Lethal Minds Volume 21
Lethal Minds Volume 21
Volume 21, 1 April 2024
Letter from the Editor
I stood at the Crossroads of the Marine Corps yesterday.
That’s what Marines call Quantico, Virginia for its role as the home of training and doctrine in the Corps. Stay in the Corps long enough and you will find yourself there for conferences or doctrine reviews or assignments in which producing, training, or educating the next generation of Marines is the mission. That production of Marines part is what brought me to Quantico this time.
For two hours I stood in 47 degrees and sideways rain with retired Gunnery Sergeant and former managing editor Jeremy Kofsky. We had both driven six hours to see Lethal Minds Journal’s own Erin G. graduate Officer Candidates School and commission as a second Lieutenant. I was honored to pin on one of her bars. Gunny Kofsky, now a civilian, got a regulation haircut and risked hypothermia to stand in soaked cammies and render her first salute.
The whole thing was a reminder that the Corps is just a boat on the river of time. We board, float downstream for four years or forty, and then disembark to make boatspace for someone else. It’s a point driven home for me by the fact that the Brigadier General who served as the reviewing officer for Erin’s graduation was in my own platoon at Officer Candidates School in the summer of 1993. His daughter was in Erin’s platoon. The American way of war has become a family business in a lot of ways, something I find problematic as a citizen. But that’s a polemic for another time.
With flight school in her contract, maybe Erin will follow in the footsteps of Anne Boaden, a new member of the Editorial Staff, who flew the AH-1W Cobra in combat during the bad old days in Helmand Province. Helicopters would be appropriate for Erin because at least some of them rely on a “Jesus Nut'' for survival. The Jesus Nut is a slang name for the main motor retaining nut holding the rotor to the mast of some helicopters. It’s a single point of failure and if it goes, everything else does too.
Like a helicopter, an all-volunteer veterans newsletter is often only a few pounds of torque away from catastrophe, and for the first two years of Lethal Minds Journal’s life, Erin was the Jesus Nut that held us together. Now she’s off to The Basic School (TBS), alternatively known as “The Big Suck” or “Thousands Being Stupid”, and then on to Naval Flight School. But, just as every Marine returns to Quantico to stand at the crossroads, I am certain we will see her here again.
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. 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.
In This Issue
Across the Force
Red River
General Alfred Gray 1928-2024
The Written Word
Lift, Clean, Place
Excerpt - Killers In Their Youth
Stranger
Poetry and Art
Welcome
Bastean
Across the Force
Written work on the profession of arms. Lessons learned, conversations on doctrine, and mission analysis from all ranks.
Red River - Aaron Lawless
Every Leader Needs a Groot
It’s a simple enough statement: every leader at every level needs a Groot. No, not that one, although talking space-trees are handy in a fight. To explain this reference, I’m going to dust off my classic movie credentials and invite you back to 1948.
Howard Hawks directed John Wayne, Montgomery Clift, and Walter Brennan in Red River (1948);, the story of an ambitious but desperate cattleman, Tom Dunson (Wayne) andhis adopted son Matt (Clift) in their attempt to move a herd of Texas longhorns north to the railroad. The film is a respected example of the cowboy genre and one of Wayne’s successful experiments with less-than-savory anti-hero characters. It is also a cautionary tale of how a “success at all costs” mindset creates toxic leadership and alienates subordinates. As the story unfolds, Dunson slowly falls from ambition to desperation to despotism, threatening to execute cowboys who have had enough of his single-minded drive. It’s a familiar story for anyone who has suffered under an operations officer, executive officer, or commander with what has been derided as a “Mission First” perspective, but not all is lost.
Dunson’s obsession with succeeding in his cattle drive drives a wedge between him and Matt not long after the group crosses the Red River out of Texas. Matt refuses to back Dunson’s tyrannical leadership and takes command of the cowboys and cattle, leaving Dunson behind. As Matt rallies the cowboys to continue the drive, Walter Brennan’s sidekick character, Groot, speaks up as well, repeating a line spoken earlier in the movie: “Mister Dunson, you were wrong.” Groot and Matt remain loyal to Dunson’s objective: the cattle will get to the railroad, the ranch’s debts will be paid, and the cowboys will receive their promised wages. But Matt and Groot recognize that leaders who prioritize their subordinates’ welfare, while still finishing the mission, will have greater support from their outfit.
