Lethal Minds Volume 11
Volume 11, Edition 1 01MAY2023
LETHAL MINDS JOURNAL
Lethal Minds Volume 11
Volume 11, Edition 1 01MAY2023
Letter from the Editor
In 2018, 70% of respondents polled by the Ronald Reagan Presidential Foundation and Institute said they had a “great deal” of trust and confidence in the military. Four years later, that number was 48%.That same year, only 33% of respondents had a “great deal of trust” in police and law enforcement, 16% in the Supreme Court and the presidency, and 9% each for “the media and Congress”. I’ll ignore my standing question about defining “the media” in 2023, as I expect the responses would say more about any respondent than it would “the media”. But that doesn’t change the fact that trust in our institutions is rapidly eroding in a nation already fractious by design. All internet comments about “sheeple” notwithstanding, I think that’s a bad thing.
Last month, I cited what I believe to be the role of serving servicemembers and veterans in society and called for calm in the face of relatively momentous events in our nation’s history. Now, I offer the notion that our nation is at another precipice, the loss of faith in the very things we’ve built to support 321 million people born into, or choosing to be part of, a continuing experiment in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I believe we owe a continuing duty to do our part to pull it back from the brink by restoring trust in our (substantial) corner of the institution.
That’s a simple statement of a stunningly complex task. We have no shortage of folks who claim to have simple answers for all of it. But I submit that, when complex issues are at hand, simple answers are generally either vacuous platitudes offered by vacuous people or calculated manipulation by demagogues who place their own interests foremost and disappear when there’s hard work to be done or blame to be assigned. So, let me be clear that I think we face deeply complex problems in America and I don’t have many, much less all, of the answers.
But there is one aspect of trust I believe we, the people who wore the cloth of the nation, can affect. Whether for four years or forty, your service to the nation means your words have gravity for your fellow Americans. Yes, even you, the “Monster-swilling, all-night gaming, fell out of movement to the chow hall, and had to be ordered to bathe before his squad leader took a scratch pad to him” guy; somebody back home thinks your thoughts matter because you have, or had, a uniform.
How you carry yourself, express yourself, and to what you give your support, matters to the people who trust that military service gave you something they lack. As evidence, witness the stunning amount of Inflated Resume Political Candidates, Professional Fake Veterans, and Social Media Alpha Influencers trading on little more than a visit to MEPS and a plate carrier. Whether deserved or not, and no matter how tarnished by the cynical undercurrent that seems to be a trademark of modern America, I believe we can restore some measure of trust afforded the uniformed services by remembering that we, the 1%, swore to serve the 99%, to concern ourselves with their welfare. And when our service is over, we rejoin them. We become the 99%, imbued with a heightened level of trust by our time in a more rarefied environment. We maintain that trust by paying credence to the fact that to do so, we raised our right hand in the air and swore an oath. That oath likely led to further oaths. It’s those oaths, and their violation, that concerns me at the moment.
I got a Top-Secret SCI clearance when I was twenty-two years old and kept it active through twenty-seven years as a Marine. With sixteen of those years in special operations, I signed further oaths; non-disclosure agreements, classified briefs, and program read-ons. From a purely practical standpoint, no one has to worry about me revealing much. I rarely understood the programs at the time I was exposed to them. I just signed the acknowledgement forms, promised not to tell anyone about the thing I didn’t actually know anything about, and then did my job, secure in my practical ignorance. But there are some things I remember. Those are safe too.
Because I gave my word.
That seems to be a passing concept in an America where “likes” are replacing substance as social capital; where dubiously earned fame is replacing earned respect, at least at the macro-societal level. Delivery systems for information are vast and likely beyond the effective control of any counterintelligence effort. And while I deeply admire the dedication shown by Tina and Jeff through years of music streaming warnings and blue sweater vests, I don’t think another computer-based training is going to solve the problem. So, I fall back on personal honor and the notion of not doing things I said I wouldn’t do. Ultimately, the question that resides with each of us is, how much is an oath worth? More pointedly, what is the value of your personal honor?
I believe it’s worth everything.
Lethal Minds Journal is nothing if not an exercise in trust. I call this experiment “The Voice of the Barracks”. We do not, and will not, presume to speak for “the community”. But we will always seek to offer a place for the community to make itself heard through thoughtful, substantiated, and evocative written and artistic efforts; to amplify the differing, and often challenging, voices of people in whom that trust resides. Your voice may now be hoarsened from shouting to be heard over the rattle of the guns, but at one point you loudly and clearly promised in unison that you, “...do solemnly swear that I will support and defend…” One way you can do that is by contributing your voice.
Trust us. Join us. Be us. I look forward to your thoughts and I thank you for them.
Submissions are open at lethalmindsjournal@gmail.com.
Fire for Effect.
Russell Worth Parker
Editor in Chief – Lethal Minds Journal
Dedicated to those who serve, those who have served, and those who paid the final price for their country.
Sponsors:
This month’s Journal is brought you to by PB Abbate, Fieldseats.com, and the Scuttlebutt Podcast.
As you likely know, Lethal Minds Journal shares common ancestry with Patrol Base Abbate, one of the most impactful veteran’s outreach organizations in America. One of the ways in which we connect is through a love of the written word, a belief in the power of good writing to help give a voice to people who need to be heard, and a desire to help service members and vets connect through self-expression. This summer, Sebastian Junger, award winning writer of War, Tribe, and Freedom (amongst others), will join the Patrol Base Abbate Book Club in Montana for their annual Return to Base Program. From June 22nd-26th, members of the Book Club will spend a few days discussing literature while they reconnect with nature and other veterans at Patrol Base Abbate’s PB in Thompson Falls, Montana. Details about eligibility are at https://www.pbabbate.org/rtb-application-0-0.
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Recent episodes include:
23. Rich Jordan on Empowering A Team
41. How to use Chapter 31 Veterans Readiness and Employment benefits with Max
51. What If My Passion Has Nothing To Do With What I'm Doing Now with Bill Kieffer
In This Issue
The Written Word
Taste of Cheap Tequila
The Most Horrible Day
Goodbye Grandpa
A Meal with an Iraqi Woman Named Yonita
The World Today
Cognitive Warfare
Opinion
State Secrets and a Shave
Poetry and Art
Restless
Who Came Home
The Written Word
Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.
