The Browning Hi-Power: A Love Story

Every serious gun guy has that one gun. You know the one. The one on your mind right now. That one.  The one you wish you didn't sell. The one you borrowed and never bought.  Your first gun. It doesn't really matter how it left your life, the point is, that it is no longer in your life. Like that ex or first love, the one that you cannot get over, there is a feeling of regret, even deep loss. Almost as if a loved one has died. Though a gun is an inanimate object, it still has the ability to bring out real emotions for people. In some way that weapon’s Tab A fit your Slot B. Click.

Kinda says it all.

For me it’s the Browning Hi-Power. I can’t even really explain to my own satisfaction just what it exactly is about the Hi-Power that, simultaneously, makes my heart flutter and gives me that giddy, tingly feeling in my Lower 48. But something about that pistol does it for me.  I bought my first Hi-Power in 1991 for $285 dollars from a guy I worked bussing tables with. Minimum wage back then was $4.25 an hour so you do the math when it comes to calculating how long it took me to save that, because I’m not gonna.  The pistol came with a suede zipper case, leather pancake holster, four 13 round and two 20 round mags making it a really good deal, even back then. But it was the pistol itself that hooked me from the moment I saw it.

Where have you been all my life?

My Dad owned a beautiful Colt MKIV Series 80 1911 that I could use anytime I wanted and since first learning the legend of The Colt .45, it was my dream pistol as a teen. I loved it. I think I was born a .45 fanboy. But that Browning...

Just a badass photo of Mr. Wayne from 1968s 'The Green Berets'.  

The Hi-Power was different. Whereas the 1911 is John Wayne, a big brawler with hams for fists, the Hi-Power is Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden in Fight Club. It’s lean, sleeker, all tendon and muscle. The way the slide and frame narrow towards the muzzle, the sides stepping down in that iconic Browning look. Everything about the pistol seemed refined to me, deadlier. It was a Fairbairn-Sykes to a Bowie knife. The Hi-Power would leisurely, coldly, smoke a cigarette while it watched its victim bleed out. The 1911 would spout off some 1940’s patriotic John Wayne/Captain America lines before stomping out to go punch some more Nazis and Japs in the face.  I was at that point in my life where I was tired of punching Nazis and Japs. I wanted to spike my hair, flip the collar of my jacket up, and smoke a cigarette. It was so different. I was in love. Worse, I was in lust.

It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.

I graduated, joined the Army, came home, and went to college. The Hi-Power went with me.  Sure it wasn't a perfect love, as with any relationship there were things to get over and adjust to after fires die down. First of all, it wasn't a goddamn .45 cal. The trade off was I had six more rounds in my magazine and at half the weight. Second, was the magazine disconnect.  I still hate that feature, but I've learned to deal with it. And that was about it. I had to unlearn some bad habits I'd picked up with the 1911 but that, in the end, was a good thing. I became pretty damn good with the pistol. I should've been, since I spent the most time carrying and shooting it. Too the range, on day hikes, and camping trips the Hi-Power was with me.  The pistol felt like a part of me, it felt natural, an extension of my will.

Disassembly for cleaning was a snap, so much easier than the 1911. And, of course, there’s the magazine capacity. Thirteen or twenty rounds. Baby does, indeed, have back.

Me and my Hi-Power in the early 1990s.

Those were the salad days. The days of wind in our hair as we ran, hand in hand, across a sun drenched meadow under cobalt blue skies. Then the night came. I was in college and I needed the money. That’s all I can say about what happened next. I actually made money on the deal.  $150 more, as a matter of fact. Look, I thought it was going to a good home. Debbie was a friend from high school, dating one of my oldest friends, and she was a medic in the U.S. Army Reserve.  It was all OK, right? I thought so, up until Debbie knocked the Hi-Power off the seat of her car and into the red mud. The pistol lay ejection port down in a shallow, pistol shaped depression like the chalk outline of a murder victim. Debbie looked up at me. ”Oops,” she said, smiling. I stuffed the money in my pocket and left, crying manly tears.  That was 1997.

Fade to black.

Like the hammer of an angry god.

