelling war cries. He talked about the headlong retreat, and of somehow breaking one stirrup while fleeing the Sioux. He wrote about firing his pistol at pursuing Indians, the first time he had ever fired his weapon from horseback (plenty of today’s combat vets can relate to doing something in combat for the first time, when they should have been trained beforehand), and how he dropped the pistol during the mad dash to safety. He gave the name of a terrified young man who was shot in the head beside him. He spoke of his enemy with great reverence and respect. He told a story that feels honest and authentic, and is absolutely gripping.
In the 17 years since Taylor’s story was finally published, it has gathered only seven reviews on Amazon. The public just doesn’t seem interested. This is frustrating to me, because Taylor was the kind of man who interests me most: an ordinary man, in extraordinary circumstances.
So who does get all the attention from the literary world and much of the reading public? Anyone who’s “special”. Or at least claims they’re special.
Recently a war memoir titled Carnivore was published. The author is a retired Army Sergeant First Class and Silver Star winner named Dillard Johnson. Johnson commanded a Bradley Cavalry Fighting Vehicle during two Iraq deployments. His vehicle was in C troop and named Carnivore, inspiring the book’s title.
Johnson’s book was notable for several reasons: first, he claimed an amazingly high number of confirmed kills (2,746). He described himself as a sniper with 121 confirmed sniper kills. He told a story about being inside a hut one night and using a knife to slice through a 220 volt power line, cutting the electricity, because insurgents were in the hut. He claimed to have been in hand to hand combat.
Johnson was part of a proud Cavalry unit that did amazing and important things during the Iraq War. He apparently earned a Silver Star, which is a huge honor. He served two tours in Iraq, even though he had to fight off cancer between his deployments. He did much to be proud of.
And with his new book, he has completely dishonored himself.
Iraq and Afghanistan vets reading this probably started getting homicidally violent when they read about Johnson’s 2,746 alleged kills. By the time they finished the sentence about him being a sniper, while simultaneously serving as a platoon sergeant and Bradley commander, they were probably shaking with anger. Once they read the claim about him being in hand to hand combat, they may have killed the nearest unsuspecting hippy.
To a War on Terror veteran, Johnson’s claims scream “BS/lies/embellishment/nonsense”. Carnivore has garnered, as of this writing, 81 reviews. Many are from people who claim to know Johnson, or to have been in his unit during the period he wrote about. They almost uniformly say Johnson is a liar. They point out the obvious impossibilities of the claims he made. They go into detail about how much Johnson was hated, both as a soldier and as a contractor later. Other respected military bloggers and web sites have torn Johnson’s story to shreds. His book has been exposed as a work of fiction/fantasy, as close to real combat as Disney’s Cars is to the Indy 500.
But Carnivore is still on the Amazon Best Seller’s list. Johnson has been interviewed on a national media outlet. He’s been called one of America’s greatest and most humble heroes.
Johnson hasn’t exactly backed down from his claims. He has admitted that he didn’t personally kill 2746 enemy; his entire unit did. He’s admitted he wasn’t a sniper either; he was a designated marksman, but since the public “wouldn’t understand that term” he just called himself a sniper. When he was called a hero, sniper and was given credit for 2746 confirmed kills during a television interview he didn’t correct the interviewer; no, he was “flustered”, and didn’t point out that those things weren’t true.
To give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he’s not a complete lying scumbag. One rumor floating around is that the publisher pushed him to embellish his background; after all, that would sell more books. And Johnson, being a combat veteran NCO and Silver Star winner (you know, not the kind of guy that would stand up for what’s right), was such a pushover that he went along with the publisher’s bad idea.
I guess that’s believable. I’m pretty sure the same thing happened with Kevin Powers, author of The Yellow Birds, the first supposed “classic” Iraq war novel. Powers was a humvee gunner in a combat engineer unit, yet on his book jacket he somehow became a machine gunner (no, those two things are NOT the same). But hey, “machine gunner” sells more books than “combat engineer”. So what the hell, go with it.
Either way, the success – ANY success – of Carnivore is a sad thing for America. Liars shouldn’t get book deals. Publishers shouldn’t salivate over stories that defy common sense because the author claims he was a sniper, Green Beret, SEAL or whatever. Combat vets who earned treasured awards for valor shouldn’t defile themselves to make a buck. Veterans shouldn’t send the message that our honor and integrity is worth less than a hefty advance for writing a book full of lies.
And most of all, William O. Taylor, an ordinary man who survived extraordinary circumstances, who chose to tell truth instead of self-aggrandizing fantasy, shouldn’t have gone to his deathbed believing his country never cared about his story.
NOTE ADDED 8/20/13:
Yesterday at Barnes and Noble I saw this magazine, with Johnson on the cover.