Taste of Cheap Tequila - J.B. Stevens
J.B. Stevens lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. His war poetry collection The Explosion Takes Both Legs is scheduled to be a September 2023 release from Middle West Press. His short story collection A Therapeutic Death is available from Shotgun Honey Books. His pop poetry collection The Best of America Cannot Be Seen is available from Alien Buddha Press. For more info, and a free book, go to JB-Stevens.com.
The platoon sergeant barked at me to go to the staging area after chow, ready to roll, and I did, still smelling of fried food. The sky was the color of a plastic yard flamingo, and the air was full of sand. The pink reminded me of a girl I’d met at a strip club near Fort Benning. She was pure and ethereal and wore a gauzy rosé dress. When I thought of her, I tasted strawberries, but not in a sexual way. In an actual, physical, way—phantom juice, seeds, and fibrous flesh tickling my throat. I don’t know why this happened, but it did.
When I met her, she stabbed me with her breath, assaulting my ear as she laughed at my jokes and smiled and danced her fingertips on my burning forearm, each fingertip a jolt. My heart belonged to her that night, and I still think of her. I wonder if she thinks of me, or if I’m just another slack-faced shaved-head recruit with empty pockets. I know the answer, but I pretend I don’t. My friend Ramirez was with me that night, he’d bought me the first lap dance, followed by five shots of the club’s cheapest tequila. Eventually, I threw up between a Dodge Charger (flat black) and a late-model Mustang (red) and our night was over.
***
The staging area was full of men (boys) and vehicles. The company gathered around Lieutenant Landers and my heart existed as an open wound. I glanced inside the wound and it was dark and empty and desperate. An unloaded gun. The emptiness hurt, so I lifted my chin and waved at Ramirez. We made eye contact and I flipped him off. He looked left and right, then he grabbed his crotch, shook it, and blew me a kiss. My unoccupied hand joined its partner in dual one-finger salutes. Ramirez laughed. He walked over and punched my shoulder. The heart wound closed.
Ramirez pinched my right nipple through my shirt, and I yelped. The noise caught my Platoon Sergeant’s attention and he hit us with death eyes, and we giggled like middle schoolers.
Landers stood in front of us, tall and lean. “Tonight a special operations task force is taking out a high-value target in Sadr city. Simultaneously, we’re raiding a shirt factory associated with the HVT, searching for bomb-making materials using a dog.” Landers knife-hand-pointed towards Ramirez.
“Ram, you’re escort and protection.”
Ramirez saluted. “Woof woof.”
Landers dropped the hand. “Also, we got tanks covering our backs.”
***
The walk to the motor pool was as quiet as the North Georgia mountains after snow. Once we arrived, I jumped in my HMMWVs turret, behind my M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW). I looked at the gun truck in front of me and its gorgeous weapon, the 240B. I sighed and grasped the SAW and we rolled out.
***
Out on the Iraqi blacktop, cars got out of our way and people ducked into corners as we rolled by—death on wheels. My eyes narrowed and I scanned for bomb-hiding trash piles. As they appeared, I called them out. “Forty meters ahead on your left, two old tires and a dead mule.”
The driver jerked right and my heart rate spiked like an invisible hand had injected methamphetamine straight into the ventricle, but nothing exploded. We continued to the factory.
We parked one block over and the diesel engines ticked as they cooled. Landers got on the radio.
“This is Panther 5, we’re in position, y’all can get started.”
There was a flash and a chest-suck explosion two blocks east. Then the gunfire started. The special ops started their special things.
We drove the final block, parked, and dismounted our HMMWVs. My squad—very regular and not special—ran to the gate and stacked up to enter. Our team leader was on point, Sergeant was second, I was third, and our driver was fourth.
Landers got on the radio. “Tanks are set, hit the gate.”
The point man kicked the shitty metal entrance and it swung open. We flowed into a parking lot full of mortar craters and one burned-out white Toyota Hilux. There was always a Hilux—but not always burned-out. I smelled rotten meat wafting up from a garbage pile in the lot and the scent got in my mouth and I spit.
I looked across the lot and saw the factory. It was beige with a series of low windows. Everything in Iraq was beige and barren. The structure had three tall brick smokestacks, but no smoke.
We picked our way to the structure, heads on a swivel. The point man led us wide around the Hilux. My heart hammered against my ribs and visions of dying in a fireball bopped through my head.
Once close, we duck-walked low past windows to the door. The point man reached for the knob. My sergeant slapped away the reaching hand.
The sergeant got on the radio. “Door might be wired. We’re taking the glass.”
Landers got on the radio. “Fuck the glass. I’ll send a tank to punch through the wall.”
We floated back. From behind and to the left, a high-pitched wheeze started. I turned as the tank lumbered past like a drunken white elephant. It wheezed by my stack and its thick tube penetrated the wall. Brick crumbled and fell, and the tank pulled out. A plume of dust came and it got in my eyes. The tank was gone and as the dust settled, all that remained was a gaping empty void bathed in earth tones.
The tank commander popped out of the hatch and got on the radio. “That was fucking awesome.” Landers shot the guy a thumbs up. The guy waved at Landers and smiled. His teeth were straight and very white. He wore the same gold Citadel ring as Landers and they both sported smooth, unlined faces. Officers were a part of a club and I was on the outside looking in, but I didn’t want in. Most were pompous blowhards, and I was better off with Ramirez.
The point man stepped into the building and we followed.
The first two men broke left—the driver and I went right. I held the wall and scanned with my rifle, looking for people with guns, people holding detonating devices, suspicious trash piles, anything that gave me goose pimples, but there was nothing.
A cavernous factory opened before me, barren and taupe. The four of us marched forward in a straight line. My throat caught with every step. My ears rushed with the sound of blood, loud as a tornado. I went heel-toe, heel-toe, and my asshole puckered, and the twenty-meter walk was twenty miles.
We reached the far end and my throat and asshole relaxed and the tornado left. We found a set of metal stairs leading to an elevated room overlooking the workspace.
Sergeant got on the radio. “Ground floor’s clear, moving up to the second.”
He motioned and we glided up the stairs and the pucker returned.
Landers called across the radio, “Let’s get the dog in to start its search.”
My sergeant frowned and keyed his mic. “When y’all are crossing the lot, keep the dog away from that pile of rotten mea—”
The air was sucked out of my lungs. A boom came, but it was muted. The factory shook and dust fell from the rafters.
