Lethal Minds Volume 14

Volume 14, Edition 1 01AUGUST2023

LETHAL MINDS JOURNAL

Lethal Minds Volume 14

Volume 14, Edition 1 01AUGUST2023

Letter from the Editor

Chris is a high school science teacher. Clint shapes surfboards. John works for the Marine Corps. I write for a living. It wasn’t always that way. There were times in other places when I could not imagine a day like today, a day when I could not imagine not being in a place where time seemed to revolve rather than progress linearly. But it’s not those times and it’s not those places. It’s now and we’re here and I am happy.

Middle age is a harsh master. Looking across the lineup, we’re all carrying fifteen pounds that would have horrified us once upon a time. I expect part of each of us still is. I don’t know how we couldn’t be; we were each that other thing for so long. But the waves are peeling left and the breeze is light out of the north. The sun is coming up hot, but right now it’s just warm on my back, and good men I knew as brave boys are around me, and the thing Clint calls “salt therapy” is working better than anything else. 

Still, sitting astride foam and fiberglass, focused on the horizon and rolling with the Atlantic, I look at Chris and think about a night when I wondered if I would see the next one. As I contemplated stars over the desert, a silhouette leaned down to whisper in a surfer’s drawl, “Hey boss, you good?”. Corpsmen take care of their Marines. Now he says, “Hey, if your ankle is too messed up to get it in place, just ride that thing on your knees. It’s still surfing.”

Clint and I just met today, but we’re already talking about paddling out together as soon as possible. We have people in common, we have stories about jumping out of aircraft in flight. We shake hands and exchange numbers. We’re all smiles and I ask, roundabout, what it would take to make a custom board for my kid. Later we’ll text each other about how stoked we are to have met. 

John is one of my best friends in this world. We ran a few miles together before I paddled out. If you totaled up the miles we’ve run together, it would at least get us from this North Carolina break to a California surf spot. John has to get to work, so he isn’t surfing. But the pull of membership in the crew is as strong as the current pushing us north, so he swam out using the same sidestroke that made him the honor grad at Marine Combatant Dive School. He floats on his back and chats with us, cooling down, then puts his head down and makes for the beach to put on work clothes. It’s a far cry from a rooftop in Najaf.

I’m lost in the kind of memories you make over decades when I hear Chris say, “Turn! Turn! This one’s all you!”. I spin and Clint is yelling “Paddle! Paddle hard!”. Then the wave picks me up, and I’m paddling, pawing back water as hard as I can. I’m up and surfing. It’s not pretty but the wave is moving and so am I, if not in symphony, at least in the same direction, and from behind me I hear, “YEEEEEEEEEW!” and that’s enough. 

It’s enough to be part of a good team. 

If you’re lucky, someday will become today. I know veterans for whom that is a problem; vets who can’t let go. They perceive color fading from their current lives as their memories seem to get ever brighter. It’s a dangerous condition to which none of us are immune. Thinking back to those moments when the march of time seemed suspended— as if today was all there ever was or ever would be — I feel it pulling me like an anchor straining against a tide. But that was a survival mechanism for then. I don’t need it now. 

Maintaining connections to the best aspects of “used to be” is a critical factor in a happy, healthy life after it gets turned up to eleven for what may be decades, but there are so many amazing aspects to the here and now. Our writers this month make that clear. 

Read Forgiveness and Permission, Miles Lourenco’s story of making friends and embracing the suck. Read Cora Reichert’s Dancing the Bachata in a (Former) Warzone. Read Eric Strand’s editorial 12 Missing Names. Happy people can see the past, live in the present, and work for the future. You can too. Join us. 

Fire for Effect.

Russell Worth Parker

Editor in Chief – Lethal Minds Journal

Submissions are open at lethalmindsjournal@gmail.com.

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 Fieldseats.com and the Scuttlebutt Podcast.

Fieldseats.com is an e-commerce federally licensed firearms dealer. They provide virtual reviews on brand new firearms, optics, and gear where at the end of the review they give away the item being reviewed to an attendee!

Currently, they’ve got Reviews up ranging from $20 for a brand new Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 2.0 to $60 for a new Trijicon ACOG with RMR. Each review has limited seating so your chances of winning the giveaway are that much higher!

Check out fieldseats.com to purchase your Reviews and enter to win the item being reviewed and use code “LETHALMINDS” to get 10% off your order. Be sure to also check out their Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube @field_seats for updates on products and other tips and info!

Use code “LETHALMINDS” to receive 10% off your entire purchase at fieldseats.com! Terms and conditions apply.

Be sure to also check out their Instagram and Twitter @field_seats

The Scuttlebutt Podcast is a free podcast and newsletter covering how to help you succeed outside of military service.

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

Across the Force

Effective Suppression

Opinion

How Did I Get Here

12 Missing Names

Poetry and Art

Dancing the Bachata in a (Former) Warzone

Lessons from a Hangman

Land Ho

Untitled

World Today

Cognitive Warfare Part III

The Written Word

Ambushed

Forgiveness and Permission

Somewhere to Put it Down

Across the Force

Written work on the profession of arms. Lessons learned, conversations on doctrine, and mission analysis from all ranks.

Effective Suppression - Heavily Suppressed

The King of Battle - Properly referred to, Artillery is one of the greatest forces employed in combat. In this piece, we’ll dive into the basic differences in philosophy between the US and the Russian military, including their heavy emphasis on massed Multiple Launch Rocket Systems compared to our preference for Precision Guided Munitions. 

American artillery operates on simple, risk-averse principles. A standard cannon battery, composed of a Fire Direction Center controlling between six to eight cannons on a gunline, typically receives a call for fire from a given echelon of the Fire Support Team integrated within an Infantry unit. The Fire Support Team is wholly dedicated to tracking both the positions of the friendly units within their sphere of influence, and also the positions of possible or known targets beyond their unit. Precision is critical, and a litany of cross-checks ensure the least possible risk of friendly fire between numerous fire support assets. Artillery is one piece of the puzzle at their disposal, in addition to various calibers of mortar assets and any number of air support assets above and around them. 

At the battery position, the Fire Direction Center employs a similar litany of references and safety backstops to ensure that the rounds leaving their position are calibrated to reach their target as precisely as possible. The gunline follows their own safety procedures, with section chiefs of each gun carefully balancing an appropriate attention to verification and detail with the need to expend their ammunition in time for it to make a difference for the grunts downrange. When done correctly, it is a beautiful synchronization of hard-hitting munitions paving the way for an advancing platoon, or salvation in the form of punishing hail forcing an attacking enemy to slow their approach. 

The American attitude towards employing fire support is carefully curated through brutal lessons learned in past conflicts, and the margin for error is slight. Any given member of the team, whether embedded with the grunts or emplaceing on the gunline, is never more than one significant blunder away from finding themselves unemployed or worse. Although recent blue-on-blue incidents primarily relate to air support, accidents such as the 2,000lb GBU dropped on friendlies at Qala-i-Jangi, permeate the entire world of fire support with a justified fear of what can go wrong when target coordinates, or gunnery fundamentals receive less care than they deserve, permeate the entire world of fire support. Rounds are fired to create a desired effect on a specific enemy unit, and fires intended for ancillary purposes, like marking or screening, require the same level of accuracy for maneuvering units to leverage effectively. 

The Global War on Terror saw the rise of the ultimate form of pinpoint artillery in, Precision Guided rounds like the Excalibur. They are remarkable in both accuracy and cost, with a Circular Error Probable of a mere four meters at $68,000 per round (for reference, an unguided 155m round comes in at slightly less than $1,000). Obviously not limited to cannon artillery, other forms of fire support are capable of similar or better precision, such as a $168,000 rocket fired from a HIMARS launcher. What leads to the massive difference in attitudes compared to Russian fire support fundamentals? 

The most basic difference is familiar to anyone who studies fire support. Western doctrine dictates that fires support maneuver elements, while Russian maneuver often supports fires. Using Artillery as the main effort of an offensive or defensive plan requires that the artillery be capable of affecting large swaths of territory, whether that be for lethal, suppressive or area denial effects. It also requires that their artillery responds as quickly as possible to calls for fire. While this is also a goal of Western artillery, it pales in priority to deconfliction and accuracy. 

To make this happen, Russian doctrine has developed and emphasized various ways to mass fires and speed up response times. First and foremost among these is their significant investment in multiple-launch rocket systems (MLRS). These systems are capable of delivering a large amount of ordnance to a broad area in a relatively short time, making them ideal for rapid response or for overwhelming enemy positions. In comparison to the expensive precision-guided munitions favored by American artillery, these rockets are relatively cheap, allowing for larger volumes of fire. 

A critical part of this approach is the ability to quickly identify targets and bring fire to bear. This is accomplished through a combination of pre-planned targets and the extensive use of aerial observation platforms. Unlike the American approach, which often relies on a single observer integrated with a maneuver elements, the Russian approach uses multiple observers, - often airborne, - to track enemy movements and adjust fires. The most well-known system from recent conflicts is the Orlan-10, a parachute-retrieved drone that operates in groups of three. Often with these groups, the lowest altitude drone detects targets, the middle drone acquires coordinates, and the highest drone retransmits this data to a central controlling agency. While the US uses aerial observers as well, they are highly centralized through Fire Support Teams and used as an extension of individual eyes when employed near friendly ground troops. Even platforms like predator drones are simply not used for area-saturation missions by cannon units. 