In January 2008 I purchased my second Browning Hi-Power.  It was the corner stone of my new, post-Iraq gun collection. A brand new Mark III. It was a different pistol, but the feelings were all the same and that was good enough for me. Times had changed, though. The days of 13 and 20 round mags were as dead as MC Hammer pants. The political savants on the Left in The People’s Democratic Republik of California have deemed that the peasants can only have 10 rounds in their magazines. For now, at least.  But the extra space makes way for a nifty little spring that shoots the mag out of the well as opposed to digging it out. It’s been replaced as a primary carry by my USP .45. I’m back to punching Nazis in the face with modern Germans. Kind of ironic, isn't it? But the Hi-Power is always there. It’s an old friend that knows the map of your soul, the ex-lover whose look makes your breath catch and heart race from across a crowded room.  And it still likes to smoke cigarettes and watch its victims bleed. 

Nifty magazine spring. 

War Story

Nearly two hours later the patrol was back at the scene, the only evidence of the drama that had unfolded there were the still bright puddles of blood and a few scraps of plastic from the battle dressings and Kerlix we had used.

Everything else was gone.

The blood soaked flannel shirt and T shirt I had cut off the man I was working on. His jeans, well, those had been carried off seconds after I had pull them off the man by a woman in a black abaya, the half empty water bottle, the car the men were riding in, blood splattered interior, the windows frosted and crazed by bullets, the door skins pocked marked with more strikes.

I shouldn't be surprised but I was. Iraq is like that. Every time I think that I have finally seen it all - seen everything that there possibly is to see - that my capacity to be shocked or amazed is over Iraq will show me something else. Just to prove me wrong.

The patrol was just into its first hour on the street, my first daylight patrol since returning from leave. I was in a good mood, happy to be back out on the street, images of the sun rising behind the gray clouds above the chow hall fresh in my mind. Rays of light spread across the sky like spokes on a wheel, the edges of the clouds burned a neon orange red.

Photo from before the patrol. Taken in the chow hall parking lot minutes before rolling out. 

 On the edge of the built up area kids were going to school, the girls dressed in white long sleeved shirts, bib type dark blue dresses reaching down to their ankles. The boys in white polo shirts and dark pants, backpacks slung over their shoulders, the girls pressing their books to their chests, arms akimbo. Just like school girls back in The World. The boys yelled at our HUMMVEES as we rumbled by. Some strutting and looking hard at us, the younger ones holding out hands and shouting.

"Mister! Mister! Chocolate!"

The girls ducking their chins down but following us with their eyes. Some smiling shyly at the gunners. Ski, my gunner was throwing handfuls of Jolly Ranchers to some groups. "Only the ones that don't ask for anything." He thought for a minute,” And the cute girls...the rest of 'em can go fuck themselves."

Crossing a dirt and trash strewn open area between roads and houses, high tension towers above, Ski was the first one in the truck to hear the firing.

"SHOTS! Off to the five o'clock, about three hundred meters!"

The LT called up to the lead truck, SSG Bull and his crew. Bull's gunner, Rio, had heard them as well. Random shooting in nothing out of the ordinary in Iraq. The Iraqis like to shoot. They shoot into the air at weddings, birthdays,when the soccer team wins, when someone dies. Sometimes when they just feel like it. The IAs and IPs shoot whenthey are bored or scared or want to get through traffic jams. Whatever.

The patrol thumped over the curb and on to the street when a second burst of fire ripped the air off to my right front.

"Where THE FUCK is that coming from?" I wondered. I didn't see anyone running but it sounded close. Through the HUMMVEE windshield I saw a metallic gray car lurch to a stop and three figures tumble out. Two men and a woman. The woman was wearing a red dress with large tropical looking flowers on it. I watched her stagger forward, like someone carrying a great weight on their shoulders.

Bent at the waist she was clutching her are to her mid section.  The two men were just behind her; one had his arms raised above his head, and the other lurched forward. The woman finally went to her knees then rolled onto her back. Like it was a signal for the two men they all stopped, the trailing

one crumpled to the roadway, loose jointed, head bobbing, like a machine slowly breaking down.

By then the Soldiers in the two lead trucks were dismounted or in the process of doing so. I had just popped my door when the hated cry reached my ears. "MEEEEEDIC!"

Fuck. Here we fucking go, man.

"LET'S GO DOC! They need you up there!" Turing around in my seat I looked at our current medic. A 19 year old Asian kid from our Brigade. Our normal platoon medic and my roommate has been out of the game for a while with whiplash to his back and neck. The result of an IED that blew our female translators face off back in August. Doc A, my buddy had worked on her saving her life. I had seen him save other lives, I had seen Doc A bring people back from Death. He had worked on Iraqis and Soldiers, putting the pieces back together, elbow deep in blood, but Sara was just too much for him. He had seen to much, taken to much pain inside himself, looked too deep and long into Horror.