I turned and looked back, through the breach. There was smoke where the trash pile had been.
My mind flashed Ramirez.
I sprinted to the smoke. Second squad was already there. Pieces of the Hilux covered a body. My mouth went dry. Time slowed as I clawed and scraped and threw debris. I felt the Japanese steel slicing through my gloves and deep into my hands, but it was a logical realization and pain never registered.
Someone yelled, “I got one.” And I saw Ramirez’s face.
His mouth was slack, his skin was grey, and his eyes were closed. I held my fingers under his nose—no breath. I punched my bloody hand through the trash and found his neck. I felt for a pulse, but the pulse never came.
The wound in my heart grew to a size that could not be closed. The oxygen left and heat washed over me. Everything went white.
I opened my eyes. I was on my back looking up at a dark sky. Landers stood over me. His mouth was open and moving, but no noise made it to my brain. I saw his gold ring flash and he slapped my face. He gave me a thumbs-up. I returned the gesture.
He ran his hands up and down my body and showed me his hands. They were clean, no blood. I read his lips. Secondary IED. You’re good to fucking go. Get on your SAW. MEDEVAC’s inbound. Time to work. He squeezed my shoulder and knife-handed towards the perimeter, then he moved to the right. I looked over. My Sergeant was squeezing his left leg, the lower half was gone. Landers was hugging him.
I stood and moved to the perimeter and I got in my turret. I white-knuckled the SAW and hot tears cut through the grime on my cheeks.
My heart wound was as wide and dark as the Tallulah Gorge in January.
I closed my eyes and tried to recall the taste of cheap tequila, but the memory never came.
The Most Horrible Day - Carl Z.
Carl Zipperer was born and grew up in coastal Georgia. He served in the US Army many years ago as a warrant officer aviator. His enlistment included a one-year tour in Vietnam with the 176 Assault Helicopter Company from July 1970 to July 1971. Carl is part of the Brothers and Sisters Like These writing group, Charles George VAMC, Asheville, NC.
A Story About U.S. Army Warrant Officer Aviator Reginald David Cleve. Born August 2, 1947– died March 22, 1971
Reginald Cleve and I became friends soon after we met in July 1970. Reg, having about two more months in Vietnam than I, was a mentor, friend, and fellow helicopter pilot in the 176th Aviation Company (Assault Helicopter). We only knew each other briefly - a little less than nine months But I have never known anyone else for such a short time who became such a close friend or affected my life in such a dramatic way. During my tour in Vietnam, no one else kept me so grounded and focused on life rather than death. We were close as brothers and I loved him like one. We talked about the future when we got back to “the world,” as we said in those days. We agreed about what a beautiful country Vietnam was and what a great vacation spot it would be, were it not for all the booby traps. We planned all the things we would do together when we got back home.
Reg was an excellent pilot with a reassuring calmness about him even in the most difficult moments. He treated everyone with respect and expected others to do likewise or they would get gently, politely chided by him. We had fun times. We had trying times. He flew with an M3 submachine gun, known as a grease gun, which fired .45 caliber pistol ammo. This was a contraband weapon that he never got caught in possession of. I had a lot of .45 pistol ammo and, for fun, we sometimes would shoot that gun out the window of the helicopter over the ocean when flying along an open beach line.
Reg once had a hydraulics failure on short final while landing with a resupply load at a friendly position. There in the area of operation, there was no smooth surface on which to make a running landing, sliding in on the skids. Reg and his copilot had to wrestle the controls together to bring the aircraft to the ground. After successfully making this challenging landing with no slide-in, he asked his copilot, “Did I do okay?” He was a skilled but very modest pilot.
Some of my best memories of Reg are times spent with him, Jerry Penny, and Reg’s roommate Don West. The four of us were frequently together until Jerry and Don went home in December 1970. Then it was mostly just Reg and me who spent a lot of downtime together. I was wounded on New Year's Eve 1971. After a week in the 27th MASH, I was supposed to be transferred to a convalescent center for 30 days. I elected to forgo a month in the convalescent center because I wanted to stay in my room and be with the guys in my unit. For the first few weeks after I was wounded, I could barely walk. It was mostly Reg and my roommate Jeffery Thommen who went to the mess hall three times a day and got chow for me.
From January through March 1971, a large military force consisting of U.S. and South Vietnamese aviators supporting ARVN ground troops participated in an invasion of Laos mostly along Route 9 to Tchepone (Xépôn), Laos. This operation was known as Lam Son 719. The air invasion was conducted out of bases in northern South Vietnam at Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, Vandegrift, and Lang Vei. In January, unbeknownst to many of us in the 176th AHC, a large part of the 16th Combat Aviation Group slipped quietly up to Quang Tri City to fly under the command of the 101st Aviation Brigade. The 176th AHC remained behind in Chu Lai as the sole support for remaining Americal Division ground units and as reserve aviation assets for the Lam Son 719.
Despite intensive bombing by U.S. Air Force B-52s and Navy and Air Force fighter-bomber aircraft, the North Vietnamese Army still maintained significant numbers of anti-aircraft positions in the area. Numerous U.S. Army helicopters were shot down. So our company was called upon to send transport Hueys and Huey gunships to the Lam Son 719 battle area on two occasions in March, during the extraction of ARVN forces from Laos. During this time, I was on a medical profile which limited my daily flight hours, so I was working at night as an assistant operations officer.
For the second time in March, just before dark, our aircraft departed the Americal Division Chu Lai base bound for Quang Tri to participate in the ARVN extraction. It worked out that if everyone took a turn then no one would have to go more than one time. Unfortunately, there was one pilot who decided not to take a turn. This guy only had 54 days left in-country and that was his reason for refusing to go. That put the platoon leader in a spot because flying the extraction mission was supposed to be voluntary. Reg talked to the reluctant pilot. He realized that this man was in no mental condition to be flying such dangerous missions, and Reg knew from experience that could be a serious liability flying these missions which had killed so many helicopter crews. Reg went to the platoon leader and volunteered to go in his place. The reluctant pilot had 54 days left. Reg had 43.