The article inside was about Johnson and one of his soldiers killing a Syrian sniper in Iraq at a range of 852 meters. Johnson repeatedly refers to himself as a sniper in the article. Some of the story is believable, some not so much. A soldier hitting an insurgent, in the head, the first time he ever fired a Barrett .50, at 852 meters? Not likely.
I also found this article (again), which I should have linked in the original post:
http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Backchannels/2013/0626/America-s-deadliest-soldier-or-stolen-valor
Johnson’s weak defense is noted at the beginning of the article.
Filed under: Writing | 18 Comments
Tags: carnivore, custer's last stand, dillard johnson, veteran writers, william taylor
The “Loudener”
This article was published yesterday on KitUp.military.com. The editor changed it up quite a bit, but I like my version better (doesn’t every writer feel that way?), so I’ve published the original version below. With one addition; I decided to include the question at the end.
This article isn’t exactly “gun porn”, as it’s more about tactics and my wartime experience than about weapons. Hope you guys enjoy it.
http://kitup.military.com/2013/08/loudener-muzzle-device.html#more-25522
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When I was in high school my dad took me to a machine gun shoot near San Antonio. All kinds of full autos, from .50 cals to suppressed .22s, were available to shoot. I got to fire an AK and an MG42. I think I fell in love with the 42.
But one of the things I remember most was an AR-15 that made a huge muzzle blast when fired. My dad had bought me an AR-15 the previous Christmas (because nothing says peace and love like a Colt AR-15), so I knew what normal AR muzzle blast looked like. This weapon was so loud it was almost painful, even through hearing protection.
I asked a man working the firing line, “Why is that AR so loud?”
“It’s got a muzzle blast enhancer.”
I was puzzled. What’s the point of making a weapon to be louder and easier to spot? I asked the man, “Why would anyone want a muzzle blast enhancer?”
“It’s for movies. Some filmmakers want to get footage of weapons firing with giant fireballs coming from the muzzle.”
“Oh,” I said. “That makes sense.” At the time, when I was seventeen, the only reason I could see to make a weapon louder and brighter was for stupid Hollywood movies.
Then I joined the Marines, and served six years as an armorer and range coach in a reserve Recon unit. And was a National Guard tanker and scout. And served in Iraq and Afghanistan. And was a street cop for almost twenty years. I learned a lot about firearms, went to a few shooting schools, fired thousands upon thousands of rounds from rifles, pistols, shotguns, machine guns and tank main guns, was in tons of armed, high-stress encounters, and was nearly shot and/or blown up a few times in combat. My perspective about weapons changed dramatically.
And I still don’t see any legitimate reason to own a muzzle blast enhancer.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a good gimmick. Try as I might, I just can’t see the new “Loudener”, from New Hampshire-based Snake Hound Machine, as anything but a gimmick. The Loudener is a heavy duty muzzle brake that generates a huge muzzle blast which, according to the company, feels like a .50 cal blast. They claim the Loudener has a legitimate combat application; maybe so, but at first glance it seems to be a toy for people who want their weapons to be extra loud and scary. The Loudener will be offered for 5.56 ARs, AKs and .308 caliber weapons ($75 for the 5.56 and AK versions, $85 for .308).
Snake Hound Machine (http://snakehoundmachine.com) is a professional outfit, making quality AKs and weapon accessories. I’ve only recently heard of them, but my impression of the company was immediately favorable. I’d love to get my hands on one of their Kalashnikov builds.
My favorable view of Snake Hound is what’s causing my confusion about the Loudener. Snake Hound Machine has released a video on Youtube explaining and demonstrating it (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-gE89u3Phw), and the device certainly seems to accomplish its intended goal. It makes a shortly AR’s muzzle blast look, and allegedly feel, like blast from a much larger weapon. I just don’t get why.
According to Snake Hound’s designer Owen Martin, the Loudener has valid uses in combat. He mentions in a brief interview for Recoil Magazine (http://www.recoilweb.com/snake-hound-machines-loudener-29099.html) that “It exists because sometimes the demoralizing effect of live fire is important. . . Instead of it [muzzle blast] being directed in a cone, it creates noise in a full 180 degree pattern, so to anyone in that area it will sound like it is coming right at them.”
I’m no Delta Force Recon SEAL Ranger, but on the rare occasions I shot at someone I really wanted to kill them, not scare them. When the enemy was shooting at me, I wasn’t real concerned with how loud their weapon was. Maybe if I was inside the same room with them I’d feel different, but in that case I’m pretty sure I’d be more focused on shooting them than asking them to turn down their muzzle blast.
I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with military scenarios where I’d want my weapon to be louder and more visible, and I haven’t come up with any so far. Especially since this is not a quick-detach muzzle brake; whatever weapon it goes on would have to be dedicated to being much louder and easier to spot. I don’t think I’d be willing to give away my position every time I fired, just so I could supposedly demoralize the enemy. Particularly considering the fact that I’ve seen our enemy take heavy machine gun, tank, mortar and anti-tank missile fire without getting demoralized. Not to mention air strikes.