Groot’s loyalty is remarkable. In the beginning of the film, he leaves the relative safety of a wagon train of settlers to follow Dunson to Texas to establish a ranch. He stays with Dunson throughout, unlike Matt, who leaves to take part in the Civil War before returning at the beginning of the cattle drive., Groot is loyal enough to Dunson to want to keep him from becoming the worst version of himself. Groot’s refrain is, “Mister Dunson, you were wrong.” Clearly, it makes an impact. At one point, Dunson already knows Groot disapproves, telling him, “Go ahead, say it!” In different ways, Groot and Matt counter Dunson’s increasingly toxic command.
I once had my own Groot, sort of – a retired Military Police colonel turned contractor who saw the world in absolutes of right and wrong, legal or illegal. A great guy, a mentor, but a Groot who stuck to his guns when he thought things were off track. He could be a pain, but he was usually correct. I was often forced to admit his value. Dave, if you’re reading this – thanks. I promise the comparison with Walter Brennan is a favorable one.
Every leader needs a Groot to keep them accountable. The Matts of the world are important too, the ones that will finally say, “enough,” and replace a toxic leader. That response is for after the situation has become unsalvageable by any other means. Groot, there from the beginning, is Dunson’s conscience, the loyal follower who still has the moral courage to tell his boss, “you were wrong.” Groot remains on the team, keeps working toward the same mission, but speaks truth to power and intervenes when things aren’t right. Find your own Groot, swallow your pride, and keep them on your team. Maybe you won’t lose command of your own personal cattle drive, whatever it may be.
General Alfred M. Gray 1928-2024 - Brett Friedman
On March 20, 2024, General Al Gray, easily the most beloved Commandant of the Marine Corps in living history, passed away at 95.
Most obituaries I’ve seen, the best of which is Dan Lamothe’s at the Washington Post, show General Gray in uniform when he served. But I chose the picture above because it reflects how I remember him. I didn’t come into the Marine Corps until years after he was retired, but I saw him speak multiple times. Two of those times he was wearing his famous MARPAT jacket. The picture also shows how much he enjoyed interacting with Marines long after he retired. Yes, he was loved by generations of Marines, but that love was very mutual.
He loved to tell stories and it seems like everyone has their own General Gray story. John Schmitt, the author of FMFM-1 Warfighting, once told me that General Gray only gave him input in the form of stories and he would then have to extrapolate the lesson contained therein. My story is that I went to an event at Marine Corps University where he was speaking. It was a weekend, so it was not very well attended but I lived in base housing at the time and I went in uniform. For some reason, I was the only one who did. When he was done speaking, he received the usual standing ovation as he walked out. Before walking out though he crossed the room to me and with a big grandpa-esque smile on his face, punched me straight in the chest. Then he walked away. He didn’t say a word and he didn’t need to say a word. I understood.
I also don’t need to drone on about him. He wouldn’t like it. There’s plenty out there on him, including a great 60 Minutes interview. Needless to say, he established the intellectual underpinning of what the Marine Corps is and will be in the future, even as platforms and doctrine change. Doctrine is the bridge between theory and practice, and the Marine Corps remains the only American service with a theory that grounds its role and its ethos in a philosophy. That’s thanks to General Gray.
Brett Friedman was kind enough to let Lethal Minds Journal reprint this from his excellent Substack, Fire for Effect, which you should be following if you care about tactics, operations, and strategy.
Written Word
Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.
June 2000 Country Club of Lansing Caddie Barn - Benjamin Van Horrick
“Man, my boy got a job at Chuck E. Cheese. No rainouts at Chuck E. Cheese.”
In a 12’ x 12’ room, 30 teenage caddies clad in identical hunter green polo shirts and khaki shorts wait out a rain delay with the hope the skies clear so they can caddie.