Reg’s aircraft had a radio problem, and he didn’t want to go without having all three radios working. So the rest of the flight disappeared into the night sky without him. He was to catch up with the flight after the radio issue was resolved. Reg called me in operations and asked me to ride out to the flight line with the radio tech. When we arrived, the aircraft was running at flight idle. Reg climbed out and we stood at the nose of the Huey with the main rotor blades swishing overhead. He had asked me to come out for a specific reason. He told me that he had a premonition of his death and he was sure he was not coming back to Chu Lai alive. I told him to ignore that, but I couldn’t change his mind. He said that he wanted me to be his body escort. I told him that all that was not necessary because he WAS coming back. He insisted. I told him that if those were his wishes then he should give those instructions to the platoon leader so that they would be carried out. Reg said to me that if he was shot down and listed MIA, but I knew he was dead, I must write his wife Karen and tell her the truth. That evening, I agreed to do so, but at the time I had no clue how difficult it would be to accomplish.
On March 22, 1971, in Laos, Reg’s aircraft was hit at 5,000 feet by enemy AAA. The aircraft went down in flames trailing smoke and burned up after it hit the ground. The enemy ground fire was so intense that a rescue attempt was not allowed because so many helicopters were being shot down with crew members lost trying to rescue downed crews. Reg had been shot down and his fate and the fate of his crew were unknown.
The following is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to my parents on the day of the shoot-down of Reg' helicopter along Route 9 in Savannakhet Province, Laos.
March 22, 1971 Dear Folks,
We sent twelve birds and forty-eight people to Quang Tri for three days for the big extraction (Lam Son 719). My best friend (Reg Cleve) had to go and I'm worried about him. He has less than two months left. So far I don't think we've (176th AHC) even had any birds damaged. Of all the aircraft on the extraction the first day, thirty were damaged and six shot down with sixteen people (pilots and crew members) missing to dead.
I'd better close now. It's getting time to go to bed. Tell all the folks hello for me. I miss everyone. Thanks again for the package. Love, ---- 109 DAYS! DEROS-ETS
Before this letter was posted, I learned the fate of my friends who crewed UH-1H 68-18759.
Later, I returned to the letter that I thought was finished and added an addendum, and finally finished it. By then I was a changed person.
The remainder of the letter follows below.
I was just informed that the only true friend (Reg) that I have ever had along with his entire crew was hit with 37mm anti-aircraft fire and the ship exploded in midair. The crew chief was also a close friend of mine. He used to be my crew chief. Reg for some unknown reason asked me before he left to write his wife and be his body escort if he were killed. There isn't a body left as far as they
know. How can it be true? I loved him like a brother. This must be the most horrible day of my life.
A few days later I found a letter stuffed in my flight helmet. It was from Reg. He had written it before he left for Quang Tri. The letter contained the same instructions I had received that night of his departure. I didn’t think at first I could carry out his wish to write to his wife, but after Karen had been notified officially that Reg was missing in action I knew that I must follow his wishes. I was deeply troubled about how Karen would receive the message in my letter, so I wrote it as requested and enclosed the note Reg had written to me in hopes that she would not consider me to be some horribly insensitive nut case. Within a few months, the Army changed the classification of the crew of 759 from MIA to KIA BNR. But the question still remained unresolved for most of us who cared about him: Was he really dead? Was he a POW? The family got no closure, nor did I.
Reg’s wife Karen eventually remarried and went on with life, but she never forgot Reg. Unfortunately, she developed a debilitating terminal disease. When she was facing death in 2018, her family arranged for a military memorial service to be held on March 22. The families of Reg Cleve and Karen née Pingle arranged for two memorial services. One was a military ceremony to be held at Jefferson Barracks, MO, with Taps, a 21-gun salute, and an Army helicopter flyover. The other was to be held in Farmington, MO at the county courthouse on Saturday, March 24. Arrangements were made to have a news station helicopter fly over. The services were attended by both families and many of Reg’s hometown friends. 15 U.S. Army Aviators who served with Reg or in his unit attended. At the time it was 47 years after his shootdown in Laos.
– Aircraft commander Reg Cleve, pilot John Traver, crew chief Don Knutsen, and gunner Walter Hall – MIA KIA Body Not Recovered
To this day I cannot think about him, his death, his loss, or the effect of his loss on me, his family, and others who survived him, without having tears well up in my eyes. For many years I would sometimes just lose it and sob. Sometimes I still do.
Goodbye Grandpa - Christopher R Mendell Jr.
Christopher Mendell is an undergraduate student at Columbia University double majoring in Neuroscience and Creative Writing. Prior to that, he spent 8 years in the Army National Guard, 5 of which were spent as a member of the Honor Guard.
Crying in the limo behind the hearse, he reflected on the many conversations he and his grandfather had had about the military and service. It was his grandfather’s dream to be buried amongst his brothers- and sisters-in-arms, with a proper military sendoff. And in the culmination of his 86 years of life (literally spending his final day alive working – then picking his wife and grandchild up from the airport before succumbing to a heart attack 45 mins after his duty was complete), he got his wish.
At the age of 13, it was his first experience with death and his biggest comfort was the fact that REAL Marines were about to honor his grandfather. The real military he and his grandfather had discussed for years, and not some TV nonsense.
The only other thing that consoled him during that week-long stretch was Call of Duty: World at War… Because he got to play as U.S. Marines in WWII and felt like it was a way his grandfather was living on forever.
A soldier received the call over the radio. He’d been expecting it. The Marines had already been called to meet the hearse. Now it was his turn to play a role in the joint services honor guard.
The call from the radio filled the room. “Military trailer, this is dispatch.”
“Trailer, Dispatch go ahead”
“The Army is requested in Chapel D for Delta”
“Roger, Army on the way.”
The soldier walked to the closet and put on his uniform jacket – honor guard personnel aren’t allowed to sit in their jacket. He walked over to his partner to begin lint rolling each other.
“Look good? No wrinkles? Buttons straight? No lint?” he asked.
“Good,” his partner replied.
The soldier took a look in the mirror and put the ceremonial cap on, making sure not to touch the brim to avoid putting fingerprints on it. Everything needed to be perfect. The uniform needed to resemble a museum piece and, in that sense, the soldier was part Smithsonian conservator, keeping the uniform pristine despite being worn 7-days a week.
“Straps straight?” he asked.
“Good.”