Sara lived just under twenty four hours. The doctors had reconstructed her face with what was left of her feet but we all agreed that she had just given up. With both her feet gone and her face the way it was, I don't think she tried very hard to hold on. Doc F was his replacement until Doc A got back on his feet again. Doc F, fresh from medic school at Ft Sam Houston and Charlie Med. Out from Camp Anaconda on a war safari, doing his time 'in the shit'. Well, he found it with us. Here the war is 24/7. It never goes away. And people get hurt in terrible ways.

I grabbed one of his bags, slinging it over my shoulder, M-4 in one hand, while Doc F shouldered his aid bag. "I'll go with him." I don't know why I wanted to go. I have seen the damage that bullets and shrapnel does to a human body. I had done some of the damaging myself. Running up with Doc, leaving him behind, I wondered what I was going to see and for a second, for one step, I hesitated. Do I really need more images of rent flesh, of people in pain to have dreams about? Those nastily little flashbacks that come at unexpected times? No, but it was too late to go turn back now.

The three people were close together, the two on the ground laying feet away from each other. throwing the aid bag to the ground I scanned over the people and stopped again. What I had thought was a woman in a red dress with flowers on it was actually a man in what had been an off white Dish-dasha, the Haji man dress that some many men wear. The red was blood, the flower pattern the white portions on the material. the blood was already specked with the dark bodies of flies that raised and fluttered like clouds. Well, you’re fucked, I thought, turning to pull near security at the corner of the nearest HUMMVEE. The exhaust flashed warm across my face.

 Glancing back one more time at the fellow in the flannel shirt, I watched a thick stream of blood spurt at least four inches out of his neck. There was already a pool of blood under the man's head, running down his arm, soaking his clothes. His pants were dark with it. The hot copper smell hung in the air mixed with the old locker room smell of sweat.

Shit.

I slung my rifle and tore my flight gloves off, no way I was getting those all fucked up in Haji blood. The words HEP A, B, and C flashed in my head. At the same time I was attempting to dig into my leg bag and aid pouch. The leg bag for a roll of Kerlix, the aid pouch for my latex gloves. I needed more hands. Finally I got the gloves on and began tearing at the wrapper of the Kerlix with my teeth when the smell hit me again and I realized I was going to have to put my hands in that mess. I gagged, saliva pooling in my mouth. God I was going to be sick. I tasted the hash browns and bacon I had eaten for breakfast again. Shit! I am NOT going to vomit. Get a hold of yourself, man.

 I knelt down and pressed the white gauze to the guy’s neck. He was moaning and crying in Arabic. The roll of gauze was rapidly soaking up the dark blood still pumping out of the Iraqis neck."DOC! I need you over here. This guy is shooting blood all over the fucking place!"

Doc picked up and moved over to me. I scanned the man's body over, looking for more wet spots, more wounds.

Right. This guy’s entire clothing was soaked and dark with blood. Coagulated chunks of blood had pooled in the wrinkles of his jeans, showing up bright against the dark material.

I dry heaved again, old memories beat against the insides of my eyes like the dark wings of a trapped bird. Pull it TOGETHER! Get control! NOW!

"Doc hold this while I cut his shirt off. This dudes so covered in blood I can’t tell if he's hit anywhere else." I reached for my shears and felt and felt Doc's hand press down on mine. Letting go I pulled the shears free and reached for the edge of the guy’s shirt just as he spit out a mouth full of blood, splattering my knee and boots.

I tasted bacon again and fought down the urge to puke once more. Puking on the wounded will definitely not earn me any cool points.

Cutting his shirt away I pulled another roll of Kerlix out of my leg bag. At this point in the deployment I carried more medical gear than I did ammo. I wiped away the blood on his side and began counting holes.

One, two, three, four, five... Wait, let me do that again. One, two, three... Five. Five holes in the side of this man's chest. Not big holes, not like you see in the movies, torn and gaping, just little innocent looking things no larger than a big zit. They weren't even bleeding. Little gouges in his skin, black purple, and beginning to swell. What was happening inside? He was breathing, gasping for air and talking.

