Where Do We Get Them?

[Annie]

http://www.blackfive.net/main/2006/03/wounded_warrior.html#more

Wounded Warrior? American Hero and Tough Guy

Howdy, Subsunk Again.

The LA Times has an article by LTC Tim Maxwell, who was wounded in Iraq by a mortar attack. I found it via Mudville Gazette, and was frankly surprised that no one has commented on it yet. It is a deeply moving article on what makes our Men tick, and what they live for. I urge you all to read it. It starts like this:

A wounded warrior

By Tim Maxwell
Tim Maxwell is stationed at Camp Lejeune, N.C. E-mail: woundedteam@sempermax. com.

March 27, 2006

I AM A MARINE — a lieutenant colonel. I know about war. I have studied it for more than 20 years. I have been deployed overseas six times. Three times since 9/11.

Recently, I learned all about another part of war. I was badly wounded during a mortar attack in Iraq in October 2004. It is a traumatic brain injury. My left elbow also was busted. My left cheek has metal in it. It was tough to eat for awhile. It's hard to see.

But that stuff is irrelevant compared to the brain injury. A section of the left side of my brain is dead. I am learning to read and write again. It's tough. My third-grade son reads a lot better than me. Typing this article was exhausting.

But I have learned something too: what it is like to be a wounded warrior.

We tend not to complain about our injuries too much. Most of us know others who are worse off — a guy with a bad leg knows a guy who lost a leg, or both legs. I, with a brain that is "cracked," know youngsters with brain injuries who are unable to walk or talk. We all know someone who died. So, it is not a good thing to complain. We are tough guys. We are all going to whip it.

And that is because in the Corps, we really learn to be part of a team. Not like sports, where players switch teams for more money. I am talking about a life-and-death team. Warriors will not switch teams — if they can help it.

But when they are wounded, they have lost control. They are off the "A" team. All their friends will tell them, as they board the helicopter to fly away, to take care of themselves. Not to worry about the team. They'll be OK. But they want to be back with their team.

It is hard to talk about the injury itself. The guilt that comes from leaving your team in the combat zone. The frustration. And when you do complain to or talk with a noninjured person, it rarely goes well.

When you try to discuss your frustration, people talk positively. Upbeat. That is what good folks want to do. You try to tell them a negative thing that you are fighting with, something that is driving you nutty. Your friend, your wife will try to give you the positive side. Talk about how happy they are just to see you. Even if you cannot run. Or drive.

Use my vision as an example. It's not a complaint, just an example. When I woke up in Bethesda Naval Hospital, I had no vision in the right sides of either eye because of the brain injury. It was very frustrating, and scary. And confusing. So I would talk to a buddy, or my wife, or my mom. Think what you would have said: that I am lucky to be alive; that I can still see. And you do not want me to be depressed. You want to help me stay motivated. You want me to be positive.

And the goofy part? Marines do not whine. Therefore, I shall not whine. I agree with it all. I think it is good for us wounded Marines to whip it — the injury, the sadness and confusion. When you're in the hospital, your morale is OK. You are with other wounded warriors. You can chat about it. Sometimes we just look at each other in the hallway, and nod. That's all. Acknowledgment.

But once you are out of the hospital, it's tough. It sounds great on the day you leave. But there's irritation, frustration.

"Why is it taking so long to learn how to walk (read/see/eat/ …) again?" "Where is my team? How are they doing? Will I make it back to them in Iraq?" "Will my dang leg be good to go at least for the next deployment?"

We can do it. Deal with it. But it is a heck of a lot easier when you are with a teammate.

That, my friends, is why the Marine Corps built the Wounded Warrior barracks at Camp Lejeune, N.C. You can see other wounded warriors, talk about your situation. With someone who gets it. Who knows why you are pissed. You aren't whining, complaining. You are pissed! I get that. So am I.