Maybe there could be a situation where a platoon leader says, “Smith, go to that wall and fire the super loud weapon! Then while all the Taliban are shooting at you, the rest of us will escape!” And Smith would run to the wall, unsling his second long gun (since he’d have a different rifle or carbine as a primary), fire a few bursts and make every Taliban in the area think the good guys were shooting a Browning M2 at them, then run like hell. I guess it could happen.
On the Youtube video, Owen Martin tells us that the Loudener is being tested by [censoredcensoredcensoredcensored]. And don’t try to lip read what he says, because a black “redacted” banner is displayed over Martin’s mouth when he almost tells us which super awesome Tier One unit it is. He does drop the hint that they’re going to use them on their short-barreled M240Bs, which suggests it’s a one of the units I would be killed for even mentioning. Maybe they have a plan for using the Loudener. If so, they’re not going to tell me about it.
But here’s where I have to call shenanigans. If an SOF unit is testing your gear and it’s a secret, don’t mention it at all. If you put it out there on Youtube and then “redact” it, and drop hints, either it’s not really secret or you’re making something up to sound cool. Most of us veterans immediately throw the BS flag when a civilian mentions that they were SOF, or worked for SOF, or have some secret connection to SOF that they can’t talk about.
And it wasn’t necessary for Snake Hound Machine to drop that hint and get me all riled up. They’ve created a product that would be cool to shoot (although I wouldn’t want to be next to the guy shooting it). This product looks well made and seems to do exactly what they claim it does. If Steven Spielberg called me, said “I’ve got to make your novel into a movie! Here’s fifty million dollars for the rights!”, you can bet I’d buy a bunch of Snake Hound AKs and a few Loudeners to go along with them, just for the hell of it. But I wouldn’t buy one and expect it to be the least bit useful in combat.
Would you? Can you legitimately conceive of a reason this would be used in a combat scenario? Has any of the readership here been in a combat situation where this would have been a force multiplier? I will readily admit I might be missing something, and I’m certainly not slinging mud at Snake Hound Machine (I still want one of those AKs). This isn’t a rhetorical question.
Why would anyone want a muzzle blast enhancer?
Filed under: Afghanistan, Gear reviews, Iraq | 22 Comments
Tags: loudener, snake hound machine
Nunez walked into the officers’ work room to hang out before his shift. He was drinking a Dr. Pepper he bought from a machine in the station, like he always did when he got to work early, just having a drink and relaxing before roll call. A dozen or so evening shift officers were there, along with several night shift probationary officers who arrived early for everything. And Calhoun, because he had no wife, girlfriend or friends and therefore nowhere else to go.
Evening shift officers were hunched over computers that lined the walls, trying to finish reports that had stacked up during their shift so they could leave on time. The night shift rookies sat in a tight circle comparing notes and trying to outdo each other on who had made the most arrests or run the most dangerous calls, laughing and high-fiving and accusing each other of being full of shit. Calhoun sat by himself, saying nothing to anyone and not being paid attention to by any of the officers in the room, including two who had been in the academy with him.
Evening shift officer Ray Walker got up from his computer and picked up his Coke, ready to rush out and unload his gear so he could hit the road on time. Seeing Nunez, Walker’s eyes lit up and he greeted him with “Hey, platoon daddy! What’s up?” Nunez replied, “Damn, good to see you, Jarhead!” and gave him the half handshake, half hug that soldiers, Marines and cops give each other when they’re among their own kind.
“Man, I’ve been good, real good,” Walker said. “I just came back from an Alaskan cruise with Stacy, and we’re pretty sure I knocked her up while we were out there. I’m hoping for a girl this time, my two boys are tearing the house apart. And work’s been good, I’ve gotten some good turds lately. You hear about that check-cashing store robbery a couple of weeks ago? I got one of those guys on a traffic stop two days ago. How about you, what’s new?”
“Same as always,” Nunez answered. “You know how it is, man. The kids are good, Laura’s the same. I hate this job, but I’m not good for anything else anymore. So I’m counting the days til retirement. Only 48,663 to go before I’m done.”
Walker gave a broad smile. “You’re such a bad liar, Jerry. You said the same shit when we rode together, and you worked harder than any officer I knew. If you really hate the job that bad, just get into a few chases and make some good arrests, that’ll bring you back.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” Nunez said. “I don’t know though. It’s been so many years now, it feels like being sick of all this shit is normal and being excited about the job is weird. I’m just tired of it, bro. Hopefully it’ll get back to the way it used to be, but it doesn’t feel like it.”