At the same time, safety procedures and checks are less rigorous in the Russian Army than in the U.S. artillery system. While this might lead to a greater risk of friendly fire incidents, it also reduces the amount of time it takes to initiate and adjust fire missions. This, in turn, increases the responsiveness of the artillery, allowing it to keep pace with the rapid tempo of Russian warfare. Any attentive observer will note the drastic reduction in accuracy and effectiveness of individual salvos, a reduction that commanders simply do not see as a hindrance. 

One might question the efficacy of the Russian approach in an era dominated by precision-guided munitions and concerns about collateral damage. However, it’s necessary to consider the Russian logistics situation compared to the US, specifically in Eastern Europe. Its potential adversaries are often located along its immediate borders (UKR), reducing the strategic and logistical constraints that might otherwise limit the use of massed artillery. One

must not forget the massive train movements within Russian borders that preempted the invasion of Ukraine. Moreover, the Russian military is less concerned about collateral damage and international public opinion than the U.S. military, exemplified by its conduct of fires in Ukraine. 

In conclusion, while the U.S. and Russian artillery doctrines appear to be diametrically opposed in many respects, they are both natural evolutions of their military schools of thought. As technology continues to evolve and the nature of warfare continues to change, our community must pay attention to how these doctrines adapt and whether the gap between precision and massed fires narrows or widens. While the US seems to be doubling down on precision at range with new systems like the Precision Strike Missile (PrSM), it is always working to shorten the kill chain between observer and firing agency through digital means in order to reduce vulnerability to tactics employed by our adversaries. Time will tell.

Opinion

Op Eds and general thought pieces meant to spark conversation and introspection.

How did I get here? - Nick Orton

If you had told me that eight years into my Army career I would be the author of two books and the admin of an Instagram page of over 102,000 followers focused on the niche topic of “military paranormal encounters”… I’d have asked to have a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking. 

And yet here I am. Truth be told, if you asked me how Tales From The Grid Square got started, I'd tell you that like all good ideas it started after a couple of drinks.  Six beers and a random idea helped start a “paranormal military” Instagram page. 

To be honest I’ve always been fascinated with the topic of the paranormal, and the search for answers that aren’t as clear cut as we would like. I couldn't get enough of it as a kid! I had a mountain of books on every subject from Sasquatch, UFOs, lost treasure, and any related niche subject I could find. I would watch every marathon of the X-Files on the SciFi Channel and didn't mind when the History Channel decided to go the whole “aliens did it” route. As I grew so did my interest in these subjects and the ability to research them. I was part of the generation that first was able to dive into the internet, quite literally overwhelmed with the wealth of knowledge at my fingertips. I spent many a night perusing YouTube, Reddit’s rNoSleep, and 4Chan’s /x/ to scratch this itch. 

Fast forward to the first weeks of Covid, I found myself stumbling upon a weekly event that helped pass the lockdown time. It was hosted by two “Mil Meme” pages (@not.a.jtac and @saltykilo) where they were posting DMs on their Instagram stories by servicemembers who had supernatural experiences. I was fascinated by what I was reading, and some of those stories were shockingly unique and authentic. 

Then in 2021, I attended a rotation to the infamous Joint Readiness Training Center (JRTC). It was there that my fellow Soldiers and I had some strange experiences that felt more than just “part of the scenario.” I started researching and asking around. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Fort Polk is semi-infamous location for having strange activities and events occur. Even stranger, I found accounts and stories going back decades of hauntings, UFOs, Bigfoot, and even Dogman. This got me thinking about all the stories that had been told to me, those weird tales that get whispered at the smoke pit, or during a late night on staff duty, or between bored soldiers in the field. 

More importantly, it got me thinking about my own life and time in service. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I had some weird stories myself, stories that I had packed away in my mind because I had more important things to worry about at the moment. At some point, after six beers, Tales From The Grid Square (TFTG) was born.

Now TFTG didn't grow on its own, in fact I had a lot of help from the “Mil Meme” community. TFTG is a grassroots movement at heart, it's grown by word of mouth and by those who want to be a part of it. TFTG didn't really kick off until I was introduced on the Sasquatch Chronicles Podcast and The Confessionals Podcast.  The stage offered by those two incredibly successful shows helped TFTG gain a cult following and the momentum to grow… and keep on growing. 

I decided I wanted to use this project as my own weird way to elevate veteran voices, to tell the stories that many struggle to tell. Then a chance connection with Nick Laidlaw of Battles And Beers got me turned onto the idea: I should create a book. Taking inspiration from his book What The War Did To Us and mentorship from Laidlaw himself, I created the first volume in a TFTG series in May of 2022. One year later in May of 2023, I came out with a second volume. Over 500 stories from military members across the armed services and the world documented on paper for everyone to see. 

Creating two books has ignited a love of writing within me, which I find cathartic and invigorating. TFTG has made me realize that I have a creative side worth fostering. I’m currently working on some fiction works inspired by the page, and poetry on the side. I have written articles for The Lethal Minds Journal, Pop Smoke Media, American Grit, The Havok Journal, and The Mission Essential Gear Co Blog. Through TFTG I connected with one of my favorite authors, William Bolyard (Sober Man's Thoughts), who I now consider a mentor and a good friend; and I am a contributing writer for his project Dirtbag Magazine. 

What’s next for Tales From The Grid Square? I really can't say for certain, but I know I’ll keep having fun with it. I decided from day one that I was going to have fun running this project, and I still am. I’m still active duty, and a member of the US Army. It’s hard to know what the future will hold for my career and the project. But what I do know is that I will still be searching for all the weird, strange events that haunt service members across the globe.

12 Missing Names: Bridging a Gap on the GWOT Memorial - Eric Strand- Director of the War Murals Project

Eric served in the Minnesota Army National Guard and US Army Finance Corps as a disbursing manager and now works in supply chain planning. A lover of history, he founded The War Murals Project while deployed in 2019 as an initiative to preserve and share the art and graffiti created by US and coalition troops during the GWOT and works to document the forgotten and overlooked history of the conflict. He can be reached through the Instagram account @warmurals or email: warmurals@gmail.com.

Centered around a 13-foot steel beam taken from the wreckage of the World Trade Center, the names of over 7,000 Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen who gave their lives make up the Global War On Terrorism (GWOT) Memorial at the National Infantry Museum at Fort Moore , Georgia stands to honor the sacrifices of those that gave their lives for our nation. After 3 years of planning and 2 million dollars in fundraising, the memorial was dedicated on September 11th, 2017. It is rededicated every year, when the names of those who died while in the Global War on Terrorism theater of operations, or as the result of wounds and injuries suffered therein, are added to the memorial. While a scattering of other public GWOT memorials exist across the country, the Memorial at the National Infantry Museum will remain the most significant memorial dedicated to America’s longest war, until the National GWOT Memorial planned at the Washington Mall can be completed at least 4 years and 100 million dollars from now.

750 miles to the west is another powerful but overlooked monument to the sacrifices of the GWOT. The Fort Hood Fallen Warriors Memorial outside the post at the Killeen Civic Center in Texas was dedicated on the 7th anniversary of the November 5th, 2009 shooting that took the lives of 13 soldiers and civilians and wounded 30 others.. There you will find engraved stones listing the names of those killed and wounded  at the base’s Soldier Readiness Processing Center who were going through medical processing after their deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, or were just weeks away from going to those combat zones themselves. At the time, the tragedy was the deadliest mass shooting on an American military base and the deadliest terrorist attack in the United States since the September 11 attacks.

Tucked between a hotel and parking lots a 10 minute drive from the base, it seems the Army and leaders of the newly named Fort Cavazos would be ok with forgetting this dark chapter of a long and confusing war- but we cannot let the Fort Hood shooting fade out of the history books. You will not find the names of the 12 Soldiers killed during the shooting on the GWOT Memorial in Georgia, the Military Times’ Honor the Fallen archive, or even the Defense Casualty Analysis System (DCAS).

Considering that the classification of the Fort Hood shooting was officially recognized as an act of terrorism by Congress in 2015, and the fact that Purple Heart medals were awarded to the soldiers killed and wounded, it is imperative to acknowledge their sacrifice alongside their fellow warriors on the GWOT Memorial. By including the names of these 12 fallen soldiers on the GWOT Memorial, the profound connection between the broader conflict and the tragic event at Fort Hood would be recognized and honored.

This inclusion would demonstrate a unified commitment to memorializing those who have laid down their lives in the pursuit of freedom and justice. It would serve as a powerful reminder that the impact of terrorism reaches far and wide, affecting lives both on and off the battlefield. 

In the spirit of unity and remembrance, it seems only fitting to get a serious review of this case by DCAS to bridge the gap between the GWOT Memorial and the Fort Hood Shooting Memorial in Killeen. By adding the 12 names of the soldiers who lost their lives to terrorism to the GWOT Memorial, we can honor their service and sacrifice alongside their comrades who volunteered, served, and died in the broader conflict. We would also strengthen the bond between these memorials, ensuring that their collective memory endures, and their legacies remain forever intertwined as American civilians, veterans, and historians work to tell the story of a long and often misunderstood conflict.

References:

1. Global War on Terrorism Memorial - National Infantry Museum & Soldier Center

2. Hundreds attend dedication of memorial to Fort Hood victims (kwtx.com)

3. Fort Hood November 5 Memorial, 3701S S W S Young Dr, Killeen, TX 76542

4. National Infantry Museum to dedicate new Global War on Terrorism Memorial (armytimes.com)

5. Cost Estimate for Global War on Terrorism Memorial is now $100 Million

6. Timeline of Events - Global War On Terrorism Memorial Foundation (gwotmemorialfoundation.org)

Poetry and Art

Poetry and art from the warfighting community.