These rain delays breed the belief that working as a caddie was beneath us.
We were wrong.
Very wrong.
We were 12 to 17 years of age with few marketable skills and even less sense.
The job was simple enough: Stay to the right of your player. Arrive at the ball ahead of your player. Get the yardage to the hole. Give suggestions only when asked. Clean the ball on the green. Read the greens. But only if you knew how. Get the flag. On to the next hole. Stay out of the way. Talk as little as possible. Remain invisible until you become indispensable.
The barn is a room, not a barn. Above us is the country club pool, a place we would only see but never step inside. Around the corner, a massive garage houses hundreds of thousands of dollars of specialized golf course maintenance equipment. Next to John Deere equipment is the caddie’s enemy: The Golf Cart.
Each caddie congregates with its clan, with divisions drawn based on the high school attended. We were all united by our needs and wants. Our parents worked full-time, giving us a stable life, but with little left over. Anything more we wanted to become our responsibility. The money gave us a sense of freedom.
No thanks, Mom. No meatloaf for me. I am getting a Little Ceasars’ Hot and Ready and Crazy Bread.
Most of my fellow caddies competed against one another in youth sports, but now we compete against each other for the right to carry a middle-aged man’s prized golf clubs for five hours.
We make the occasional trip to the Fruitopia Machine as we wait for our turn playing Spades.
This was before cell phones- so, you turned to a sage 17-year-old for weather predictions and guidance.
You have no access to a phone, but your parents know you are not on the street or the couch. So that's a win for them.
Your parents will present this as a character-building exercise.
Patience, young caddie; this could be the day you caddie for a pillar of the community who will sing your praises, penning a college letter of recommendation or serving as a reference to a far more lucrative, stable position at Chuck E. Cheese.
But at that moment, in your teenage mind, it is not character building.
It‘s a goddamn waste of time.
The rain will let up or keep raining; either way, you are fucked.
If the rain does not stop, you will not get money, and the course will remain closed on Monday. The one-day caddies can play this course free of charge, a perk of strapping a bag on your back all day long.
If the rain does stop, there is no guarantee you will get a bag. If you do get a bag, you will have to contend with slow play, a longer course due to the massive amount of rain, and punitive trips to the rough.
To top it all off, the rain means ‘lift, clean and place” is in effect. Because of the rainfall, a drive will bore into the fairway. So, the club allows the player to mark their ball and, after, toss it to their caddie for cleaning, and the player is handed a pristine ball in return. Those kitting the fairway will receive this accommodation. If your player hits it into the rough, they do not receive the benefit of lift, clean, and place. They chop at the ball, curse the result, and walk in silence to their next shot.
The rain delayed the round, your plans, and guaranteed your shoes will remain wet until next Saturday.
The Caddie Master controls your Saturday. A man you met a few times in passing and will assign you, based on his whim, to a middle-aged upper-class man. Clad in dressed pants, golf shoes, and an oversized polo, the caddie master is armed only with his clipboard and miniature pencil, playing matchmaker between older men and teenage boys. His sheet is protected by an oversized zip lock bag as he checks the radar, praying his Saturday is not a wash.
The caddie master must maintain relationships through an entire summer. He gambles his reputation on 14- to 18-year-old boys with little supervision and less sense. Caddies bike, walk, or catch rides to work. You walk an assigned route to the starter as the caddie master greets you with a terse hello, thanking his chosen deity that a 14-year boy kept his word.
The vocation of the caddie was the original gig economy. We didn’t sign a contract. All cash compensation. The Department of Labor didn’t inspect work conditions. The training was minimal, forcing new caddies to rely on older, seasoned caddies for pointers. As far as awkward social interactions, you figured out how to navigate that minefield.
We could caddie as much or as little as possible. After a bad loop, you could walk away with a handsome sovereign package of green polo, a summer's worth of golf tees, ball markers, and, if you were lucky, a sleeve of new golf balls.
If you never showed your face again, few would know and less would care.
The caddie was expendable - the original gig economy.