They opened the trailer door and squeezed into their crisp white gloves, changed bi-weekly to keep them immaculate. They walk down the stairs and past the truck loaded with the day’s caskets awaiting the trip to their final resting place, and through the open-air groundskeeper office. Quick nods and short greetings to the groundskeepers were all that remained before the soldiers put on their ‘game face,’ locking it up, and becoming ceremonial. The flowers from the day’s ceremonies screamed their scents into the air, reinforcing the somber tone.
The soldiers walk in unison to the chapel, long practice allowing them to thoughtlessly walk in-step. They both think D for Delta and mentally run through the quirks of this particular chapel.
The limo and the hearse haven’t arrived yet. Riccardio’s down there awaiting the arrival of the family. The two soldiers do one more check of each other before taking their positions on the corners of the chapel to await the arrival of the casket.
Then finally, with a ghostly murmur the commands begin.
“Mission. Tighten up.”
The family is almost there.
“Honor Guard, attention… present… arms”
Both soldiers raised their white-gloved hands to salute the arriving hearse in unison.
The hearse pulled off to the left and the limo followed. The limo came to a stop and he watched as Grandpa’s flag draped coffin was removed from the hearse by men in overcoats.
More tears.
This is it, he realized. Why can’t they have just one more day together? Like the old days?
He felt like didn’t get to say, “Goodbye”. The last time they spoke was Christmas, two weeks prior. This wasn’t the same. The forever goodbye felt impersonal and painful, like the message would never reach its target.
The boy had expected to talk to him again soon, heck, he already had a birthday card ready for his grandfather’s 87th birthday despite the birthday being seven months away. Now it would never reach its recipient, perpetually waiting to be given in another life.
But wow, his grandpa would be proud of that flag draped over the casket. I hope you’re watching, Grandpa.
And the groundskeepers begin to walk the casket into the chapel.
By now, the lead soldier was looking out of the corner of his eye, while staring straight ahead at his partner, thinking, Once the casket reaches that curve, we will salute. The two soldiers knew this., It had been rehearsed and performed thousands of times, and didn't need to be spoken. The pursuit of perfection meant both partners were hyper aware of the next step.
Then a quick flash of white and red reached the curve.
“Present… arms.”
The casket rolled into the chapel, and was placed into position.
“Order… arms… ready… step”
Both soldiers marched from their positions and walked to opposite ends of the casket. Silence. Both kept their eyes straight and used their peripherals to identify hazards that could impede the impending flag fold.
Wow. Look at the real Marines ready to honor Grandpa. They looked great. Stoic. The best America has to offer.
The boy, with family and friends in tow, walked from the limo to the chapel, stepping off nearly in unison with the Marines. The figures surrounding the casket were blurred by his tears, but the Marines’ blurry perfection was breathtaking.
Upon arriving in the chapel, the family sat down, and the chapel caretaker delivered a ceremony of only a few words.
“On behalf of Calverton National Cemetery, we are sorry for your loss. At this time, we ask that you silence all cell phones for the playing of Taps and rendering of this nation’s colors by the United States Marine Corps.”
As the bugle played, those first notes pierced the heart.
Oh no. It’s real. He’s really gone. He’s not coming back.
With a concealed command, one soldier gave a thumbs up, hidden by the positioning of the casket, to signify it’s time to salute. In unison, both soldiers slowly raised their salute and the bugle played.
It would be about a minute of stone-faced saluting while Taps played in its entirety. Facing the grieving family, it was hard for the soldier not to take note of the faces in the audience. For the team leader, it was the perfect opportunity to take note of where the Next of Kin was sitting, so they knew where they had to walk to present the flag.
It was also a time to silently grieve with the family. The family’s pain, and their love for that brother or sister in arms was something that radiated from those seats to the standing, undemonstrative soldiers. This person was loved. They lived their life. Now, here we are at its completion, trusted to put an exclamation point on a life well lived.
Quickly, the soldier shut down intruding thoughts. Taps ended and there was a small pause. Ceremonially lowering the salute in unison.
Again, the soldiers paused. With long practiced motions they stepped to the head and foot of the casket. Wink. Grab the flag. Pop it open. Step to one side of the casket. Begin the flag fold. There was no room for error. There was no room for outside thoughts. There was only one chance to properly honor this veteran. Even the thousandth ceremony was conducted with the same unwavering attention as the first.
Flag fold finished, the soldiers checked it over, one saluted and marched off. The team leader stayed behind, held the flag, and marched over to the Next of Kin.
“On behalf of the president of the President of the United States…”
“… The United States Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag…”
More tears fell. This was the conclusion of his life. The ceremony was over. Grandpa can finally rest, but my pain has only just begun.
One day the boy hoped to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. But at this moment, he was only beginning to learn to navigate the feelings of grief and loss. It was hard to imagine a life without Grandpa, but that unspeakable idea was a macabre reality.
It’s a reality he’d never get over. He’d merely learn to live with it.
It was always emotional handing a flag off to a next of kin, but emotions were always cast aside. The speech was recited stoically. The flag was given to the next of kin. The team leader saluted the flag one final time and walked off. The walk out of the chapel was usually a time to silently reflect, pay respects to the family and the veteran that was just honored, and come to terms with the associated emotions.
On the way back to the trailer, the soldier caught up with the other and had some basic banter upon reaching the groundskeeper office.
“You see that kid in the audience? Gave me some déjà vu. He reminded me of myself, when we had my grandfather’s funeral here 8 years ago. When I was his age, I wanted to be a Marine like my grandfather! Somehow I joined the Army instead.”
A Meal with an Iraqi Woman Named Yonita - J.B. Stevens
J.B. Stevens lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. His war poetry collection The Explosion Takes Both Legs is scheduled to be a September 2023 release from Middle West Press. His short story collection A Therapeutic Death is available from Shotgun Honey Books. His pop poetry collection The Best of America Cannot Be Seen is available from Alien Buddha Press. For more info, and a free book, go to JB-Stevens.com.
There was a single gunshot in the distance and a thousand shots were a war and a single shot was a war crime. I wondered about the shot for a moment. Then I realized it didn’t matter and I didn’t care.
I stood outside the command tent, next to Sergeant Carver. She grunted often. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional—was trying to communicate? I didn’t say anything about the grunts because what can a person say about that?
The memory of Ramirez’s death came, and I tried to beat it back by focusing on the grunts, but I lost the fight. My soul was a homeless man in a blizzard. I wondered if everyone existed this way and were simply better actors than me. Or, maybe, the smart people went to college and their parents had money and they lived in nice houses and they didn’t have friends blow up in Iraq. Maybe they didn’t feel these things.