Dancing the Bachata in a (Former) Warzone - Cora Reichert

Instagram: @pink__oceans

we pretend

this is our bottlecap chessboard in Mazar-I-Sharif

this is a bourbon in a hotel room in Moscow

this is our helmet-kitten rescued from the mud in Peleliu

this is our nightcap cigarette before the Somme

we keep the boats running, even when the sunrise gun heartbeats are

hooded like old women, rocking black gumdrops perched in the fifth story

of the coral sea. boys with the dragon tattoos. we say that someday

they will come to pull pins from the morning star and punch new stories

in our skulls like baseballs. "these islands are graveyards,"

i tell new PFCs. "keep a zippo on you and don't go in the caves. don't take

pictures of the baka, bless

this archipelago of mausoleums

at taps, with a Strongbow

if you have nothing else"

"but we're safe here, right?"

"we aren't the ones they call the heroes"

So the dancers on the boats are still there. Waiting.

......

war is a job for us new poets

brave cold sunrise square

on the countertop- i'm flipping

your bagged sandwich to

turn the plastic lip in (jam smear)

warm grime fogs the february window

where i couldn't reach the rag

24-hour news rolling red like

t-90s on my kitchen table

curtain calls crackling in brisk and bright

false voices for another suburb

plumed into particles

paperboy

loitering dazed in shattered streets

a closeup shot of blood on his balaclava

sleep well

concussion eyes

dies irae- i pack you one of the discount apples

Lessons from Hangman - 4 Fans of Freedom

David is a current military pilot with a passion for truth. He occasionally writes some things, and hopes they ring true as well. He can be found online at @4_fans_of_freedom.

Do not despise the day of small things. Do not resent your lines in the script, or the scenes which the Director has blocked out for you. Do not mistake yourself for the main character – you may have two lines in Act 2, and then you are gone. Dead? Who knows. It matters not. You have played your role, and played it well, and the story is the better for it.

Imagine if Hangman had not been ready. He didn’t get enough sleep. His checklists weren’t complete. His stores still had the pins in. What then? The story turns ugly. The melody sours. The chord is broken as the string parts and snaps. But that is not the way the story goes. It can’t. The good must prevail; the healing must happen; the riders must come over the valley rim on the third day; the stone must be rolled back.

The enemy falls in flames because a man stood ready, though he felt maligned. Tensely he sat there, believing that a mistake had been made, engines running, a trickle of sweat running down the back from the sun’s heat, or perhaps from the worry. The worry that the thrilling, dreadful call would come – that he would be needed. He proved himself the warrior and brought the others home. Because he was ready.

So stand, men. Prepare for the command to launch. It was what you were designed and made for. Do not despise the path that leads you there; the one that prepares your character for the role he must play. Do not despise the day of little beginnings. Train your hands for war, so that when the critical minute comes and “good enough” isn’t good enough, you may say with Hangman: “I am good – I’m very good.”

Land Ho - 4 Fans of Freedom

David is a current military pilot with a passion for truth. He occasionally writes some things, and hopes they ring true as well. He can be found online at @4_fans_of_freedom.

Land ho!

The cry rang out above

The creaking, foaming, wind in the sails;

The sound of feet pattering to the rails.

A smudge, a speck, no bigger than a man’s fist

On the horizon.

The passengers yearn and strain to see a new home

The old behind them.

Now we reset our seats

Fold up our tray tables

Hand small wads of plastic

Into other hands, wrapped in plastic

Which put them in a bag (also plastic)

No joyful announcement is made.

It’s just the end of a long travel day.

Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all

If the headwaters of plastic dry up

And the pumpjacks fall

No more to be raised, unlike the sails

That will catch again the wind and bear

The beautiful feet that will patter to the rails

When they hear the cry on high:

Land ho!

Untitled - Mikey2poems

I’m Mikey2poems, making poetry that people in the service identify with. I started my Instagram page about 7 months ago and I’m just happy that I can put my work out there for people to enjoy.

What is it with this boy?

He doesn’t sit still.

He curses and fights.

Let’s calm him down with a pill.

He doesn’t want to learn about planets.

He doesn’t want to learn about god. 

He doesn’t want to draw.

He doesn’t want to read.

He doesn’t get along with the other kids.

He asks questions we don’t have the answers too.

So obviously something is completely off let’s hold him back a year, or even two.

He loves to play war.

He loves to run around.

He looks up to dead men who put bodies in the ground.

What is it with that young man? 

He curses and fights.

He is surely damned. He is not home a lot. Haven’t seen him in quite a bit. He’s different from how I remember him. 

I hear him drinking from him opening each can. I’m sick of him, he’s partying all through the night. Yelling, and smoking. Does he not sleep? It’s the fifth day in a row.

Why is he not like how I am? His words are vulgar his jokes are crude. He is charming but curt, I sometimes think he is just rude. Why is he willing to always lend a helping hand? Contradictory if you ask me.

He doesn’t get along with too many people, and he doesn’t seem to care.

He only likes to learn and talk about his work.

He has some passion there.

I heard he went to confession piss drunk.

He has a new girl he’s talking to every other month.

I hear he makes conversation with the strippers.

He says he likes broken women to his friends right after he tips her. 

He said he hasn’t felt love in a while.

He said he really hasn’t felt much in a while.

He said he almost had a kid, she aborted it.

Thank the heavens, we can’t have another one of him running around. That would be unfortunate.

He can’t find a dopamine rush to match the last.

He talks occasionally of some of the places he’s been.

He jokes about how he avoided a drunken car crash.

He paid the foreign cop off with cash.

Some of his stories are crazy.

Surely he must be crazy.

Some things he keeps to himself. I think it’s probably for the best.

That young man is just an empty corpse of secrets.

What is it with that young man?

The World Today

In depth analysis and journalism to educate the warfighter on the most important issues around the world today.

Cognitive Warfare: Strategy and Application, Part III – 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. 

In the last few series, we addressed the basic concepts of cognitive warfare: Part I covered definitions and basic concepts, while Part II covers a bit more detail on applications. 

Cognitive warfare sits at the intersection of psychological operations, cyber operations, and a series of interdisciplinary applications towards human behaviors. Data transparency, social openness, and a diverse depth and width of viewpoints are generally deterrents against cognitive warfare attempts. The inverse (think data restricted environments with regulated monitoring and artificially induced echo-chambers) has the opposite effect. Most of us are used to a scenario where stakeholders can compare and contrast their truths, serving as a buffer against influence operations: cognitive warfare is now frequently focused on the degradation of trust within public perceptions, while simultaneously lowering a population’s cognitive capabilities. With this working knowledge of cognitive warfare, we will examine how this applies to real-world events, and make some suggestions how you can utilize this knowledge to better shape your environment.

Let’s examine, within a cognitive warfare framework, including from our own perceptions and from the position of our adversaries, the recent Wagner/Russia events.

Speculation, Skepticism, Surprise

As discussions flow, many readers process as third-party observers: there are just as many questions as there are answers, with a wide range of inputs, including baseline reporting, historical analysis, and official commentary. Wagner’s march against Putin, and the surrounding events, were widely covered by diverse audiences, and generated much public discourse in both social media and mainstream outlets. Things to consider in the context of cognitive warfare in this situation include: the accuracy of reporting, who did what and why, particularly as speculations become more widespread. Most audiences are willing and able to question the information they are receiving, trying to aggregate facts and dispel disinformation surrounding the entire Wagner event, while maintaining awareness of ongoing developments. 

Other audiences may be more restricted in their ability to pierce the veil and access facts, particularly those in China or Russia. These audiences may or may not be fully aware that their internal narratives are often ridden with falsification and obfuscation, but they are almost certainly believers that excessive involvement or discussion relating to state/political affairs may carry hazardous implications. These totalitarian/authoritarian official organs understand fear inculcates well, leveraging it to mold cognition patterns that benefit the state into many a brainwashed citizen.

Flood with Alternatives, Suppress Public Sentiment – Defend Against the Truth

Chinese population management agencies are responsible for foreign intelligence, counterintelligence, and political security. They monitor public sentiment towards the Wagner situation, realizing the potential impacts the events could have. It leverages extensive access to social opinion via data from popular applications such as TikTok, WeChat, etc., and detects increasing interest involving Wagner and Russia from Chinese audiences. Perceptions are not all positive in these regimes, with many arguing that Russia’s central government is weakened by Wagner’s display of resistance. As this unfolds, articles and posts discussing Russian weakness are flagged and blocked throughout social media, while official propaganda seeks to downplay the Wagner issues. 

Alternative discussions of perceived facts are introduced to diminish the impact of skeptics, delivered through media operators that regularly influence Chinese internet discussions. Inflammatory spotlights on the United States, Japan, and South Korea’s affairs are layered between comments voicing support of Chinese and Russian relations, which quickly move the public towards emotional rallies against the United States and its allies, diverting attention away from Russia. 

Some users are aware, but quickly realize and accept they are unable to effectively communicate online about Wagner and Russia and move on to other topics. This type of diversion is incredibly effective in controlled data environments, where access to reporting and information is largely restricted. These actions continuously affect societal cognition and, with enough reinforcement, large portions of the population can be molded to believe whatever narrative the state presents, as it is almost impossible for public opinion to generate enough traction to invoke dissent and discussion on any topic that does not align with government interest. They will eventually lose the desire to challenge information, accepting their given exposures; the power of a state-induced echo-chamber.