I have seen sucking chest wounds before, the side with the deflated lung sunk in, the wounded struggling for air and in great pain. Yet this guy had been shot six fucking times. Six times and was still moving around. Goddamn.

"Ahhh...Hey Doc, this fuckers got FIVE goddamn holes in his chest. You might want to look at this, man." I looked at Doc F. He was working but he was overwhelmed, focusing on the still bleeding neck wound. "Doc. Doc, look at me," my voice was calmer than I felt. Doc found my eyes. "Hey! We need some more help over here!" Mac came running over and held the soaked Kerlix while Doc put an ACS bandage on the worst of the chest wounds, feeding the little latex hose into the hole. The third Iraqi was wandering around. I snagged him.

"Hey! You’re his friend, right?" The man looked blankly at me. I couldn't remember the Arabic word for friend. "Look," I said pointing to the wounded man and making opening and closing motions with my hand, like a mouth,” talk to him, ok? Make sure he stays with us."

I was afraid of the guy going into shock, of fading out on me. Giving up. Fuck that. I was not going to let this son of a bitch die on me. The man fired off rapid Arabic. There was a woman with in black abaya standing near by, crying and putting her hands to her face.

"Someone get her the fuck out of here!"

There were people everywhere. Soldiers, Iraqis, kids on bikes. Fuck, the entire city had turned out to watch the show. Better than what’s on TV. Life and death in your front fucking yard.

"Sgt D! Hold this!" Mac was digging for fresh roll of Kerlix. I replaced his hand on the guy’s neck just as he spit out another mouth full of blood. At the same time I felt a warm syrupy stream of blood splatter against my palm. And gagged again.

With the new roll placed I threw the old one away. It landed heavily in the dirt a few feet away. It sounded like a wet dish rag.

I began to cut the guys pants off, trying to cut through his leather belt with the Harley Davidson logo in the buckle. Blood was pooled in the low spots of the brass colored oval bringing the letters and the motorcycle into stark relefe.

"Holdin' on to something

That's keepin'me from jumpin'

So afraid to go it alone

Holdin up this fortress

With imaginary forces

Longing for a life down below"

Goddamn Anna Nalick song. I was singing it to myself. The weirdest shit goes through your head out here at these kind of moments. Lines from movies, images, memories that have nothing to do with the current situation. Sometimes you wonder if you’re losing it a bit... Ok, more than just a bit.

"What if I fall

What if I don't

What if I never make it home

What if I bleed

What if

I break

What if I find that I can't take

The city below the citadel”

I ended up just pulling the guys pants off, with his help. Shot six times and the guy is helping me talk his pants off.

"Hey, dude, just lay back, ok?"

I flung them aside, noting the over large bill fold in his pocket. His ID would be in there. It turned my head back, doing a quick scan of his legs. When I looked back for the pants the woman in the abaya was making her way out of the press of Soldiers with the pants under her arm. Ah, well... Fuck it. He really didn't need them anyhow.

With wounded men, a wounded anybody, standard procedure is to cut EVERYTHING off the person. The Iraqi male I was helping to treat had knee lenght blue shorts on under his pants. They looked like soccer shorts or something to me. There was no visible blood on the shorts, no wet spots, unlike another Iraq that Doc A and I had treated on the shoulder of Route Downfall one evening.

That male had been hit by an IED - either an innocent bystander or the trigger man - my first sucking chest wound. He had pissed himself there was blood coming out of the end of his penise, staining his white under shorts. In the orange light of the setting sun the blood took on a rust color.

I tugged at the elastic waste band of the shorts. I was aware of the Muslim squeamishness toward nudity and I asked myself if I really wanted to see this guys junk. I decided to leave his shorts on him.

During the entire process, cutting clothes, trying to stop bleeding the man had been moaning and talking. I find it interesting, with wounded Iraqi children - little bodies with jagged chunks of metal in them, holes in their heads - I have never seen them cry. Instead they just look at you, expecting you to help them. The adults, however, will roll and thrash around. Crying out, asking for water - one time an Iraqi that had been shot six times asked Doc A for juice - demanding treatment.

This guy kept pointing to his mouth and talking. "Look dude, I can't give you any water man." I kept telling him.Finally Mac poured a little water into his mouth and discovered another wound.

"Holy shit! This guy was shot through the mouth! The bullet entered his mouth and came out the back of his neck!

GodDAMN!"