However, the country club did not exploit labor; rather, it offered skills and an opportunity. At the age of 15 in Michigan, you could obtain a work permit, but at the age of 12, you could start as a caddie. Show up for two days of training in the spring, take a test, and pass - you get the prized green polo. You dial a number, show up at a certain time, get a bag, and five hours later, a 12-year-old is 20 bucks richer. What other business in America offers the same bargain to young people?
However, serving as a caddie gave low- and middle-class kids a sense of America’s upper-middle class. In the late 1990s, the distance between those two population segments was far smaller than today. These men were well-off, but they still worked long hours, at demanding jobs, solving complex problems.
When you are 14 or 15, you could take your place as a bag boy at the local grocery store. The steady paycheck came at the cost of loose autonomy. Your hours are set by someone else and your day could get derailed by a spill in Aisle 4.
Or you could roll the dice and caddie. Maybe you loop for an insurance agent, lawyer, or doctor. They may slip you a beer or buy you a turkey sandwich at the turn.
The round ends with your player getting a sand save on the 18th, and he wins his Nassau. For him, he takes the money of his friends, avoids his honey-do list, and drinks beers before noon without the familiar stigma associated. You, as a caddie, feel part of the win. You feel your skillset contributed to the gambling win.
Your player hands you cash at the end of the round, and you try to return the brand new Titleist, but he lets you keep them. He shakes your hand and thanks you for your help. “Any time sir,” you reply.
You hand off the bag at the starter and waltz to the designated caddie pick area without a worry in the world. You are 40 dollars richer, and a fine sleeve of golf balls is yours. Soon, those golf balls will end up in the pond on the local municipal course. But nothing will take away your feeling of freedom, as a literal load is taken off your shoulders. Your socks and shoes will remain damp for days. Your back will remain tight for a few hours and your thighs will remain raw from the rubbing as you walked mile after mile. Those are concerns for later.
All typical teenage boy topics now exhausted, there is a lull in the conversation.
One caddie interjects, “You hear Chuck E. Cheese is hiring?”
“Yeah, but you have to dress up like a rat.”
Killers In Their Youth - Nick Efstathiou
The following is an excerpt from Killers in Their Youth written by Nick Efstathiou and published by Dead Reckoning Collective. Nick is an OG member of the Lethal Minds Journal editorial team, an Army Vet, a history teacher, and a military historian. He wrote the book for the Young Adult crowd and their parents as a way to help guide conversations about our nation and its history. The book releases on March 29, 2024.
“Carefully, Ken unfolded the cloth and found himself holding a large flag with a swastika on it. There were holes and dark stains in it. After a moment of holding it, Ken folded the flag back the way it had been, and when he went to set it back down he saw the flag had been resting on a wooden cigar box. Curious, Ken set the flag off to one side and opened the large box.
Within it, he found a pistol he knew to be a Luger resting atop some papers and a few photographs. He had seen similar weapons in books on World War Two. The pistol’s barrel rested on a small, dark booklet stained and frayed around the edges. The word upon it was difficult to read. As he looked closer, Ken realized the word was written in a different language.
Intrigued, Ken picked up the booklet and opened it. He found himself looking at a photograph of a young man.
“You’re a strange boy, Ken.”
Ken jerked around and saw his grandfather. The man stood just inside the room, a fresh bottle of beer in hand. His grandfather flashed one of his rare smiles. “I know every board that creaks in this house. Can make my way through it without making a sound. Used to scare the hell out of your father.
“Now,” his grandfather continued, “if you were your father, you’d be holding that Luger like you were Jesse James. But you picked up the book.”
“Is it a book, sir?” Ken asked, glancing down at it.
His grandfather nodded and took a drink. “Oh, that it is. A damned important one, too.”
The old man crossed the room on surprisingly silent feet. He held out his hand, and Ken placed the book in it.
“I took this off a German I killed outside of a little ‘berg in Germany.” His grandfather sipped at his beer. “It was hard, Ken. I was twenty years old. Turns out he was eighteen. His camouflage had been good. I never saw him in the snow. Not until he moved. Just a moment too soon.”
Ken watched his grandfather thumb open the book.