While outsiders still seek to validate their own truths, Chinese media consumers have now experienced a fundamental shift in their ability to process alternatives. They are so inundated with false truths, almost all sources of news are now seemingly false to them. Meanwhile they are suggested by their own official channels the information of the Chinese Communist Party is accurate and real, they are also reminded contrasting discussions should be dismissed and ridiculed. Over time, many Chinese change their cognitive processing: “Surely the information that I receive from my government is more accurate than the false narratives that my enemy is spreading!”

This may seem like a tinfoil hat moment; I am sure there are plenty of skeptics towards Epstein, mainstream media, and additional conspiracy tunnels. I am not arguing for or against any threads, rather highlighting the entirely alternative framework of cognitive warfare. At no point were kinetic operations launched, nor were any damages physically measurable. A step beyond influence operations, these large-scale cognitive warfare concepts are very well in effect. The more you examine and reflect around you, the more likely you are to recognize these types of situations. 

Now that you have these concepts identified, what should you do?

Be the bridge: Open education and discussion go a long way, particularly towards those who don’t know any better. Consider the Chinese exchange student, who through years of state-sponsored indoctrination, might think all Americans want him dead. Reach out and expose the oppressed to a liberated information environment; hopefully there is still some buffer room for a reversal.

Meet in the middle: Dismissal of others is generally not an effective approach, as emotional conflictions often result in the loss of logic and clarity. Consider diversity in discussion, but with less charged emotional involvement, particularly in audiences that are less accustomed to freedoms of expression or contrasting opinions; understanding why someone thinks differently goes both ways.

Explain the rationales: Many governments are evaluating Chinese influence tactics, which are shifting away from blatant propaganda, and towards a subtle cognitive warfare model. Consider a simple and clear articulation on how authoritarian governments use cognitive warfare to suppress and control their populations; most people simply can’t know what they haven’t experienced.

The Written Word

Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.

Ambushed - Jared Prewitt

Who’s seen the Euphrates River in person?

These timeless rivers that we learn about growing up like the Tigris and the Euphrates hold a mysteriousness to them. Time itself is lost upon these ancient rivers. 

Although the Euphrates River dazzled your eyes, the smell melted your nose. Ramadi itself stank like Bigfoot bathing in Godzilla’s feces. 

Out Post (OP) Hawk sat near the main hospital in the capital of the al Anbar Province in western Iraq. The 21st Century Wild West.

One of our drones picked up a bunch of dudes loading munitions in the back of a red-orange vehicle. The birdy—what we called a drone—then tracked the car’s route.

Our platoon hauled ass to intercept the vehicle on Route Nova with the Euphrates River glaring behind us. We rolled out in a giant 7-ton truck and two gun-trucks/Humvees. 

I was the first to dismount the 7-ton with the rest of 1st squad going off to the sides in defensive positions. I was going solo as I approached the vehicle in the case that if it went kablooey, I’d be the only casualty. 

With my rifle raised, I saw two teenage boys in the front seats of the red-orange SUV. As I approached the vehicle, the two teens understood my horrible Arabic and got out of the vehicle. Marines near the wall that separated them from the rest of the city to the south snatched them up.

Just as I was about to get a look at what was inside of the vehicle, the air erupted all around me with gunfire. Being out in the open with multiple machineguns opening up all aimed at you felt like sheer terror with a side of hopelessness.

Behind the wheel well for cover, I glimpsed the Euphrates, a river that has seen a billion deaths. Bullets bit into the road and vehicle peppering me with glass and debris making me wonder if I was the next death this ancient giver of life would witness.

The insurgent’s ambush was hastily thrown together and well executed; thankfully, with awful aim. Our enemy was cunning, prepared, and capable.

One of the best sounds in the world is when you hear the  “thump-thump-thump” of a MK-19 automatic grenade launcher. It’s more magical than Disney on Ice.

The MK-19 didn’t stop thumping and the longer it thumped the fewer bullets came in my direction so I took off at a mad dash for the wall on the south side of the street.

Getting ambushed is like getting betrayed, denied, and cast aside all at once, but with bullets and a level of confusion that DaVinci would have a hard time deciphering, that is, until the thumping begins if you make it to that point. 

Somehow, we all made it out of there without any new holes. 

That wouldn’t always be the case.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” - Heraclitus

Better to Ask for Forgiveness than Permission - Miles Lourenco

Miles Lourenco is a former Infantryman with six years in the Pennsylvania and Connecticut National Guards. He holds a bachelor's degree in History including a minor in English Creative Writing from Southern Connecticut State University and is in the middle of a move to Scotland to pursue a masters' degree in Viking and Medieval Nordic Studies from the University of Aberdeen. When he is not writing, working, or trying to get himself out of bed in the morning he enjoys hiking, traveling, and reading. He can be found on Instagram @milesdsl

As an infantryman, even in the Guard, there is always the pervasive feeling that if you have never truly been in the fight you have not seen or done anything. I have no stories of death or heroism, and only a few of adventure and risk. This one contains neither of those. In fact, the stakes are incredibly low. It concerns only whether a tired squad of infantrymen will get a ride home after a long day's movement through the forest in the heat of a slow Polish summer.

--- 

My neck ached as I, for perhaps the hundredth time, tried to adjust the strap of the bag holding the command launch unit, CLU, of my javelin. It seemed to me that whoever had designed the thin green sack which held this incredibly valuable, and not inexpensive, piece of equipment intentionally created it to be the bane of an infantryman’s neck. The strap barely fit around my body armor, and with an assault pack on it could not sling around my back, meaning that the only way to keep the CLU attached to me was for the strap to sit in the crook of my neck, rubbing it raw as I moved through the dense Polish forest.  

I took a moment from my war with the CLU bag to scan my front and back. I was at the rear left of the back wedge of four men, and, as often as I could, I would turn and make sure our backs were clear. We didn’t have too much to worry about, as we were moving about 8 kilometers to rendezvous with an element from the Royal Scots Dragoons during a training exercise. The only real threat to us was stumbling across a wayward moose, some wolves, or someone tripping over a root. 

The Scots were going to join us, and we were to move to and, at a designated time, strike an entrenched Polish tank position with our MILES gear equipped javelins. This was to be the start of a larger combined arms assault. To help the Scots, our battle group’s recon element, kicked off the attack, our CO cobbled together a squad out of the three javelin trainers, myself and two others, with six other infantrymen attached to them. The patrol was a nice change from being cramped in the back of a Bradley.

Everyone stopped. Staff Sergeant Strommer, our squad leader, had his hand raised. He beckoned us down. I dropped quietly to my knee and looked for the nearest cover. There was a tall pine tree nearby with a large root that ran along the ground laterally, protruding upward until it sunk into the ground and disappeared. I moved to the tree and laid down. The CLU bag rested on the ground, giving my neck a moment’s respite. I scanned my lane, gave my M4 a quick check, and occasionally looked over my shoulder to make sure it wasn’t time to move. The pine forest around us rustled impatiently.

I looked towards Specialist Moulin, a good friend of mine who was lying not far to my right. We made eye contact, and I gave him my best do-you-know-what’s-going-on look. He understood and mimed drinking a cup of tea with his pinky up. I took this to mean that we had found the Scots. Staff Sergeant Strommer and Sergeant Oslan were conferring quietly in the center of our small circle. 

Oslan was a big bear of a man who seemed as though he was always on the edge of going berserk. He was a hell of a lot of fun to be around, and a great mentor, you just didn’t want to piss him off. He also had the most immaculate military mustache I have ever seen, and jet-black hair with a slowly growing bald spot which he lovingly described as either his LZ or flesh yarmulke, depending on how much he had to drink when you asked him. He wore a black memorial bracelet with a name and a date on it. It took four years of knowing him for him to tell me that had been his best friend, and he was killed right next to Oslan while they were deployed together in Iraq. He had been shot in the head and the bullet went right through his helmet. I understood the bouts of rage after that.

Strommer had a medium build, but oozed a sort of confidence that made you want to win his approval. A sarcastic half grimace never left his face, and you could never quite tell if anything he said was fully serious. He seemed to take a specific pleasure in doing things his own way, no matter what he was told to do.

I continued to scan my lane. I wondered what they were talking about. Our company commander, Captain Blake, had a friendly rivalry with his Scottish counterpart, and before we stepped off earlier in the day, he asked us to try and get as close to the Scots’ recon team as possible without them noticing us. At the time it seemed funny, and like good training. Now I was tired, and it was just another irritating step in the way of getting to where we needed to be and setting up the javelins. 

Moulin was beckoning me to get up. I got to my knee quietly. I could see the Scots now. They were sitting in a clearing in two forest green Coyotes, a six wheeled open top tactical vehicle used by the British Army. I laughed internally at this, of course they had driven out here. Our CO had been adamant that walking was the only way to get where we needed to go. We moved forward slowly, the bed of pine needles which covered the forest floor were much more conducive to a stealthy approach than the dead leaves which littered the ground of my home forests in Connecticut. As we approached, we could hear them speaking softly. It seemed like they were eating, and they did not seem terribly concerned about much else. My stomach grumbled a bit. We stopped for a moment as a breeze came through.  I felt the camouflage netting on my helmet brush against the back of my neck. The breeze stopped and the forest stood still again, waiting impassively. I shook myself out of a staring contest with a nearby log and prepared to move again. Just as Strommer raised his hand to move out one of the Scots, whom I immediately recognized as Sergeant Reynolds, the leader of their detachment for this mission, turned around.  