Walker nodded and said, “It’ll get back to normal, ‘cause no matter how burned out you think you are, you’re still a real cop. Hey dude, I gotta run, Stacy’s got dinner going for me, she’ll be pissed at me if I’m not there when it’s done. And I need to make sure I don’t get on her bad side, I figure there’s a limited amount of time before she’s too pregnant to have sex with me.” Then, lifting his coke, he said, “To Jeff. Semper Fi, Jerry.”
Two young officers with high and tight haircuts sitting at their computers, typing furiously and seemingly not paying attention to the conversation, suddenly and in unison called out “Semper Fi!” without turning away from their keyboards. One of them had a long scar across the back of his scalp. Nunez lifted his Dr. Pepper and touched Walker’s Coke with it, returning the toast, “To Jeff.” Walker’s smile held just a touch of sadness now, and he grabbed and held Nunez’s shoulder warmly for a second before walking out of the work room.
From the circle of probationary officers, Woods watched the exchange with interest. He heard the “platoon daddy” comment and got the distinct impression that Walker and Nunez must have been in Iraq together but didn’t understand what the “To Jeff” thing was. He was acquainted with Walker from evening shift and knew he had served in Iraq, but didn’t know him well enough to ask him about something that looked like it was intensely personal. He did, however, think he knew him well enough to ask him something else. He got up from the circle of rookies and hurried out of the work room, speed-walked down the hall and caught up to Walker as he was walking out the back door.
“Hey Walker! I have a real quick question. Were you and Nunez together in Iraq?”
Looking annoyed, Walker answered, “We weren’t together, but we were in the same brigade. The same big unit, five battalions, about three thousand soldiers.”
“When did y’all come back from Iraq?”
Walker gave him a questioning look. “2006, why?”
“Nothing serious, it just came up when me and some guys from my class were talking about who at the station had been in the war. Thanks.”
Walker said “No problem” and hurried to his car. Woods walked back to the work room just in time to hear Calhoun ask one of his academy classmates, “Hey Gonzalez, why do you Mexicans call your kids ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’?”
Officer Rob Gonzalez rolled his eyes and swiveled the seat around to face Calhoun, who was leaned way back in his chair with his arms crossed and a ridiculous smirk on his face. Giving Calhoun a look that said Eat a dick, Gonzalez said, “I don’t know, Eddie. Why do all you white guys call your kids ‘the master race’?”
The room erupted in laughter, coming from officers of all colors, which drowned out Calhoun’s weak “Because they are” response. Looking a little pissed, Calhoun said, “Last night I arrested some Mexican for traffic warrants, and when I was towing his car his wife was standing by the side of the road telling their kid, ‘It’s okay daddy, it’s okay.’ What the fuck is up with that shit?”
Gonzalez said, “Couldn’t tell you, Eddie. I guess she said it just to fuck with you. And I’ve told you before, I’m not ‘Mexican’, I was born here and my parents were born here. How many traffic warrants did the guy have anyway?”
“Sorry, Mexican-American,” Calhoun sneered. “The guy had two warrants, plus his inspection was expired two months.”
Gonzalez pursed his lips. “Let me ask you something, Eddie. You arrested the guy and towed his car over two traffic warrants and a chickenshit ticket, even though his wife and baby were with him?”
Calhoun nodded proudly. “Yup, sure did. She didn’t have a license, I wasn’t about to let her drive.”
“You could have let that little bullshit go. Or you could have let her call someone to come and get the car, asshole. What’d you do with the wife and kid?”
“I couldn’t give a fuck less what happened with the wife and kid,” Calhoun said. “I told the wife to haul ass. Last I saw she was carrying the kid down the service road toward a gas station. If her husband didn’t want her and her kid on the street in the middle of the night, he shouldn’t be driving around with expired shit and warrants. But don’t get all butt-hurt about it, it’s not like I hate you Mexicans as much as I hate Hajis.”
Gonzalez rolled his eyes again. “Eddie, you never even left the U.S. when you were in the Marines. You told us that, remember? What reason would you have to hate Arabs? Really, what actual, personal reason would you have?”
“Man, it doesn’t matter whether I went anywhere or not,” Calhoun retorted. “Lots of my friends got killed by Hajis, just because I wasn’t there doesn’t mean I can’t hate them too.”
Gonzalez looked at the other classmate of theirs, who had turned from his computer to watch the exchange. Gonzalez and the other officer both shook their heads, then went back to their computers. Gonzalez mumbled, “That explains it. Hajis must have killed all your friends. That’s why you don’t have any.”
Officers turned away from Calhoun in disgust. Nunez glared at Calhoun, looked at his watch, finished the last bit of Dr. Pepper and walked toward the roll call room. Calhoun and the probationary officers followed him. Woods stayed back a little further than he needed to, wondering if he should ask Nunez what the reference to the mysterious Jeff had been about.