We rolled him over and began strapping him to one of the plastic backboards that are strapped to every vehicle in the company.  The boards are just a bit over six feet long and resemble surf boards. They were yellow until Keo and I spray painted them black. I left a yellow smiley face and a hippy looking flower on mine.

Unpainted litter/backboard. This was taken months later.

Four of us carried the man to my truck and I stayed with him to monitor his condition while Doc assisted with the Evac of the other man in the dish-dasha. He had been shot in the arm, chunks of flesh removed from his bicep. It turned out that their other friend, the guy that had been running around was shot in the arm as well. The last I had seen of him Sgt Agie was helping him put a field dressing on his arm. "Hey let me help you with that, dude."

I stood at my man's head looking into his eyes, trying to keep him with me. He was laid out across the wide body of the HUMMVEE, his head behind the driver's seat. I would be the one driving him to the CASH. Clouds of flies, drawn by the smell of blood were thick on his chest. I tried to keep them off but was losing the battle. I watched his eyelids flutter and he began to gasp for air. His eyes closed.

"Hey...Hey!" I poked him in the forehead, hard. "Stay with me, motherfucker. You’re not fucking dying in my truck, ok?"

His eyes opened and focused, pupils big but not bad.

"Good. That's right, look in my eyes, ok? It's you and me in this together, man. Hold on."

My Arabic was failing me. What was the goddamn word for hospital again? Did I know the word for hospital? I couldn't remember.

Finally, after what felt like way to long, we loaded up and were on the way to the CASH up in the IZ, dodging snarled traffic. Doc F gave my man and IV in the back of a rolling and bumping HUMMVEE. Not bad.

Me (bottom left), Ski (top), and Doc in better times.

In the end, we got both men to the CASH. The guy with the wound to the arm wasn't so bad after all. My guy, he lived. He's going to live too. He will spend a lot of time in the hospital but he will make it. I'm glad too, very glad, because next time that could be me.









( Note: I originally wrote this on my Myspace page no more then four hours after this incident happened. I later sent it to Matt over at blackfive.net  for the book he was putting together, The Blog of War. It was accepted but edited, the lyrics of Anna Nalick's 'Citadel' removed. Guess Simon & Schuster didn't want to pay for the licencing.) 

Hazard 4 Poncho Villa Review

Consider the poncho. Quite possibly one of the world’s oldest articles of clothing, and why not? It’s a simple garment to make. Find some material , preferably waterproof – or at least resistant -, generally rectangular in shape, make a cut in the middle ,poke your head though, and you now have something that’ll keep you dry-ish, warm-ish,  prevent the sun from turning your skin into beef jerky, and can be used as blanket, ground sheet, or shelter. The poncho really is a wonderful piece of equipment when you think about it. And enduring. Over the centuries it’s remained basically the same. Sure things have been added here and there, a hood, draw strings, snaps, and grommets .   It’s no longer made of hide, but , for all intents and purposes , the poncho is an evolutionary dead end.

 Until now.  Hazard 4, out of Long Beach, California, has made the next great leap forward in poncho technology. They manufacture, what I think may very well be, the greatest poncho in the world.

Say hello to the poncho villa. This is not your issue poncho. It’s 15 x 13 x 2 inches of water resistant/breathable soft-shell fabric, 100% (we’ll get back to that) waterproof fully- taped seams, large hook and loop panels are located on the front and back of the poncho with additional panels on the shoulders.  But that’s not all.

From the top down, this is an all new take on an old concept. The hood is roomy enough to be pulled over a helmet, features a playing card sized hook and loop panel on the back of the hood. The opening is controlled via shock cord secured by a cordloc. The throat of the hood rises to chin height, can be opened and closed using a zipper, all covered by a covenant storm flap that sports  hook and loop secured seem. Oh, and get this, the hood is lined. Fancy. But it’s nothing compared to the main body. That’s where the magic is happening. I’m not talking about the snaps or grommets, though very nice, they’re not where the poncho villa makes its money, no.  That’s found in the pocket on the chest.  A pocket so large you can put the poncho inside of it. Just think about that.  Once you’ve stuffed the poncho in to its own pocket, and, believe me, there’s no finesse in this operation,  you can zipper the whole thing shut with a double sided zipper that also serves the pocket while in poncho mode. Once it’s all squared away the poncho villa is roughly the size of an iPad with the thickness of an MRE. It’s nice and soft and has the looks of making an excellent field pillow. One side has a large label with specs and a graphic nicely reminiscent of military labels.  On the top are a small plastic D-ring and a metal grommet to provide air in or water to drain out. In poncho mode the huge pocket is covered by an equally huge, hook and loop secured flap. Did I mention that the pocket is huge? Because it is. You can put four complete MREs in there and still have room for your cell phone, two packs of smokes, extra pair of gloves, couple of packs of beef jerky, paperback, and maybe some mission essential items.  And, remember that D ring on the outside? Well, now it’s inside. The people at Hazard 4 really have thought of everything. 