“You can knock it off now you lot. We know you’re there.” He had a thick Scottish accent and spoke through a fit of laughter. 

In front of me Moulin snickered, and I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.

Strommer stood up and looked back at us. “Alright guys, stand up.” He said with a wry chuckle, before walking out into the clearing and towards SGT Reynolds. They were good friends. Our company barracks was across the street from theirs on base, and so we encountered the Scots often. The other Scots hopped down from the Coyotes and came over as we entered the clearing. 

I saw a friend of mine, Lance Corporal Eddie Fraser, and shook his hand.

“You alright mate?” Fraser had a sandy hair and a ruddy complexion, he looked and sounded about as Scottish as you could get, and he was grinning widely.

“Well, I didn’t get a ride out here so no way I’m as good as you are right now.” I clapped him on the shoulder. Fraser and I had been friends since the second day I arrived in Poland. I approached him outside the Scottish barracks and asked what I could trade him for one of their berets. He said he only had one, so we settled for swapping some patches and a chat.

After we exchanged pleasantries for a couple of minutes SGT Reynolds spoke up. “Right lads, let’s get it on.” The Scots put on the rest of their gear, and we got ready to move to our javelin positions.

---

Our mission was a success, there were only one or two slightly hilarious mishaps and a smattering of MILES gear malfunctions, but that is a story for another time.

Night was setting in and we were heading back to the clearing where the Scots left their Coyotes. Summer days are long in Poland, and the sun was hanging on to the horizon with determination. I was glad for this, walking back in the pitch dark was not something I was particularly looking forward to. As we walked, I found myself so lost in thought I had forgotten about my arch nemesis, the CLU bag. It hung around me, I’m sure desperately trying to regain my attention. At this point I was too used to it to care. The rumble of tanks and Bradleys engaging in their assault behind us filled the night and drowned out the usual sounds of cricket chirps and leaves rustling. My legs moved on their own, step after step. The ground was soft. 

Eventually we arrived back at the Coyotes. The Scots started to load up their gear onto the vehicles. SGT Reynolds turned around to Strommer. 

“You lads want a ride home.” 

In that moment I am sure Strommer felt the eyes of our entire squad on the back of his head. Also at that moment, he made perhaps the most unexpected decision. The man who seemed to take specific pleasure out of flouting authority and doing things his way and the way he thought was smarter, radioed our CO to ask for permission.

“I’ve got to ask. Give me one second.” He beckoned to our RTO, PFC Martinez, and walked a little way away to call on the radio.

I turned to Moulin. He looked back at me, trying his best to hide an incredulous look. One of his eyebrows was raised. We both knew that Captain Blake would say no. SGT Reynolds looked on for a moment before giving a shrug and starting to load his own pack into one of the vehicles.

We stood there in silence. It seemed like the whole clearing was waiting for Strommer to get off the radio. Even the Scots moved as though they were trying not to wake up a sleeping infant. I shrugged my shoulders a little bit to stretch them and get the straps of my assault pack in a more comfortable position. The pink sky was getting darker by the second.

After a few minutes Strommer gave the hand mic back to Martinez and walked over. 

“Thanks for the offer, but we’ve gotta walk back.”

“Alright then, see you boys later.” SGT Reynolds shook his head and cast the rest of us a sympathetic look before clasping Strommer’s hand. Then he hauled himself up into the commanders’ seat of one of the Coyotes and gave a hand signal. The two vehicles softly rumbled to life, and we stepped back out of the way. After a moment they pulled away and left the clearing, leaving only tire marks and the faint smell of diesel. 

Strommer turned back to us, for perhaps the only time ever I could tell he was frustrated. It was almost fully dark now. He looked down at his Garmin, then up at SPC Alfreds.

“Alfreds, you good to go?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Alfreds had plotted the route there and back on the map before we left that morning. He had the map and his compass out and would track things analog in case something happened to the Garmin. 

“Right, let’s go then.”

I lowered my NODs and switched them on. The green glow came alive, and I adjusted the focus and brightness so I could see properly. Strommer gave the signal. We stepped off.

Somewhere to Put it Down - Mike Smith

I had just rebuilt the engine, so the VW ran fine, sipped gas, and could damn near get up to seventy-five if I found a tailwind and a downhill run.  I had a little cash left from the sale of the motorcycle, but it was dwindling fast.  With the Volkswagen’s rider seat plopped behind the Frank Street house, I could not only get around Santa Monica and Venice pretty well, but the empty seat area, stuffed with blankets, whatnots, and an old piece of plywood, provided me a place to sleep.  

Other than Eric and Dan, I didn’t really know anyone.  They had offered me a rent-free stay, but the last house on Frank Street behind the Santa Monica City dump was fully occupied for the next few days.  Regardless of the massive amount of seagull shit coating the place, anything would have been better than being rousted out of my sleep by law enforcement.  I was learning the West Coast ropes, and it seemed that Santa Monica and Venice’s finest didn’t appreciate my mobile VW home.  At least I could convince the police I wasn’t a complete vagrant by flashing a few bills, but they still made me drive away every time a patrol unit spotted me asleep in one of their city’s parking spaces.

Venice seemed to be my least worst choice for sleeping.  In spite of - check that - because of the drug-laden canal area’s population, there were a lot of people there who didn’t much concern themselves with who might be sleeping in front of their houses.  Near the beach seemed best.  One late afternoon near Venice Boulevard, I spotted some comings and goings at a home that looked somewhat like my old digs at the Pomona Price Street house, and I stopped there as one of the residents headed out the door toward his car.

“’Scuse me; I’m lookin’ for a place to sleep.  Don’t wanna bother you, but would it be okay if I parked here tonight?”

“We got no room at the inn, dude.”

“No, I’m just talkin’ about parking here.  Got my own bed in the bug.”

“Not a problem, man.” The guy was in his early twenties, about my age, long blonde hair pulled into a pony tail, t-shirt and jeans.  

“Thanks, man.” 

He got in his car and rolled away down the street.  I parked in front of the house, locked up, and wandered toward the beach to burn up the remaining daylight.  Maybe I could find something to eat, depending on price.  Although I had emergency rations in the car, I still wanted people's food. Dry dog food had a great nutritional bang for my buck, but it wasn’t really all that palatable.

  Near the Venice Beach ocean walkway, I saw a stand offering bicycle rentals and hotdogs.  Weird combination, but it might suit my needs.  Returned rentals had been dropped helter-skelter in front, but the guy running the place was tied up behind the hotdog counter, doing a brisk business in non-traditional suppers for the people cruising the beach.  I started by picking up the fallen bikes, scooting them neatly back to where I knew they’d be chained up for the night.

“No free food!” the guy hollered over the line of customers.

“Not lookin’ for free,” I hollered back.

After I had all his bikes put away, I walked up to the counter and patiently waited in line until I got to the front.

“What are you doin’ with yer busted dogs?”

“Throwin’ ’em away... You‘re on the street.”

“Kind of…”

“Then get the fuck outta here.”

“Roger that.” I turned to go, the people behind me looking hard at the now-identified bum.

“Hey…Did a tour, didja?” 

I stopped and looked back, “Yeah, three with the Navy.  Mine sweepers up in I Corps  You?”

“Hundred and First, Camp Carroll.”

“Same neighborhood, man.  We used to take you 101st grunts aboard to suppress shore fire on our sweeps.”

“My name‘s John.”

“Mike.”

“Look… come back in about a half hour, okay?”

“Roger.”  

As I walked away, I saw a few customers drop out of the line short of gaining their hotdog heaven.  Announcing your Vietnam service in public was guaranteed to convince some people they were in the presence of pure evil.  Oh, well; it was just another day in the lives of two baby-killers.  I walked out and sat in the sand beside the walkway, leaning against the concrete end of a park bench.  Dogs for supper; that had worked out well.  

The after-work crowd meandered and roller-skated past me, a melting pot of Los Angeles residents and tourists.  Business suits, tight shorts and muscle shirts, tiny lap dogs on leashes; sun-darkened skin and sun-bleached hair, short skirts and tank tops rolled past me, and a few out-of-place tourist families wandered through the eclectic crowd, stunned by their discovery of the melted pot that is Los Angeles.  With the sun going down, Mom and Dad would soon realize they needed to get the kids back to the hotel and out of this environment.  If they were smart, they’d head up the Coast Highway past Santa Barbara, where California looked more like what Steinbeck had led them to expect.  I couldn’t blame them.  I carried a copy of Cannery Row in my back pocket, ragged from its fourth reading.  I read a little at a time, knowing what was coming next, but sipping each chapter like the fine wine it was.  

After a while, I saw John getting ready to chain the bikes up.  I walked back over and gave him a hand.

“There’s six dogs and three buns on the counter there.  Help yourself to the ketchup and mustard; I already put the relish away.”

“Thanks, man.”

I wolfed down the three loose dogs right there, lumped condiments on the three with buns, and wrapped them in the paper towel they sat on.  John put the ketchup and mustard away and came back around the counter.  He pulled the counter cover down and slid the folding steel gate across the holding area for the bikes.  We stood beside his car next to the stand for a minute.  Lights were beginning to come on as I shook John’s hand, thumbs laced together in the handshake we knew from a faraway place.  John popped the car door and slumped into the driver’s seat as I began to walk back toward my bedroom.

“Hey, Mike!” John called over the rumble of his engine.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let the mother fuckers get you down!”

“Backatcha, Brother!”  I reached into my jeans as he put the car in gear.