“His name was Rolfe,” the old man sighed. “I had to use my knife, Ken. It was damned hard. I don’t think anyone can tell you what it’s going to be like when you stab a man to death.”
Ken remained silent, his eyes upon his grandfather, whose features softened as he spoke.
“I don’t know why I took the book and his papers, his photos,” his grandfather closed the book and stared at it. “A few years ago, I got in touch with some guys in the German army. They helped me try to find Rolfe’s family. I wanted to mail this back to them. Kind of say I was sorry for having killed their boy.”
Ken’s grandfather shook his head, then took another, longer drink from the bottle.
“The family was dead,” the old man continued. “Dead from a bombing run a few days before I killed the boy. I doubt he knew about it. I’m sure he thought they were alive. I tried to take comfort in that. I tried for a long time.”
Ken’s grandfather handed him the book.
“It’s his soldier’s book,” the old man explained as Ken returned it to the spot he had taken it from. “It tells us everything about him as a soldier. He was more than that, though. He was someone’s baby boy.”
Ken’s grandfather sighed and finished his beer.
“We were all something more before the war, Ken. Trouble is, sometimes, we can’t remember what that was.”
Stranger - Trevor Hubbs
There is an old bank downtown. Last used in the 1940’s, it’s a boutique coffee shop now. Its baristas sit behind the elegant mahogany counter meant for the bank tellers. There is a small table and couch set up in the old vault, with the door welded in the open for ambiance. The check-writing station is a display case for local struggling artists, and the skylight is painted with peace signs and progressive political slogans in brilliant purple and pink. The shop is eight blocks from the Trade building and six blocks from the University. This location and decor make it the perfect hiding place to escape the business types, their summer interns, and the undeserved swagger that comes with them, while avoiding the stray fraternity or sorority type, or worse, a stray professor. It is a haven for those who don’t belong or who choose not to belong. For eight months I got coffee every day in this shop mostly people-watching, reading, and wasting time skating through classes and creating backstories for the other who sought refuge there. Although we never spoke, or interacted beyond a brief glance or acknowledging nod, they were some of the most interesting people I have ever not met.
The process is slower than the saying suggests. "He didn't recognize himself anymore" is used commonly enough in the American vernacular. It suggests an abrupt paradigm shift in life, portrayed in movies and books by a scene in which a character is looking in the mirror and seeing a new version of themselves usually associated with some dramatic event in the character's life. In this case, however, there was no dramatic mirror scene. No abrupt change in lifestyle of chaotic events, for him it happened gradually. He was from the finance district, not poorly dressed but, clearly, not responsible for putting together his own outfits. While the clothes were in fine taste and surely had been selected by a fashion-conscious tailor, probably from Dei Giovani or the Balani’s, he failed to understand how to match the components together. He wore a small pin on his lapel, a hand with a sword on a field of blue that read “take it and follow me”, a mark of his military service. He probably grew up somewhere rural, the twang in his voice when he ordered suggested the south but not so far south as to be considered gentlemanly.
He, along with the other tenants of our small haven from the world, had, more or less, assigned seats. His was against the north wall, near a large bay type window with original dark wood trim. He ordered a hot coffee regardless of the season and, usually, a muffin or croissant. His hair was cut short, not light enough to be considered blonde nor could it be called red or brown. He ordered his drink, took his seat, and began working on a laptop, something clearly foreign and unfamiliar to him as he hunted and pecked with index fingers from 2:00 – 4:00 p.m every day before leaving for the train station.
Years of doing the next right thing, or what seemed to be it just never quite seemed to work out. He lived in a bigger house than the one he grew up in, drove a nicer car than anyone in this home town, had a beautiful wife and two great kids, yet he was not happy. His own happiness had never occurred to him for he truly had no reason to be unhappy, especially given the state of the world and his juxtaposition with the average person he passed on the street or met with every day.
Walking into the office every day through the well-manicured garden between the front door and the parking area, a blip of green amidst the asphalt and cement world, he crossed the walkway in front of the mirrored windows of the building. The reflection showed his aging chubby body, the hooded restless eyes, and the defeated slumping shoulders once so broad and proud. This couldn’t really be the man on his resume, the man who set out to conquer the world years ago. In his mind, he was still an infantry sergeant running his unit with absolute certainty. Certain of the mission, certain of his men, certain of himself, and the righteous justice of his existence.