 A pocket on a poncho. It’s really such a simple idea and it totally sold me on this product.  And here, I have a confession to make. I hate ponchos.  I mean that. For 20 years in the infantry I humped around this nearly useless half assed somewhat water resistant sheet that I had only used once as its makers intended it to be used, as a poncho.  Hot and wet is nice when you’re with a lady. It ain’t so good when you’re on a road march in Basic Training. Consequentially, my criteria when it comes to ponchos are pretty low and simple, how else can it be useful to me?

1.       Can it be used as a shelter?

 Yes.

2.       Can it be used to protect/conceal my gear?

 Yes.

3.       Can it be used as a groundsheet so I can clean my weapon?

 Yes.

And that’s about it. A poncho being used as an actual poncho? That never enters my mind.

That brings us back to the lined out 100% waterproofed fully-taped seams. The thing is, they aren’t.  Within 30 minutes of getting the poncho I was outside and standing in the very convenient rain we were having.  After about 45 minutes, or long enough to start wondering what the neighbors were thinking, I went inside to see how the poncho villa had held up. Well, overall it did fine, except were the stitching for the shoulder hook and loop panels were.

However, I also tested the non stitched material by lining my sink with the poncho and filling it with water. An hour later when I looked it over the inside of the poncho was dry except for some damp spots where the material had rested on the drain. That’s pretty good for a non sheet of plastic.

So, the question remains, do I like it? Would I recommend the poncho villa to people I know? Yes, I would. It’s now part of my basic packing list because it’s such a versatile piece of gear. Now, the $129.99 price tag is something to consider, but if you can afford one get yourself a poncho villa. You won’t regret it.

Cool Kids

Cool Kids by Echosmith's has a very Susan Vega feel to it and I like it. A lot. More than is appropriate for a 41 year old man. Not just for the Susan Vega-ish wispy music and beat, a comforting combination of steady beat and up notes, horns or whatever, over laid with the cool, edging on dispassionate, vocals, but for the feelings and memories that it brings up in me.

I was not a cool kid. I know everyone says that, especially the fucking kids that were cool, but when I say that I mean it. The group I was in was called The Nerd Herd or just The Herd. All of us were jokers, artists, intellectuals and geeks that refused to completely grow up. We refused to play their game all the while sitting on the sidelines hurling verbal frag grenades. Eyes full of desire for what they had. With two notable exceptions we were all lower middle class, if not white trash. We wanted so much more but some of us were already learning that we just were not going to get it. We were full of rage and hate. We weren't the bottom rug, someone always has it worse than you, but we were close and we knew it. I guess that's one reason we stuck together. Of course there was in fighting but if an outsider fucked with one you fucked with all of us and you only did it once. 

You couldn't pay me enough money to relive high school again. Not that my 20s were that great but at least I had access to alcohol and alcohol numbs the pain oh so well.  In that way I can definitely relate to the lyrics, but that's minor. It reminds of summer vacation. It reminds me of reading well into the afternoon, the only light in the loft coming from the windows. Outside the green white and black oak treetops shimmered in the sun, framing the barn at Kimler's ranch, and Susan Vega's 'Tom's Dinner' was playing on my boom box. I would spend entire days in the woods most summers. I'd take my BB gun, a book, and my Walkman and be gone until dinner, then back out until dark. I developed a lot of skills that I know helped me, and continue to help me to this day, out in the foothills with just my dogs. And sometimes Susan Vega. 