“You smoke, John?”

“Yeah…”

I pulled a joint out and handed it to him.  “Smoke this with three friends.”

“No shit?”

“No, great shit.  Got it at the Da Nang gate last year.”

“Damn!”

“It’ll be a full evening’s entertainment in a single joint.”

“If this is the stuff I remember, I only had it once.  Guy in a slick gave me one, and me and a buddy smoked it together.  It ripped our fuckin’ heads off!”

“This is probably the same stuff.  Like I said, share with friends.”

John waved as he drove away, and I walked back toward bed.  In the twilight, I spotted my VW, still intact.  The house was jumping with music, Hendrix playing the Star-Spangled Banner as only he could do it.  

I had no trouble sleeping through noise, but increases in noise level woke me up quickly.  I was twitchy, I guessed, but having slept in engine rooms with 100-decibel screaming diesel engines around me meant I could fall asleep almost anywhere.  Just don’t sneak up on me.  Hotdog supper completed, I laid my 6’2” frame out on the improvised mattress, head on the back seat, feet under the dash.  I cracked both front windows, locked the doors, and pulled the single military-issue blanket over me.  Better than sleeping below decks on a ’sweeper, worse than a real bed.  As an afterthought, I grabbed some paper trash and molded it around the exposed screws on the emergency brake cables.  The VW was old, and I hadn’t yet found the rubber boot to cover the sharp cable ends.  Waking up with my shin impaled on one of them made for a bad start to my day.  Jethro Tull was thumping from the house as I drifted off.

I heard the 40mm pop off a round.  With General Quarters sounding on the 1MC, I was out of my rack.  I shouted “Gunner!” loud, needing to feel him shove the B.A.R, into my hands, and took the first step in a dead run toward my rifle team station before I realized I was next to the VW, door open, blanket at my feet.  The officer on the street side of the car had backed up a step and had his hand on his weapon.  I froze.

“Hold right there, god damn it!  You got a gun?”  He was slightly crouched, left arm out in a stop gesture, ready to lift and fire.  I was holding already.

“No weapon, sir.  Sorry, officer; thought I was somewhere else.”

I slowly put my hands flat on the roof of the VW, breathing hard.

“We don’t allow hippies to sleep on the street in our patrol area.”

“Roger that, sir, but the people at this house said it was okay…” As I used my thumb to point behind me, I realized the adrenaline shakes were already coming on.  They’re a real bitch when you have to shut down so quickly.

“Did you hear what I said, fuckhead? No sleepin’ on the street! I‘m gonna toss this hippie car, and you better not have a fuckin’ weapon!”

I glanced back at the house.  It looked like someone had come out onto the porch to see what was up.  Pissed-Off -Cop’s partner was out of the driver’s seat by now, beginning to have a quiet conversation with him.

“’Scuse me, officers.  I know those people.  Okay if I ask about sleepin’ inside?”

“Go ahead,” said the driver.  He and his partner were toe-to-toe now.

I walked on watery legs toward the porch, stuffing my hands into my pockets so no one could see how bad the shakes were.  The guy on the porch wasn’t the guy I had talked to, but he must have heard what went on.  He was short, with close-cropped dark hair, t-shirt and jeans, smoking a cigarette.  Before I could say anything, he spoke up.

“Grab yer shit and come on in.  You can sleep on the floor.”

“Th-thanks, man.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, the guy just woke me up too fast.”

“I was out here.  I saw him bang on the roof of your bug, the fuckin’ asshole pig.”

“Oh, well; I’ll be back…”

Walking away from the porch, I felt the post-adrenaline sickening reaching its peak.  Fortunately, Pissed-Off was back in the rider’s seat, and the driver cop was leaning on my car.

“They said I could stay inside...”

“Good.”

I breathed a heavy sigh.  “Thanks for talkin’ your partner down.”

“Three-Five Marines.”

“No kidding!  You’re the second guy from I Corps I met today!”

“Well, don’t be on the street again tonight.  I’ll back my partner full-on next time.”

“Roger that... Thanks again, Marine.”  I reached over the car and shook hands with him.  He saw mine tremble, and I knew that was okay.  It was a civilian handshake, though.  He was back in the World, playing the game.

I picked the blanket off the sidewalk and locked the car door as the police cruiser drove away.

The next time I woke up, things went a little more smoothly.  Someone was talking about stray dogs, and the phrase seemed to apply to me.  I didn’t see who was talking at first.  When I opened my eyes, from the floor I saw a blonde girl sitting at a table, gently stroking a small musical instrument case.  She wore a neat white blouse and blue skirt, looking incongruously like a character out of a ‘50’s TV episode.  Her hair was long, naturally blonde, and exquisitely gorgeous, as was her face.  She looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old.

“Hi… What‘s the instrument?”

“Hi… It’s a clarinet.”

“You in a band?”

“Not yet, but I will be soon…” she smiled, eyes dreamy.

“Cool.  Did that myself.”

“Oh, really? Where?

“Past life.  Played trombone.”

“Oh,” she stated flatly.  I was dismissed, maybe because she took the past life thing literally.

I rolled up to a sitting position, ham fistedly stuffing the blanket behind my aching back and leaning against the wall on the hardwood living room floor.  I began to work my fingers loose.  Every night, they set themselves in concrete, so my morning ritual included pushing my fingers open through the pain for a few minutes.  Once I could wiggle each finger independently, I knew the tingling and pain would subside to a reasonably comfortable numbness in another half hour. No one associated such neuropathy with Agent Orange at the time.

 Hands loosened, I looked around.  The previous night, I had made a beeline to the back wall of the living room, only checking the darkened area to make sure no one was in the shadows before I crashed.  Straight ahead through the living room was the front door.  A little to my left sat the dreamy blonde girl, and beyond her was an open kitchen area, brightly lit by the morning sun.  My rescuer from last night was standing with a woman talking over coffee.  It sounded like the two of them had moved past the stray dog part of their conversation.  She was the taller, dressed in blue jeans and a black turtleneck, with dark hair and a prominent nose.  As I got up she looked at me, and I saw her piercing dark eyes.  I folded my blanket and dropped it on a chair at the table, walking stiffly into the kitchen.

“Hey, thanks again for last night,” I said.  My rescuer was wearing a tweed golf hat, the kind that snapped down to the short bill, still in the same t-shirt and jeans.

“I’m Sam, this is Mary.”

“Mike.”  I shook hands with them.  Mary’s eyes pierced me again, letting me know she was the originator of the stray dog theory.

Sam turned to refill his cup out of an industrial-sized coffee pot. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”  I was thirsty as hell.  Sam poured and handed me a cup.

“No free rides here.” Mary was still piercing.

“Not lookin’ for one.”

“Oh yeah?” Poke, poke.

“I have a room over in Santa Monica, just gotta wait another few days.”

“Where?”

“Frank Street, just off Cloverfield at I-10.”  That seemed to settle Mary a little. 

Sam was already good.  “If you can do okay sleeping on the floor, I’ll check with the Professor.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sam bustled off to do his checking.

“Who’s the Professor?”

“He owns the place,” Mary said matter-of-factly, moving me a step up from my original stray dog status.

“Brandy, honey, you need a ride anywhere?  I’m leaving for work in a few...”

“No, thanks.  The nice man’s picking me up at one.”  Now the blonde had a name.

“Well, you be careful, honey…”

My head involuntarily tilted into a question about ‘careful,’ and I caught Mary’s eye.  Her level return gaze and silence let me know I was on shaky ground.  I shut up and sipped my coffee.

A heavyset fiftyish man came back with Sam, and I instantly knew where Sam’s tweed hat had come from.  It was a perfect match for the man’s jacket, which was complete with leather patches at the elbows.  His neatly-trimmed beard was solid white, and his face showed the loosely-defined, almost-wet sweetness of a heavy drinker.  He shook my hand, and I saw the tobacco stains on his fingers from pipe smoking.  I could have bet he had his reading glasses tucked into his left jacket pocket.  He was a Professor.

“Dan Allen here… Sam said you had a run-in with Venice PD last night.”

“Not really a run-in; they just didn’t want me sleepin’ in my car.”

“Well, it’s all right for you to sleep here the next three nights; just make sure you’re gone by Saturday.”

“I’ll do that, and thank you.”  I had no clue what day of the week it was.

The Professor clasped his hands together, “So, how is the household this morning?”

“I’m off to work, and Joe already left,” Mary said.

“I’ve got class today… could I get a ride to school, Professor?” 

“Of course, you can, Sam.  All right, all, my first class is at ten, so I’ll lock the house up around nine-thirty.”

Brandy chimed in, “My ride to the audition isn’t until one… I could lock up then.”

The Professor looked at me.

“I have to run over to my Santa Monica place today.  I’ll be out before you leave.”

“Good.  Brandy, I’ll lock everything but the front door; make sure it’s locked before you leave.  Everyone have a good day.  I should be home by five.”

We all got busy.  I took my blanket back out to the car and began shifting everything into the back seat.  With no more need for a car bed, I’d run over to Dan and Eric’s and re-install the seat, then hang out there for a while.  Mary left for work, and I had the plywood bed board on top of the car and was loading up a trash bag when the Professor and Sam came out.  The Professor lingered at my car for a minute until I spoke up.

“As soon as I get my stuff back in the car, I’m gone.”

“Do that, young man.”

“Roger, sir.”

As Sam and the Professor drove away, Brandy sat on the porch, clarinet case in her lap.  I finished packing my car, grabbed one of the five cigarettes left in my glove compartment, and brought the paper trash bag to the porch.  I sat on the step next to Brandy and lit the smoke.