Roll call went quickly, and the officers were on the street earlier than normal. After they left the station, Woods asked, “Hey Jerry, why’d you come in so early? I don’t remember ever seeing you in the work room early before.”
“You’ve never been married, right?” Nunez asked.
“Nope. Engaged once, but never married.”
“Someday when you’re married you’ll probably get it. There are times when it’s just better for everyone if you get out of the house as soon as you have an excuse to.”
Woods wondered what he meant, but decided it wasn’t important enough to pursue. His next question was more on the path of what he really wanted to find out. “Hey, what was that that Walker called you in there? It was ‘platoon daddy’, wasn’t it? What’s that?”
Nunez answered, “Yeah, he said platoon daddy. It’s a nickname for platoon sergeant. I was a platoon sergeant all the time I was in Iraq and Afghanistan. That’s the senior NCO, the senior sergeant in the platoon. Most of the time the platoon sergeant runs everything, because most platoon leaders are new lieutenants who don’t have any idea what they’re doing.”
“I see,” Woods said. Then, preparing himself for Nunez to cut him off or make a smartass remark, he asked “And what was that ‘To Jeff’ thing y’all did? Who’s Jeff?”
Nunez stayed quiet for a few seconds, making Woods almost certain he was going to say something sarcastic and then tell him to shut up. Instead, Nunez said, “Jeff was a friend of ours. He was one of my soldiers, a fire team leader in my platoon before we went to Iraq. Jeff Colin. Good guy, funny as hell. He was smart too, always made the right decision under stress. At least in training, anyway.”
Nunez rolled his head on his shoulders, closing his eyes for a few seconds while he was driving and making Woods nervous. Opening his eyes again, he said “The way the Guard deploys units, what they do is pick a unit to send overseas, and then they strip other units to make sure the deploying battalion has everyone it needs. Guard units are always short on people, we just never had everyone we were supposed to. My unit got stripped so they could send guys to other battalions that were deploying. I got sent to an artillery battalion, Jeff got lucky and went to an infantry battalion. Lucky…huh. Anyway, Jeff wound up in Walker’s platoon. They were good friends.”
Nunez got to the service road and headed towards a business park. “Walker’s platoon was out on a route patrol and Walker’s humvee got hit by an IED. It disabled the humvee, and I guess Jeff thought it was on fire because of all the smoke. Jeff was the vehicle commander, and he told his guys to stay inside while he went to check on Walker’s truck. Before Jeff got to Walker’s humvee, two secondary IEDs went off. One of them was right next to Jeff, like six feet away. He didn’t have a chance, he was killed instantly. At least, I hope it was instantly. The other IED didn’t hit anything. It turned out Walker and his guys got their bells rung by the blasts, no injuries. When Walker shook it off he got out and found Jeff dead outside the truck. He never told me how bad Jeff was hit, and I’ll never ask him, but I figure Jeff had to have been torn up pretty bad. Probably in pieces.”
Woods didn’t know what to say. Nunez took another drink, then went on.
“Walker wound up being the guy who had to put him in a body bag and stick him in the back of their humvee, and then drive him to a firebase,” Nunez said. “This happened toward the end of the deployment, when we only had about six weeks left. Walker got onto the department after that deployment, and we rode together a few times when he was on probation. That’s when we found out we both knew Jeff.”
“Man,” Woods said. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Don’t be,” Nunez said. “Jeff was a grown man, he knew what he was doing. Walker and the other guys in that humvee were his buddies, and he was taking care of them. I knew Jeff real well, he wouldn’t have regretted getting out to check on them, even if it meant he would die because of it. That kind of thinking is something I’ve only seen in the military, and then only in the wars. Civilians just don’t get it. It sounds weird, but sometimes it’s better that you die trying to protect your soldiers, if the alternative is living while your friends get killed around you. Jeff knew it, and he didn’t just talk about it, he lived it. He died living it.”
Woods turned that over in his head, and decided that Nunez was right about civilians not getting that kind of thinking. “So, Walker just decided to bring him up right then, in the roll call room?”
“No. No, he didn’t decide that just then. After Jeff was killed, Walker decided he would do a little something to make sure Jeff was never forgotten. Every time he sees someone who knew Jeff, he makes a toast to him. A raised glass, handshake, fist bump, high five, whatever. Just to remind us.”
“Wow.” Woods took in what Nunez had just told him, reaching for the right word to describe it. “That’s really…touching, I guess.”
Nunez looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Touching? Fag. That’s not ‘touching’, it’s just what soldiers do. We don’t leave our dead, and we don’t forget them. And Walker always says Semper Fi to me, even though I wasn’t a Marine. Because it didn’t matter a whole lot to the guys out front what branch you were in or had been in before, as long as you could be counted on in a fight.”