Then the heart squeeze came. I lived and he died and I’m feeling sorry for myself like a little bitch. I didn’t miss the others as much as Ramirez, and that made the pain worse. I should miss them equally and grieve them the same.
I looked around to distract myself. I watched Carver pull out a small white baggie. It said REDMAN on the side in bold crimson letters. There was a picture of an Indian with a feathered headdress.
I wondered if the picture was racist. I wasn’t sure. I have a hard time deciphering that kind of thing.
Carver opened the pouch and pulled out a brown mass. The wad smelled earthy and sweet. It overpowered the shit-roast smell from the burn barrels, for a moment. She placed the stuff in her right cheek and worked her jaw.
I liked dip, ground-up tobacco, a pinch in my lip. I’d never tried long-cut chewing tobacco, and I was bored.
I pointed at Carver’s pocket. “That chew?”
Carver looked at me like I was the dumbest kid in summer school. “Yeah.”
I nodded. “Never tried chew…”
She shrugged and said nothing.
The Islamic Call To Prayer wailed from a loudspeaker outside our base and Carver said nothing.
“Not many women chew,” I said. “How’d you get into it?”
A helicopter beat across the sky and Carver said nothing.
“I like dip,” I said.
A bomb exploded somewhere far off and Carver said nothing.
I waited.
Carver ignored me, played a Gameboy, and spit brown juice into beige sand.
I grew impatient. “Can I try some of your Redman chew?”
Carver lowered the Gameboy. “No.” She raised the Gameboy. She spit and clicked and ignored the world. I was jealous of her ability to zone out. I thought of Ramirez’s laugh.
I turned and glanced at the HMMVs in the motor pool, scarred and ragged. They were next to the Bradley Fighting Vehicles, sturdier, but their armor couldn’t stop the new explosively formed projectiles, so what’s the point? HMMWVs are more comfortable—smoother ride, better airflow. If I was going to die, I preferred to be comfortable.
I kind of wanted to die, go out in a blaze of glory, just to be done with it all… but not really… but maybe—I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to die as much as not deal with it all.
I was very tired of being alive.
But then the sound of Carver spitting brought me back to the surface and I stared at her. Her skin was tanning bed orange and her hair was a dry bleached blonde and she reminded me of Daisy Duke if Daisy Duke dabbled in meth and frowned every time she saw me… Even though this was the first time we’d met.
I shrugged and closed my eyes and let the nothing drift in, welcome.
***
A hand shook my left arm, and I opened my eyes.
Carver leaned in. “You ready to eat?” She flicked her chin to her right, towards the entrance of the olive-green command tent. A tattoo-faced Iraqi woman stood there, her skin was smooth and her eyes were wide and her face was symmetrical.
I walked over and held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Sergeant Douglas.”
She shook her head, not my hand. She looked at me and smiled. “I’m Yonita.”
I felt Carver’s glare on me, but Yonita and I never broke eye contact.
Carver stood. “I got to go take care of some shit. Douglas, can you handle this?”
“Sure, what do you need me to do?”
“Lieutenant said to take her to get chow, and then the gate. She’s done with her debrief. Also, he said she speaks good English.”
“Got it,” I said.
Carver left. My stomach bubbled.
***
We got to the chow tent. I pointed at the hole in the side. “A rocket made that.”
Yonita peaked up, nodded, and her face went back down.
I pointed at the restroom. “Do you need to use the facilities? Wash up? I’ll wait outside.”
“Yes.” She walked in and I waited.
After she came out, I led us to the trays. Lots of other Soldiers cut their eyes at us. The chow hall always had civilian women—American contractors, and Filipina cleaning ladies, and European reporters. No locals, ever.
Yonita raised her eyes to me. “They’re staring.”
“Yeah… Sorry.”
She looked back down. I tried to death-eye the gawkers, but it didn’t work and I gave up.
I grabbed a tray and handed it to her. “Do you like American food or Bangladeshi?”
“I know American… What do Bangladeshis eat?”
I pointed at the other chow line. “That.”
The corners of her eyes were crinkled. “You want to try it together?”
“I do.” My throat tightened.
I turned to Yonita. “You keep halal?”
She shook her head. “I’m Christian.”
“Cool.”
We stepped forward in the line. I felt their eyes but I didn’t care.
“Oh,” I said. “That guy you live with… He your dad?”
“No, my parents… My family is gone. That man is my father’s friend. He takes care of me.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Yonita said. “It is a hard place, a hard time.”
“I feel alone too,” I said.
“I didn’t say I felt alone.”
“I know… I shouldn’t assume.”
“But, I do.” She shrugged.
My stomach clenched. Yonita grinned and my heart filled. We got to the front. The server said something in his language. Yonita and I glanced at one another and laughed, for some reason it was hilarious. The server pointed a ladle at the different items.
“Do you know what you want?” I asked.
She shrugged and pointed at a yellow stew. I pointed at a brown one. The server smiled and said more words that I didn’t understand. Then he said, “Don’t worry, you like.”
He loaded our plates and put rice and flatbread next to the stews.
We took the meals and got cups of water. We sat at a table by ourselves.
I ate a spoonful of the brown stew. It was good, but I couldn’t place the flavor.
“So why’d you come to the base?” I asked.
“I wanted to tell your officer about the bombs,” She said. “The one from the shirt factory.”
My heart rate jumped and thought of Ramirez’s death. “You know about them?”
“Everyone does,” Yonita said. “No one talks because they’re afraid.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes. I am afraid.” Yonita took a bite of the yellow stew. “This is good.”
“If you’re frightened, why did you come?”
“The people that took my family are turning Iraq into something she is not. Have you seen photos of Baghdad in the 70s?”
“No… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of Baghdad, not even a modern one.”
She frowned. “See, you don’t care, and the bombmakers from Iran don’t care. The only people that care are the people stuck here, and we will still be here when you all leave.”
Her frown cut my heart. “I care. How’d you learn English?”
“Films.” She looked at me.
We made eye contact and my soul shifted.
We stopped talking about the empty things and I moved to the surface things, which are secretly the more important things because they distract from the pain.
“Have you seen Caddyshack?” I asked. “That is the most honest movie about American society.”