“So, who’s your audition with?”

“I don’t know.  He said he was setting up more than one today.”

“Do you know this guy?”

Brandy looked at me with deep sky-blue eyes full of teenage wisdom and conviction.  I realized I had once had such conviction, before.

“I know he’s going to help me get a job!”

“I don’t mean to pry, but it seems like he would have let you know.  Didn’t he tell you if it was the LA Philharmonic or something?”

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be wonderful.”

I couldn’t argue against teenage logic just then; I was a little stunned by the realization that I had just met a lost part of myself.

“Well, good luck with your audition.”

“Thank you.”

Brandy took the trash bag inside the house. I took off.

KRLA radio and Wolfman Jack were kind enough to let the babies in Los Angeles know it was Wednesday as I crossed over I-10 on Cloverfield.  Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night should be enough.  I wound through the streets until I hit the dead end of Frank Street, then rolled beyond the dead end on a dirt driveway to Dan and Eric’s place.  Strictly defined, the place could not be called the last house on Frank Street behind the Santa Monica Dump.  It was the house behind the last house, its “front” door facing backwards, only ten feet from the open chain-link fence that must have contained the entire seagull population of the United States.  I was convinced that seagulls had vacated Canada, Florida, and all other points between to come here.  This seagull shit-covered dead end house represented a step up in my life; I was glad to be moving.  Not twenty yards away through the fence, I saw the current seagull sentry perched majestically on the tallest nearby pile of garbage.  He was eyeing me.  I gently clicked the Volkswagen’s door closed, knowing I could obliterate the sun by slamming it and letting the sentry give his warning.  Dan’s car was gone, but there was a new addition to the yard iron.  An old white milk delivery truck was backed up to the fence.

Inside, Eric was fixing an early lunch; slicing uneven slabs of baloney from an improbably long five-pound solid tube of the stuff.

“Muff!  Ya hungry?”

“Nope.  I already starved and fuckin’ died.”

Eric snickered and grabbed more bread.

“Mayo okay?”

“Great; cheese too, if ya got it.”

Eric opened the ancient refrigerator and pulled out a big block of cheese. “Where’d ya stay?”

“Found a place for three nights; I’m good until Saturday.”

“Cool, Man.  Dick’s moving out on Friday.”

“Perfect!”

Eric and I stood in the living room watching the seagulls in action, munching on government assistance rations.  The room was built like the bridge of a ship, with high windows surrounding the dump side and back door.  Sitting down meant you couldn’t see out, so I preferred to stand.  I saw a few beans on the floor next to the main piece of furniture in the living room.

“Anyone fix the bean bag?”

“Naw; don’t worry about it.”

“I got a needle in the car, no big deal.”

“Whatever…”

I finished my sandwich and went to the VW to get the sewing kit no self-respecting sailor was without.  I grabbed the kit out of the glove compartment and slammed the car door.  Shit.  Tons of it!  I hustled and made it to the door before the sun-obliterating cloud of seagulls covered the house.  Sometimes I’m an idiot.

Inside again, I sat on the floor and pulled the puncture in the bean bag chair to me, selecting some thread that matched the dark blue to patch the hole.  I had been a witness to the puncture.  During a 4.5 LA tremor, Dan’s motorcycle helmet, an old football helmet crowned with two short slightly-curved horns, had jostled off its hanger and neatly punctured the bean bag chair with one horn as I sat in it.  Dan’s helmet was re-hung in the same spot.  People in Los Angeles seem to treat earthquakes like lightning, assuming they won’t hit the same place twice.  I made sure I wasn’t sitting directly under the damn thing, then thought better of it.  I took the helmet down and put it on the floor.

I scooped the loose beans back into the chair and loop-stitched the hole closed, carefully doubling back over each seam.  Something about the sewing was relaxing; repairing torn uniforms in the service had provided me rare moments of quiet between watching napalm runs and mine hunting.  Dan came in just as I was finishing the repair.

“Hey, Muff!  Didja see the new truck?”

“Yeah, what’s it for?”

“We’re gonna tour America!  I already got the bottle racks out of the back.  Gonna get mattresses and equipment and go.  Better than the magic bus!  Wanna go for a ride later?”

“Sure,” I said.  Look out, Kesey and Kerouac, here come Dan and Eric!

Dan re-hung his Viking helmet and rambled on about the upcoming American tour.  Eric got out some dope, assuring the trip in the milk truck would be entertaining.  I passed up smoking, simply handing the joint back and forth.  Dan and Eric caught me up on the Pomona Price Street news.  Hemorrhoid had crossed the line with Cheryl, making a nightly trip through the fence beside the out-back shack to screw the next-door neighbor, and Cheryl had moved to Laguna Beach as a result.  The Pedunkle Stud Service (the customer always comes first) was breaking up.  John had hooked up with Arlene and moved to San Francisco, Mike had moved to White Street and was concentrating on school, and I was down-and-out in LA.

Late that afternoon, we got into the milk truck.  Dan drove us down to the end of Pico Boulevard as we took turns standing in the open door, waving at traffic and commenting that this would provide a unique perspective on the American tour.  We parked on the hill and walked out on the sand to watch the sunset.  Dan and Eric “ooohed” and “aaahed;” I thought of other Pacific sunsets.  Snipers liked sunset, when the ships on the inner Market Time barrier were still lit by the sun and they could work in the long shadows on shore. 

When we got back to the truck, it wouldn’t start.  I had Dan put it in second gear; Eric and I pushed to start it rolling down the hill, and it blew smoke and roared to life.  Dan turned around at the edge of the sand, and we hopped aboard.

“What the fuck is wrong with it, Muff?”

“Is your idiot light on?”

“The little red one?”

“Yeah.”

“No, it went off when it started.”

“Okay, get a battery.  It should be fine.”

I sat in the back and let Eric wave to the normal people as we milk-trucked  our way back to Frank Street.  

Dick was there when we got back, and one of Dan’s airline stewardesses showed up with a care package.  Steak, potatoes, ice cream, and the presence of a drop-dead gorgeous stewardess made Dan’s Greek God looks worth something.  Maslow was right; food becomes seriously important when you don’t know where you’ll get your next meal.  Seeing the stewardess reminded me of Brandy.  I hoped her audition went well.  

Around nine-thirty, I put the rider’s seat back in my VW by feel in the dark, left the sleeping plywood leaning against the house, and headed back to my temporary Venice crash pad, wanting another cigarette.

All things considered, it had been a decent day.  I even got the same parking space right in front of the Professor’s house.  Car locked, I sat on a fender and burned my third-to-last cigarette.  I was one toke short of done when a shiny, brand-new white Oldsmobile pulled up on the street next to my car.  Brandy got out, wearing some kind of blanket on her head, her hands holding the tails of it across her chest under her clarinet case.  In the dark, she brought to my mind an image of the Virgin Mary.

“Hi, Brandy.”

She didn‘t say anything; she just started toward the door.

“Something wrong?”

“She’s not feeling well.”  The driver, a typical tall/dark/handsome LA sort in a business suit, had leaned across the wide seat to shut the door Brandy had left open.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.  The guy slammed the rider’s door and gunned the car down the street.  I didn’t realize why until I turned and walked back toward Brandy.  She was stopped halfway up the walk, and had let the blanket thing fall off her head.  Her hair was cut short in clumps, parts of her scalp bleeding.

“Oh, my God, Brandy!  What happened?”  I reached out and touched her arm, and she winced.

“I’m not gonna hurt you…”

She whimpered at that, and I gently put my arms around her.  She stiffened up.  Hard.  Then, in my arms, she softened, and her sobs started.

“He wasn’t a nice man, not nice, not… not… nice…” Her clarinet case clattered to the sidewalk, spilling instrument parts.  The blanket -- no, it was a towel -- fell too.  She began to go down.  I let her fall, catching her into my arms.  I headed for the door and kicked on it to knock, shouting “Open up!”

The Professor opened the door.   “See here young man, you need to settle down!”

“Comin’ through!”  I pushed past him into the house.

Mary was at the dining table.  I shouted her name, and her look of disdain broke in a fraction of a second as she saw who I carried.

“Oh, my God!  What…?”

“No matter what.  Find me a bed!”

“Here, right in here, oh my God, put her in my room.”  Mary rushed in front of me, leading the way.  Sam, Joe, and the Professor followed.  I laid Brandy gently as I could on the bed.

“Mary, see to her head.  The rest of us are going to get out of this room.”

The Professor didn’t like that. “Just who the hell are you to give orders?” he asked. 

I looked at him squarely from the bed, “Anyone with a dick is out of this room. NOW.”

The Professor glared at me.  He, Joe, and Sam left.

“Mary, when you have her bleeding stopped, find her purse.”

Mary looked as if I had frightened her some.  Her eyes were soft now.  It was not time for fear.

“Damn it, Mary, can you help her, or not?”

“…I… can.”

“Do it.  Then find her driver‘s license or some kind of ID.” 

“What happened to her hair?“

“Looks to me like she cut it herself.  Son of a bitch who dropped her off must have told her it was pretty before he did whatever he did.” I was in combat mode, and I knew it.  I left the room.

“See here,” said the Professor as I ran to the door.

“Fuck you, ‘see here’!”