“Ohhhhkay. Sorry man, I don’t know anything about the military. Except way back in World War Two, I don’t think anyone in my family ever served in the military. Hearing all this stuff is new to me.”
“Good thing you went to college then,” Nunez said. “I’m sure that toughened you up for the street.”
“Aw, bite me, Jerry. Plenty of college guys are good street cops. You’ve told me about a bunch of them yourself.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t include you. At least, not yet.”
Woods stayed quiet for a minute while he thought about what Nunez had told him. Nunez stayed quiet as well. Then Nunez’s phone rang, breaking the silence. He flipped the phone open.
“This is Jerry.”
“Jerry, my friend, it is good to hear your voice again. I am sorry if I am disturbing you, are you able to speak?”
Nunez silently mouthed Yussuf to Woods, and put the phone on speaker. “Of course I can speak to you Yussuf, how are you doing? You had me a little worried when you went in so fast last time we visited you, and we hadn’t seen or heard from you since then. I thought you might be having some kind of problem with Rahim, you looked like maybe you were a little afraid of him that night.”
“Jerry, of course not,” Yussuf said. “Please pardon me for saying so, but such talk is foolish. I simply do not wish to have any unpleasant experiences with my neighbors.” Then, laughing, he said “Should there ever be any tension between Rahim and me, you know of course I would have no recourse but to avoid him in the manner a rabbit avoids a hawk. I am an academic, not a man of violence, like men such as Rahim are. I should not like to ever have a physical confrontation with him.”
“’Man of violence?’” Nunez asked. “Can you explain that?”
Yussuf dismissed the question, saying “Ah Jerry, remember, I am a citizen of Kabul, which in my youth was a city of western ideals. Those of us fortunate enough to have received an education during our lives in Kabul do not display the same tendencies as rural villagers, especially those from Kandahar. You may not know this Jerry, but Kandaris are known throughout Afghanistan for their short temper. Rahim is the type of man used to settling disputes with violence. Of course, Rahim has never displayed any hostility toward me or any other residents of our complex, and I do not mean to suggest that he personally is a violent man. It is not likely that Rahim would return to any of the activities he was involved in when he was in Kandahar. I simply would prefer to not provoke anger from my neighbors.”
“Yussuf, what activities are you talking about?” Nunez asked. “What was Rahim involved in?”
“Oh, just such activities as are normal for rural Afghan men, Jerry,” Yussuf answered. “I am sure you recall many incidents of violence such as feuds between tribes and families. Such a life is normal for a man such as Rahim, whether or not the man is a member of a militant organization.”
“A militant organization, like the Taliban?”
“Yes Jerry, an organization such as the Taliban,” Yussuf said.
“Was Rahim Taliban?” Nunez asked. “I’ll go over there and shoot him in the head right now if he was a Talib.”
Yussuf laughed again. “Please do not, Jerry, I would prefer to not see more death around my home. No, I don’t believe Rahim was a Talib, I believe he angered the Taliban by refusing to heed their orders. I think you are perhaps too fixated on the Taliban, Jerry. There were many such extremist organizations in Afghanistan before the Taliban, and there are many more today that exist alongside them. You need not go too far to find such an organization, Jerry. They are not hidden.”
“Well, in that case, it’s a good thing we met, Yussuf,” Nunez said. “Make sure you tell me if there are any organizations like that around here.”
“Yes, Jerry, of course I would. Perhaps that is the purpose God orchestrated the circumstances that brought about our meeting.”
Nunez looked up at Woods with his brow furrowed, a look that said What the hell did that mean? Woods returned the look, shrugged and mouthed I don’t know.
“Yussuf, are you busy now?” Nunez asked. “Do you want us to come visit you? I’d like to talk to you some more about Rahim.”
“I am sorry Jerry, it is very late and I do not wish to disturb my wife,” Yussuf said. “Please accept my apologies for being so inhospitable, my friend. I would very much like to entertain you and Michael as guests, but I am afraid it would not be wise for me to have you here tonight. Perhaps another time. I believe I must end the call now, my wife is getting annoyed at my absence.”
“Wait a minute,” Nunez said. “Yussuf, you called me. Why did you call, if you couldn’t talk?”
“Jerry, my friend, I simply wished to ensure you and Michael are safe. Nothing more than this. Will you come visit tomorrow, perhaps?”
Nunez gave Woods a frown. “Okay Yussuf, maybe we can visit tomorrow. Hey Yussuf, is everything okay? You sound like something’s been bothering you lately.”
“Nothing is bothering me, Jerry. Thank you for inquiring as to my safety, but I am fine. There is no danger to my life, nothing for you to worry about. Even if something should happen, it would simply be God’s will.”
Nunez looked up at Woods again, giving him the same confused look as before. “Well, okay, Yussuf. You let me know if there are any problems, alright?”