Gun

The door banged open. I rushed forward, hooking right, rife coming up, SAFE off, rear sight coming up to my right eye, as the breechman cleared the door. The courtyard walls were thick. Very thick. I was going to have to take three, maybe four, steps in before I could clear the  walKIDSKIDSKIDS! FUCKING KIDS EVERYWHERE! Clogging the door and jamming me up. I could feel the weight of my fire team pushing against me. One mag from an AK and we were all done.
Just as suddenly they were gone as a military aged male slid to a stop in the door. He bent at the waist, raigained his balance, and began to straighten up, as a Glock pistol tumbled from his waist band, the world suddenly gearing down into slow motion as I watched the pistol fall.  As soon as it hit the ground I was back to real time. "GUN!"  I bellowed. Finger on the trigger, muzzle inches from his face, as I looked in his eyes.

Better Times Than These

The moon shone like a blind eye, edge hazed by the humidity. In between cigar shaped clouds drifted north casting aircraft carrier sized shadows on the field of cattails where C for Charlie company was waiting in its release point. Second platoon was off to our three o'clock about a hundred meters away with headquarters platoon sandwiched in between. The FRAGO I had just received from SFC Richard "Big Dick" Eaton said when battalion gave the word the plan was for all three platoons to come on line at the edge of the cattails then move into our blocking position. The chances of fratricide were in the single digits. I could fucking hear the transmissions from the CPT Elson's RTO.

 I moved down my fire team telling the guys the plan. everyone was soaked and shivering, all knee deep in a freezing slurry of sucking mud and water. It had started raining on us the first night and hadn't stopped for three days. The wet constant low fog, and wind had brought temperatures down into the 30s at night. I had never, in all my life been so completely wet for so long a period on dry land. The squads built super hooches next to the bonfires they lit with dental forms they were supposed to fill out for battalion. Short of running lines there was none of the usual assembly area activities. No fighting positions, no range cards, no wire. Nothing but a shanty town of woodland and olive drab shelters strung up beneath the trees. In the pursuit of warmth and an attempt to get dry the battalion had gone totally admin. Fuck. Yeah.  Did I mention that this was mid May. In Southern California? Camp Pendleton to be exact. Nobody had packed for this kind of shit. All you had to look forward to at the alpha alpha was a sodden Gore-Tex jacket and a mushy poncho liner. It sucked.

2nd Squad poncho super hooch. 

Duplantier shifted, making room for me, as I took a knee in the mud. "What's goin on, D?" He shifted his head just right, the moonlight highlighting his camouflage painted angular face in perfect profile. "You know," eyes slid towards me, mischievous smile on his face,"hang'n out. Like two balls in a thong."
 "Nice. Well done. Good timing, what with the eyes an' smile an' moonlight. Very Coppola."
 "Thank you, CPL D."
I gave him the FRAGO and he listened as intently as he always did. Duplantier wanted to get everything right the first time. That drive made him the most promising Soldier I had. His heart is what made him a good man and a damn good friend.

PFC Arnold Duplantier II

After I finished we sat there, listening to the sounds of Soldiers waiting in the dark. The sadness slid in, strangling sense of utter loss, and what was flaming into hate. I sat back on my heels and began telling him about it. How I was feeling, what it all made me feel like, my thoughts on the baby and on her and how it all made me feel absolutely powerless.

When I was done he looked at me "We all knew something was up with you. I won't tell no one though. But if you wanna talk about it later, CPL D, you know, go out and get a beer let me know."

He never told anyone . He gave me someone to talk to about what had been eating my insides for over a year. His gift to me way his friendship, trust and loyalty. All the things that form the core of a Soldiers heart.

Happy Birthday, my friend

.

August 1998

She lay on her back, wrapped tightly in my poncho liner, to my left, asleep. The book I was reading made a tent on my lap. I wasn't reading it. I was pretending. No information was being taken in, I was  simply scanning the same line over and over. Checking my watch I saw that I'd have to wake her soon for another pain killer. I gently got off the bed, setting my book down. The sunlight coming through the blinds was warm.

In the small kitchen I crushed the pill into a grainy white power with the back of a spoon. Because of her religious beliefs she was opposed to taking anything. No aspirin, no doctors, no perception pain killers. I didn't care. She was going to take this, mixed in a light tea. I tried not to think, just listen to the rush of traffic outside and the chalky crunch under the spoon. The microwave hummed behind me.

"They call her name at 7:30
I pace around the parking lot
Then I walk down to buy her flowers
And sell some gifts that I got
Can't you see
It's not me you're dying for
Now she's feeling more alone
Than she ever has before"

This song comes out of fold space, exploding into my head with a blinding flash of light.

... And I'm on the floor...
... And I'm sobbing...
"I'm sorry. So, so, so sorry... "