We appreciate the visits we get, believe me. The commandant of the Marine Corps stops by to see how you are doing. So does the sergeant major. Celebrities. The secretary of Defense. The vice president of the United States. Awesome.

But, we still wonder how the team is. How are they doing? When can I rejoin? That is OK. Because now we are coming together. At the barracks, Marines are working, they are hanging out together, eating together, sharing frustration together. All of this until they can be back on their original team.

As I tell wounded Marines who are checking in: I am just on the "B" team. But so are they. Either way, we still get to be Marines. Semper fidelis.​

And my response is:

Where do we get them?

 

[Annie]

and another:

via Blackfive:

http://www.blackfive.net/main/2006/03/duty.html

Duty

Cassandra says:

It's that time of year again, when young men, sound of mind and limb, worried that they may not be pulling their weight in a war that seems to be dragging on and on, form that age-old line down at the recruiters' office....

She thought she was joking, but unbeknownst to her, a little letter marked DON arrived at Doc Russia's house. Cassandra posts here sometimes, so you all must know her, but you may not all know Doc. You should, though, both because he's one of the original members of the MilBlogs ring, and because he's one of the best writers in the blogosphere. As this post indicates, he's also an honorable, patriotic man.

Drop by and see what he has to say.

http://bloodletting.blog-city.com/lingering_glances.htm

So, there I was, minding my own business. It was that special time that we all look forward to every month where we get to pay our bills. Okay, maybe not all of them, but each week, I pay those that I have received. It's the usual thing; you get a large stack of mail. Then you start sorting it. The junk mail is thrown in the trash, the obvious bills are put into one pile, the personal mail is put into another pile, and then there is the last pile, which is everything of unknown importance. You toss the junk, save the personal, pay the bills, and then you go through the last pile. Usually this last pile is junk. It has lately increased since around the match. I now have a whole lot of offers to consolidate loans, and take out credit cards. The former I look at, the latter I toss.

As I was saying, i was going through the piles of unknowns. I picked one up, and it had no return address other than the acronym "D.O.N."

So, I opened it up, and saw something I had not seen in a while. It was a congratulatory letter from the US Navy.

It went something like 'congrats on graduating, now all you have left is the experience of residency, and the student debt you've racked up, and while we can't help you with the former, boy, do we have a deal for you on the latter!'

This note then goes into all the pay and benefits that I can get from the Navy.

But the fact of the matter is that I can do math. Yes, I would get about $120,000 over the course of my residency if I were to sign on. Unfortunately, I would have to 'pay back' four years of service for that three year financial boon. That four years would likely amount to in excess of $400,000 of lost income. So, I would take an almost half million dollar hit in exchange for what? For years of being at the whim of the DON (Department Of the Navy)? For more long seperations from my wife? For having no control over where the Hell my family and I lived? Sounds like a swell deal, doesn't it. Instant trashcan fodder, right?

Absolutely.

And yet I find myself lingering upon it. Not because of the money. Not because of the medical and dental benefits. No, I find myself thinking about some damned fool urologist who managed to wake up in Fallujah one day. I think about how my old unit was the one that went into Al Firdos Square three years ago. I think about my sister who will likely be deployed there in the very near future. In short, I think about how I am not there.

And then I start to get mad. I have a beautiful and loving wife. I have a great future, with the assurances of a great income. I have already done my duty. I already had my butt out there on some godforsaken corner of dirt. I have all of these things, and I would have to be pretty stupid to want to push it all aside, and risk it all just for some misguided sense of honor or duty, or some other intangible that I cannot lay words upon. Yep, one would have to really be soft in the head to do that, I think to myself, as I try unconvincingly to laugh at it. But I am not laughing, and that's why I am mad; I must be the dumbest sunofabitch on the planet, because in the face of all of this overwhelming logic spelling out in fine detail why I should just toss it in the circular file, and never think about it again, I can't quite get myself to throw away a stupid piece of paper.

Respectfully Submitted,
-doc Russia