“Of course, Jerry. Thank you for your concern, and good night. Please give my regards to Michael.”
“I will, Yussuf-khan. Good night.”
“Good night, Jerry-khan.”
Yussuf hung up. As Nunez put his phone away he said, “Damn, that guy keeps fucking with my head. Sometimes I just can’t figure out what the hell he means.”
“Yeah, he confuses me too,” Woods said. “But that’s usually because I don’t know shit about Afghanistan or Islam.”
“That crap about Rahim being a ‘man of violence’ just sounded kinda odd, you know? Like we didn’t hear the whole story.”
Woods nodded and asked, “So, what, you think he was lying, he really is scared of Rahim for some reason?”
“Yeah I do think he was lying, but not about everything. Like what he said about not having to look too hard to find one of those extremist groups in Houston.”
“No shit,” Woods said. “So you think he knows of some group around here?”
“Anyone who pays attention knows of groups like that in Houston. Supposedly there are a lot of them here, lots of guys with connections to groups in Saudi Arabia, Palestine, all over the place. I mean, at least that’s what we’re told at inservice classes.”
“Well, what do you think?” Woods asked. “You think a harmless old guy like Yussuf is part of some evil terrorist group?”
Nunez shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, he’s too nice of a guy, and he’s a complete pussy. He’s scared shitless of Rahim, I just don’t see him as the kind of guy who would be involved in something like that. He did say one other weird thing that got me thinking though. When I asked him if something was bothering him lately, and he right away said ‘Don’t worry about me, there’s no danger to my safety and if there is it’s just God’s will anyway.’ Just sort of brought up something about danger, out of nowhere. I think it’s just the language barrier, even though he speaks English real well I don’t think he always gets what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, I see, that does sound weird. What did he say when you asked if we could go over? I know he said no, but what was his reason?”
“He said it would bother his wife too much if we went over,” Nunez said. “But he sends you his regards.”
“Tell him I said thanks. Want to check out Hanley again, just in case…?”
Nunez nodded to Woods. “Yeah, I do. Let’s go.”
Filed under: Cops, Writing | 12 Comments
Tags: cop fiction, safe from the war, veteran writers
Short Afghanistan story
A regular Army infantry officer and I on a mission in the Tagab Valley, Kapisa Province. What does this picture have to do with the story below? Nothing at all!
I have a major writing project I’m working on, so I’m not going to be writing much original stuff for a while. I’m going to post some older stuff I hadn’t published, plus I’ll put a few more sample chapters from future books up.
I write this a ways back, just for the hell of it. It’s a standalone story, not part of Proof of Our Resolve. Just thought someone might enjoy it. Thanks,
Chris
********************************
“Oh, my fucking god,” Nunez groaned. Dust settled around him. He thought about getting up from the dirt path, then decided to lay still for a moment. “Fuck my life,” he muttered.
A few feet away Sergeant Alex Wilson wiped his eyes, spit dirt and asked, “Sarge, you okay?”
Sergeant First Class Jerry Nunez rolled left, struggling to force enough weight past the tipping point so he could drop onto his back. His eyes burned, his brain was trying to beat its way out of his forehead, he couldn’t focus and his mouth felt full of soil and copper. His arm shook as he forced his torso up until he finally flopped over, spit and squinted at the sky. He went over the mental checklist; nothing burning, no warm spots on his skin, no sharp pains. He flexed his fingers and toes. Everything moved.
“Sarge?” Wilson asked. “You there?”
“I’m good, Alex. I think.”
“Cool. You need help to get back up?”
Nunez’s eyes popped open in alarm as a frightening thought occurred to him, something he had missed during his self-test. He inhaled deeply, but could only smell smoke.
“Alex,” he whispered. “Come here.”
Wilson looked at him with obvious concern, then crawled the few feet to his platoon sergeant’s side.
“What’s wrong, Sarge? You look okay.”
“Alex,” Nunez groaned. “Take a smell. And please tell me I did not shit my pants.”
Wilson gave a blank stare in response.
“Sarge, are you for real?”
“Fuck yes I’m for real, Alex. I’ve had the screaming shits for two days now. This morning Doc gave me Imodium, but I don’t know if it’s kicked in yet. When that RPG hit it rang my bell pretty bad and I kind of blacked out for a minute, so it might have scared the shit out of me. Smell me. Seriously.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. Several feet away, Corporal Eli Gore stood up again and poked the muzzle of his M240 machine gun over the wall. His and Wilson’s eyes met and he said, “Sergeant Wilson, is he okay? Do I need to get Doc over here?”
“Nah Eli, he’s okay. He just got the wind knocked out of him. He’ll be fine in a minute.”
Wilson turned back to Nunez, who was still looking up at him expectantly. “Sarge, I can’t tell if you shit your pants either. All I can smell is all this dust that got kicked up. I’m sure you’re fine.”