“No, never,” Yonita said.
“What about Dazed and Confused?”
“Yes.”
“That’s accurate, but real Americans are uglier and sadder. Hollywood makes everything appear better than it really is.”
“How?”
“In real America, no regular person has enough money, and everyone works all the time just to keep their health insurance. Then you retire at sixty-seven and have two or three good, restful years, and then you die.”
“Here you die at twenty, from a bullet…” Yonita said.
“Tell me about your life.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You want to know?”
“That’s why I asked.”
“My mother and father are gone. I don’t know where—I don’t know what happened. One day they existed and the next they were a memory. Our neighbor took me in.”
“That’s good.”
“We are Assyrian Christians and I suppose that is why my parents disappeared. I pretend to be Sunni now.”
“What about the old man and living with him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What about it?”
My neck got hot, and my arms pricked up. “Nothing. What do you call a three-humped camel?”
Her eyes relaxed. “What?”
“Pregnant.”
She laughed and a candle lit in my belly and I turned warm all over.
***
After we ate, I took her to the gate. The air still smelled of burn barrels roasting human refuse, but I didn’t mind. We stood in the shade of a guard tower. Yonita pulled out a phone and made a call.
After she hung up, she turned to me. “I have to go now.”
Care was still in my heart. “Okay.”
I wanted to hug her, but that wasn’t how the Iraqis did things, so I nodded.
She looked at me. “I hope I see you again.”
I swallowed. “Me too.”
She left. I walked back to my housing unit and got in bed. I still missed Ramirez and my cheating ex. But the pain was dulled.
Cotton wrapped my hurt and it was warm but soft, and that was better, and that was different.
The World Today
In depth analysis and journalism to educate the warfighter on the most important issues around the world today.
Cognitive Warfare: The Final Frontier, Part I - Jason Wang
NATO ACT, Communications – Navanti, Account Manager – Johns Hopkins Public Health, Toxicology and Human Risk. Views and opinions in this article represent my own and do not represent any official views of NATO or any other entities.
Imagine if TikTok or Instagram collected data that showed a certain subject of content or formats of video resulted in more addictive usage, or maybe less control of user preference. In the hands of a company focused on the shareholder, this would be a huge exploitation point: sell more product, make more profit!
But, let’s say there was another incentive – degradation of a nation’s productivity, degradation of a culture’s peace, etc. If a government entity, embedded in a private company, could mask its intentions of warfare, it could continuously attack its enemies without detection. That attack would extend well beyond any kinetic arena, reaching all layers of civil and military populations. Lower the overall productivity of an adversary, decay the mental resilience of its people, etc.
To start, there is plenty of discussion surrounding six domains of warfare: sea (both surface and subsurface), air, land (and underground), space, and cyberspace. For this three-part series, I ask that you consider the mind, in its entirety, as the seventh, and perhaps final, domain of warfare.
For most of human civilization, literacy rates were barely in the double digits – luckily, the modern battle drill (like 1A and some of its historic predecessors) requires little Shakespearean forte to execute. This remains true; with the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the world has witnessed the resurfacing of modified trench warfare. Front line trace bombardment and drone probing/signal intelligence, followed by small-unit reconnaissance with follow-on support; higher-tech, same meat grinder.
There is, however, another front of engagement that is happening, one that is below the detection threshold for many. It is the steady degradation of cognitive function, including all aspects of intellectual function, sub-conscious understandings, and emotional regulations. Combined, these cognitive pathways are responsible for almost all human decision making.
Cognitive Warfare: activities conducted in synchronization with other efforts of warfare, affecting attitudes, behaviors, and cognition of an individual or group, resulting in some change. These activities vary greatly yet are surprisingly easy to identify once the intention is clarified.
For my knuckle-draggers, fear not; I will explain this to you the same simplified way I explained this to my beloved partner forces.
Suppose I want to hurt someone; I can hit them with my fists, or I can hit their family with my fists. I can insult them, their friends, or their loved ones. But perhaps worst of all, is for me to take away all that makes them feel good, so that they are in a constant state of pain. Here is an example of how to understand this concept.
Let’s say you are a friendly cow farmer, and your neighbor, Gyna, who owns a bat farm, is being a clown. He is shitting on your lawn, cursing at your children, and bad mouthing you to the rest of the neighborhood. This neighborhood that you live in has written and fixed laws, but in practice, the only practical laws are the ones that can be enforced…something about carrying a big stick.
There is a simple, kinetic solution for this, one that I need not describe here in detail. You can imagine that to be a traditional domain engagement: a kinetic attack, perhaps strategically tipping over his nifty ceramic grill in the backyard. Even better, a rusty nail in a tire. I am not encouraging violence as a solution for whatever bullshit you have going on in your life, only educating you on the endless possibilities.
Consider this: now, you own the neighborhood newspaper. Every week, there is material in the paper to start convincing the neighbors that Gyna, along with his bat farm, is shit. This is also simple enough and dabbles into the cognitive warfare realm; information and psychological operations, many of you are familiar with this to some extent.
Let’s take it one step further: Gyna, who is now furious from both the embarrassment and the loss of grilling capabilities, decides to wage a cognitive warfare campaign on you. He knows that there is no possible way that he would win in a real, physical fight; he has neither the aptitude, the capability, nor the support from the neighborhood to make any meaningful impact on you in a kinetic engagement (we will discuss nuclear capabilities in a separate discussion).
Now, Gyna begins a slow and steady process; he smiles at your kids, but asks them suggestive questions when you are not nearby: “Why does your family like to abuse cows?” He offers to clean his shit off your lawn but leaves bat droppings that make your cows sick. He leaves gifts with all the neighbors, only to find that the gifts are propositions that you harbor sick cows and intend to poison others.
At this point, you probably have even more questions: I wish I had more answers. An example in practice: Despite the TikTok data concerns, the REAL concern is the weaponization of human-behavior patterns. Modern humans are now spending upwards of 25% of every day in front of a screen. We will explore Cognitive Warfare more in the next series. Here is another read that highlights more on the topic.
Opinion
Op Eds and general thought pieces meant to spark conversation and introspection.
State Secrets and a Shave - Benjamin Van Horrick
Benjamin Van Horrick is a Marine stationed in Okinawa, Japan.