I was on the street.  The new Oldsmobile had turned right at the end of the block.  The motherfucker in the car seriously needed killing.  I opened the door of my VW, then stopped.  A couple of minutes had passed; I realized the guy had to be long gone.  I walked back to the clarinet and towel, gathered the fallen items and headed back to the front door.  It was locked.  I freed my right arm and pounded once on the door.  Hard.  It opened.

“No cops,” said the Professor.

“You are…one…step…short,” I said, and leveled my gaze at him.  His eyes broke away.  I walked to the dining table and sat down.  The clarinet parts had a couple of dings from the fall.  The towel was a white hotel towel, unmarked.  It had blood on it.  I grabbed a couple of napkins from a holder on the table and carefully cleaned the clarinet, checking that the pieces still fit together.  One section had a ding that made it notchy going together, but the cork seal seemed to be tight.  I pulled out my Swiss army knife and meticulously flattened the ding, taking care of the notchy feel.  Once the instrument was fully assembled, I slipped the mouthpiece cover off.  The reed was brand new; Brandy hadn’t touched it.  The son of a bitch hadn’t even let her play a song.  As I worked, I heard the Professor holding forth to Sam and Joe that Brandy would be okay, there was nothing to worry about.  I had seen men break under stress; I knew better.  I dusted out the case and disassembled the clarinet, carefully placing each section into its slot and snapping the case closed.  I carried the case and bloody towel past my audience.

Mary met me at the door of her room.  Brandy was on the bed behind her, curled into a fetal position, rocking and moaning. 

“Emergency room?”

“She says she doesn’t want that.”

“Cops?”

“That either.”

“Look, Mary; I don’t much care what Professor Shithead wants…”

“No, Mike, it’s what Brandy wants.”

“Okay… did you find any personal info?”

Mary held out a little address book, opened to a page, “I think this must be her folk’s address and telephone.  It’s in Bakersfield.”

I took the address book, handing Mary the clarinet and towel, “How’s her bleeding?”

“It had already stopped, mostly.  I can’t comb her hair right now; it hurts her too much.  …She has bruises…”

“Where?”

“…Places…”

“Jesus.  Okay; stay with her.” I breathed a heavy sigh, and Mary lightly touched my arm as I turned away.

Back in the living room, the three men were still standing together, defensively postured against my rage.  I didn’t care; I was tending to the wounded and had no time for Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers.

“I’m using your phone.”

“It had better not be long distance…”

I stopped in mid-stride and put my head down.  The Professor had just stepped over my line.  The guy in the car needed killing, but I couldn’t figure out what penalty should be applied for just being a complete asshole.  I slowly reached for my wallet, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and slammed it on the table, then put the kitchen telephone next to it.

A man answered the call.

“Mister Kelley, do you have a daughter named Brandy?”

“No.  Her name is Linda, and we’re worried sick. Is it her?  Where is she?”

“She’s in Venice, sir.  I think you’d better get here right away.”

“Just who the hell are you?” he said.  I could hear a woman’s voice in the background, questioning.

“Sir, my name is Mike.  I just met your daughter today.  She is not in good shape.  You need to get here now.”

“From Bakersfield?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to talk to Linda.”

“Yes, sir, just a minute.”

I laid the telephone receiver down and went back to Mary’s room.

“Do you have a telephone extension in here?”

“Yes.”

“Linda’s Mom and Dad want to talk to her.”

Mary picked up the phone.  I went back into the dining area.  The Professor was seated at the table, receiver pressed to his ear.  I punched the cradle button, cutting him off.  He stood up.

“You can’t just…”

“You picked up the five bucks.  My call, bought and paid for.  Wanna discuss it?”   I wanted him to start discussing.  Badly.  Screw remembering the asshole penalty, I was ready to rock ‘n roll.  He walked away, back to the defensive gaggle.  

The phone was hard-wired into the wall, an old model with no quick disconnects.  I laid the receiver on the table, slammed the napkin holder across the cradle, and stalked back to Mary’s room.  Mary must have talked to the parents first.  She was just putting the phone to Linda’s ear.  Linda was still curled on her side, both hands tucked tightly between her legs.

“Daddy… I’m sorry…” Her voice broke, and she sobbed into the telephone.

“Are they coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Mary said.

I sat down on the bed.  I reached for Mary’s free hand and patted it.

“They have to come now.”

Mary just nodded.  I let Brandy/Linda talk and cry with her parents for a minute, then took the phone.

“Sir, Mary tells me you may not be coming right away.”

“It’s getting close to midnight.  We were thinking tomorrow morning might be better.”

“Look, Mister Kelley.  I… you have to believe me.  It is imperative that you come get your daughter.  Now.”

“What the hell happened?”

I told him what I knew, and by the time I was done, he said he was putting a coat on.  Mary gave him the address and directions.  They were on their way.

Mary and I sat with Linda for the next two hours.  She eventually fell asleep, but tossed and rocked, still in her fetal position.  Mary and I put a blanket over her and agreed we’d call her “Brandy” in front of the others in spite of Professor Asshole‘s eavesdropping.

Near the end of our wait, Mary and I just sat and held hands.

“You aren’t staying, are you?”

“I bulldozed the perfesser.  Couldn’t stay if I wanted to, but I don’t… Is he always such a jerk?”

“He likes for everybody to follow his house rules…  Yeah, I guess he’s about the way you found him.”

“Well, Mary, you‘re a troop.”  She gave me a quizzical look.

“Military thing… a compliment.  I guess I meant you show a tough exterior, but you care.”

“Oh…  Thanks.”

Later, Mary saw the reflection of headlights through her window, and woke Linda as gently as she could.  Linda seemed to awake as if she had had a bad dream, but found it wasn’t a dream when she realized where she was.  She began to whimper.

“Stay with her, Mary; I’ll go get Mom and Dad.”

“Okay, troop.”  

I caught the meaning.  When I brought the parents inside, Linda’s mother stayed in the living room, looking around in shock at the place her daughter had chosen when she ran away.  Dad wanted to kill someone; I understood.  He yelled at me, and I let him.  I took him back to Mary’s room, then went to the porch to wait.

I heard the Professor inside taking a shot at some kind of disclaimer with Dad, but he did it with Dad carrying his broken daughter in his arms toward the front door.  I figured Dad had a good measure of the man.  Making excuses was more important to the Professor than helping the girl get to her parent’s car.  I made sure Mom had the clarinet case as they got into their car.  When they drove away, I walked back to the porch.  All of them were there.  The Professor said something about me not being welcome.  I ignored him.

“ Thanks, Mary.” I hugged her.

“You’re a troop, Mike.”  I smiled at that.  The Professor took another shot as I left.

“Don’t come back!”

“Grow the fuck up!”

Thoughts of evil followed me as I drove back toward Frank Street in the deep night of early morning.  For the last four years, my concept of evil had been clearly defined by the war I’d been in.  Tonight’s evil, perpetrated by the suave driver of a new Oldsmobile, had been different, but the response to his evil was sadly similar to my war.  

I remembered something from Vietnam.  Without fail, a Russian “trawler” shadowed us whenever we traversed international waters on our way to another patrol in Vietnam.  Invariably, the “trawler” ran dead even and parallel with our minesweeper, less than one hundred yards off our starboard side.  One evening, as I stood on deck smoking in a good Pacific sunset, I noticed a Russian sailor doing the same on his deck.  Incredibly, we waved at each other.  Each of us knew that in a few nautical miles, if the Russians did not break away, we would do our best to kill each other.  Right then, though, we had just waved.    

It occurred to me as I drove the dark Santa Monica streets that the real evil of war was not in the men who fight it, but in war itself.  Tonight, I had seen evil in more than one human being.  Evil is not only the capacity to do harm; it is also complacency and denial in the face of that harm.  Men like the Professor had sat in offices behind desks and sent me and the Russian sailor off to die.  The principles they cited were stated in lofty terms, not unlike the Professor’s need to keep up appearances with his house rules. 

  Men like me, John the soldier hotdog vendor, and the Marine cop lived by a different principle now.  More than just a principle, it was an imperative, forged in a place that showed us the core of our souls and the depth of the souls of those around us.  We could never leave the wounded behind.

Back at Frank Street, I pulled my blanket out of the car and carefully clicked the VW’s door closed.  I hoped Brandy/Linda would be okay; I knew she wouldn‘t.  I lay down on the floor of the milk truck to sleep.  It wasn’t much of a place to put it down, but it would do for a couple of nights. 

——————————

This ends Volume 14, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01AUGUST2023)

The window is now open for Lethal Minds’ fifteenth volume, releasing September 1st, 2023.

All art and picture submissions are due as PDFs or JPEG files to our email by midnight on 20 August.

All written submissions are due as 12 point font, double spaced, Word documents to our email by midnight on 20 August.

lethalmindsjournal@gmail.com

Special thanks to the volunteers and team that made this journal possible:

Tom Schueman

Julian Tsukano

Don Reynolds

Jacob Montgomery

Erin

Russell Worth Parker

Steven

Matt Miranda

The Moments In Leadership Podcast

From This Hilltop

Nate Gladdin

Jeremy Kofsky

Hunter Keeley

Brodie Kirkpatrick

John Dailey

Wes Faulk

Mina Ingraham

Miles Lourenco

Brandon Lee

Justin Mosley

Samuel Caspers

Nick Efstathiou

Matthew P

Nate W

The Bulletin From The Borderlands Team

The Scuttlebutt Podcast

Field Seats

All articles published in this newsletter are the personal opinions and positions of the authors themselves. All content, and the Lethal Minds and Lethal Minds Journal brand is the copyright of Lethal Minds©

_______________________________________________________________________________________________