“If you can’t smell, get closer,” Nunez said. “When I get back up I have to go check on everyone. If I shit my pants, I’ll have to explain it before they start making smartass remarks. So I need to know.”
“Everyone’s fine,” Wilson said. “Everyone but you sounded off after the RPG hit.”
“I know that, Alex. God damn, quit being such a douche and just check for me. Get closer and breathe in.”
“Sarge,” Wilson said, with an intense look coming over his face. “You cannot ask me to move my face closer to your crotch to see what it smells like.”
“Dude,” Nunez said, “just get a couple inches closer. Act like you’re checking my legs or something.”
“Oh, brother,” Wilson said. He turned his face toward Nunez’s feet, moved his head quarter inch toward them and took a hesitant breath.
“You’re good, Jerry. No shit.”
Nunez mumbled, “Good. Thanks,” and sat up. Wilson rose to take a knee and hooked an arm under Nunez’s armpit, helping him to his feet. As Nunez got his boots under him he realized what Wilson had just said.
“’No shit.’ Funny, Alex. Asshole.”
Wilson smiled and said, “I thought you’d appreciate that.”
Both soldiers got to their feet, staying bent at the waist so they wouldn’t stick up above the wall again. Nunez took an extra couple of deep breaths, trying to clear his head. It had been no more than two minutes since the RPG exploded against the compound a few feet over his shoulder and turned his world into a throbbing, painful blur, but his senses were already getting back to normal. He saw that his carbine was covered in fine dust, and he took a second to blow the dust from around the ejection port.
Hunched over, he and Wilson gorilla-walked to the other soldiers spread along the wall. Nunez called out, “Did anyone see where that came from? Anyone ID a target?”
“Fuck no Sarge, I didn’t see shit.”
“Me neither. They must have fired from way behind the treeline.”
“Shit, I can’t even tell what direction it came from.”
“Hey Sarge, we’ve already been on the radio about it,” Wilson said. “Nobody saw where it came from, not the other half of our platoon or the French. It was fired by a fucking ghost.”
How do they always do that? Nunez wondered. How do they manage to maneuver and fire on us without us being able to see them?
Nunez and his platoon were supporting the French Mountain Regiment on an infantry sweep through Loy Shenkay village, Kapisa province, Afghanistan. Their part of the mission was to hold a blocking position and prevent the Taliban from escaping north while the French pushed through from the south. Nunez’s section had set themselves up in a nice, safe corridor between a large compound and a chest high rock wall. They occupied the position before dawn and held it for three hours, before anything exciting happened.
The spent the first hour hoping the French would scare a hundred Taliban their direction so they could leisurely mow them down. After the second hour that possibility seemed unlikely and the soldiers loosened up a little, shifting every so often from their positions to stretch or take a leak. By the third hour they were bored and standing upright behind the chest-high rock wall, not believing any Taliban inside the village were feeling frisky enough to take them on that day.
Nunez had gotten sick of walking back and forth behind his troops, so he wandered a short distance away to get a look into the village from a different angle. He had been looking in the wrong direction when the boom! of the Rocket Propelled Grenade reached his ears. By the time he snapped his head to the side the round was almost at the wall. At least he thought it was almost at the wall; he remembered a blur just before the round impacted the compound over his shoulder, less than ten feet away.
The sensation was like being bodyslammed while his head was dunked under a cloud of brown water. He felt as if he had been punched in the nose, and his teeth ached. But that didn’t matter; he was alive and unhurt, and now he had a cool story to tell. He knew the other soldiers in the platoon envied him a little. The closer the call, the greater the glory.
Nunez and Wilson walked down the line again, Wilson because he was being a good sergeant, Nunez because he knew the soldiers needed to see that he was okay. As they passed each soldier Nunez slapped them on the shoulders and reminded them to stay low. Corporal Gore smiled at Nunez and made an observation.
“Damn, Sarge, for a second I thought you were toast. When that thing blew up I saw you do this awesome little twist in the smoke and flames. You looked like one of those hot chicks on Dancing With the Stars. When you went down I wanted to run over and stick a dollar in your g-string.”
“The joke’s on you, Gore,” Nunez said. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
“Good thing,” Gore said. “If you were, you’d have to change them now.”
Nunez tensed a second, until he realized Gore’s smile didn’t mean he smelled something extra in Nunez’s pants. “Yeah, true enough,” Nunez said. “Good thing Doc plugged my colon with Imodium this morning, or else I would have sprayed a few gallons of crap down my legs.”
Gore recoiled in mock horror. “Ewww, the runs! Alright, I’ll keep my hands off you tonight, I swear.”
**********************************************************
Any thoughts?
Filed under: Afghanistan, Writing | 14 Comments
Tags: Afghanistan, veteran writers, war fiction