What happens when the infamous becomes all too familiar? Every service member receives an annual briefing on Counterintelligence. The Department of Defense (DoD) produced video lacks production value, but the star of the show makes the film. The infamous, not famous, take center stage. Seated in front of a white cinder block wall, the star appears. Clad in a brown cotton top, a service member with a round, plump face recalls attempting to sell state secrets to an agent of the People’s Republic of China. The viewing audience chuckles as the offender tells of his crimes and motives. By selling state secrets he attempted to pay off his debts from gambling losses and procuring sex workers. The offender was Bryan Martin, now serving a decades long sentence. But for me Bryan Martin was not just a felon.
He was my barber.
Vanity necessitated my encounter with Bryan Martin. Haircuts for Marines are a weekly ritual. Like attending church decades before, the weekly haircut casts away the errant and excess. Other services view the Marines reverence for haircuts with puzzlement and derision. Haircuts keep Marines appearance kemp, restores order, and displays respect, both for the Corps and oneself. What the weekly haircut conveys to other services is the aura of superiority the Marines carry. Some call it swagger, others call it arrogance. Call it what you please, but a Marine’s hair is clean and neat. As a Marine living on an Army base, the search for a barber yielded poor haircuts and wasted time.
One day a peer told me, “Go see the inmates.” This is how I met Bryan Martin the Barber.
Bryan Martin’s career as a sailor started with promise and ended in infamy. The Navy selected Martin to become an intelligence specialist, taking Martin to the Joint Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The high-profile assignment could not save Martin from his vices — gambling and sex workers. Martin ran short of money and options. With access to the most sensitive intelligence material, Martin set up a sale with a supposed People's Republic of China agent. The deal did not occur in a foreign capital or exotic locale but at a Hampton Inn outside Fort Bragg. Bryan Martin believed he was establishing a relationship with a representative of the Chinese government. He was meeting with an undercover FBI agent who recorded the transaction. During the Counterintelligence class, the viewer sees the sting footage. Martin's slow, methodical, friendly voice emphasized how he planned to remain in the Navy for decades. This transaction would become a relationship between a provider and a client.
Bryan Martin was not unlike other young sailors. He was broke. Gambling and sex workers drained his funds. After getting engaged, Bryan needed money, and fast. His role as an intelligence analyst at the Joint Special Operations Command offered him access to America’s most sensitive documents. After losing his last one thousand dollars playing cards, Bryan hatched a plan to remedy his financial situation: sell intelligence documents to a Chinese agent. However, the transaction was not a one off. Rather, Bryan Martin wanted a long career in the Navy. In his mind, Martin was entering into a long relationship with the Chinese agent. Much like a business relationship between a barber and a client.
A service demanded.
A service rendered.
A completed transaction.
As federal agents burst into the room, Bryan complies. A wave of resignation and relief comes over his face. No more lies. No more running. The schemes hatched, plans devised, and tales told to others to mask his failures now ends. Bryan Martin does not get a high-speed chase or violent death at the hands of those who pursued him to place a spectacular coda on his double life. Rather, Bryan Martin has his hands bound behind his back in a Hampton Inn in Fayetteville. He compromised his integrity and country, now placing an end to his string of lies and his freedom.
Martin's manner is familiar in the surveillance video -- when I first sat in his barber chair, he offered a service I demanded.
But I needed a skin fade, not state secrets.
Each haircut Brian conducted became a performance. The application of piping hot towels was a prelude to the crescendo. After shaving down the sides and back of my side head, Brian prepared three hot towels. In an act of trust, before applying the towels, Brian announced for the entire barber shop:
‘Hot Towel!’
The warning served as an invitation. Brian let me know I would receive a shock of heat. He, a convicted felon, acknowledged he would now place his hand on the side of my head leaving me little means for defending myself. With your freedom gone and your honor sold, applying a hot towel to a stranger’s head means a great deal to an inmate barber. The hot towel meant regaining trust, if only for a few moments, allowing Brian to recapture a portion of what he gave away.
A more precise measure of a person is when they lose their honor and how one attempts to regain what they have lost. Bryan’s crime and sentence offers him an opportunity. I cannot speak to his conduct in prison, but I surmise his behavior afforded him the chance to gain a barber’s licensing. But the new craft comes with pressure. The pressure to perform and comply. In the process, Bryan began his transformation from traitor to talented barber.
As I rode my bike home the last time past the barber shop, Brian and his fellow barber stood in front enjoying the late summer day. These men do not run or attempt to escape. Each barber stood fixed in a purgatory between incarceration and freedom. Each looked upon a neighborhood full of kids, offering a taste of normalcy that their craft afforded them. Though the barbers have nowhere to go, but they do have a purpose. A craft is pursuit without an end point, giving them satisfaction and worth. A good haircut is a good haircut, no matter the barber’s rap sheet.
Poetry and Art
Poetry and art from the warfighting community.
Restless - Douglas Patteson
Doug is a former CIA case officer who now teaches and writes on the intelligence world. He enjoys living in northern New England where he and his wife (also a fmr CIA officer) raised their family of 4 on a small farm. He passionately believes in the mission of the IC and knows we need our best and brightest to take up the challenge of combating future threats.
In darkness
To sleep? To rest?
Perchance to dream?
No
For it is in dreams
Where the demons of self-doubt
And fear fight for control of the mind’s
battlefield.
And we die again and again.
There is little rest there
O sweet rest
Where is your succor from these torments?
Who Came Home - Allen Utterbeck
I did and did not come home. I left South Carolina to go to Kentucky, Korea, Kansas, and Iraq. I left sweat, blood, love, hate, and hard work.
Fragments of myself in every location replaced with pieces of them, carried to present day. Who came home?
A jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces over the years. Concrete skin with little to no emotions.
A sunk pebble eroding in a creek with a blurred vision of the changing yet unchanging world.
——————————
This ends Volume 11, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01MAY2023)
The window is now open for Lethal Minds’ twelfth volume, releasing June 1st, 2023.
All art and picture submissions are due as PDFs or JPEG files to our email by midnight on 20 May.
All written submissions are due as 12 point font, double spaced, Word documents to our email by midnight on 20 May.
lethalmindsjournal@gmail.com
Special thanks to the volunteers and team that made this journal possible:
What do you see as the difference between Information Warfare(IW) and Cognitive Warfare(CW)? Are they just different names or is there any substantive differences other than the PLA calling IW CW?