But that wasn't who he was anymore, not who he'd been for years. Maybe that's when he stopped recognizing himself, stopped being happy. He did the responsible things; the things everyone says you should do. After the military he took an entry-level business role his father helped get him an interview for, went back to school for a business degree, and climbed the corporate ladder. Now he was a seasoned, respectable, upper-level executive at a construction management firm. He had a new daughter, a great house, more money than he had ever thought possible, and the financial ability to pursue any leisure hobby he desired, and he was dead inside.
Who knows why some men can't cope with life, why some end it, and why some cling to the shadow of an existence once known. In this case, it was stubbornness I imagine. He'd spent more time as an executive than he'd spent as a soldier. Life had given him so much and taken so little, but it had taken enough. He struggled through, only to save his family the hassle of his funeral and their grief. Too stubborn to succumb and take his last chance at peace. Too stubborn to finish the fight he wasn't even interested in anymore. No, he would go on. Day after day, year after year, decade after decade. Stumbling through life devoid of happiness, removed from the burden of emotion and empathy, simply participating.
He drank his large mocha and typed his meaningless corporate reports, faking the "passion" his corporate partners wanted to see, faking the drive to "destroy the competition". You could see the last embers and ashes of anger in his eyes left over after years of fighting the internal struggle against his best intentions. He had invested too much of himself tcultivating the traits needed to fit into a place where passion for success meant saving men's lives and making sure he was always first through the door, where the drive to destroy the competition was a desire to kill human beings. Early on he had made a point to correct his co-workers and leaders every time they used these ridiculous phrases. He had tried to explain his position and experience to each of his superiors in the hope they would see the ridiculousness of their phrasing and the incredible hypocrisy of treating these insignificant business dealings with the same intensity as military service. But the fire that drove that behavior was only ashes now, all but extinguished by years of no one understanding what he meant by his corrections or how ridiculous repeating these built-up phrases and false competitiveness made him feel.
You could watch his blue eyes get grayer with every email, every word he typed toeing the company line, writing fake reports of success through "sacrifice for the group", “unit cohesiveness” and "destroying the competition". He laughed it off with his office colleagues, but you could see the defeat and betrayal he felt in his heart every time an army recruiting ad came on the small television in the corner of the coffee shop, or a group of soldiers walked by the window on their way to the train station, then the airport, and finally basic training. Those young men had everything he didn't. Not money, power, education, or leisure time, but meaning. While he sat there sipping a hot coffee and typing reports on sales in the northern midwest, they were on their way to life's greatest adventure without him.
Eventually, summer ended and he stopped coming into the shop. The comfy, oversized chair by the bay window was empty for a day, then a week, then a month. The coffee shop was no worse for wear and, eventually, a group of young girls took his place between their college classes. They were full of giggles and talk of boys and progressive politics. The corner where he had sat seemed brighter and happier with the girls’ presence. Eventually, I caught myself not seeing it as the stranger's chair anymore. I'd like to think I am the last holdout of remembrance as the barista and other patrons seemed to give the man's disappearance no credence. But why would they? To them, he was one less mocha latte and pumpkin muffin or one more seat to be filled. To me and the other patrons, he was just a stranger with a frown and a laptop. But, if my observations are correct, that’s all he was to himself.
Poetry and Art
Poetry and art from the warfighting community.
Welcome - Jariko Denman @Laidbackberserker
Welcome!!
Leaves, grounds, flesh that you ordered
Dropped in indifferent heat
steeped of growth
Gulp it fast and feel some burn
as always though, only on your terms
feel the rush
Just like yesterday, and tomorrow
Nowhere
-Open the machine
put us where we belong
In your trash
BASTEAN - Tom Headle
I met you briefly, a day before you went away.
We had been transported from our patrol base to FOB Nolay.
We were tasked with a clearing operation, Eastern Storm.
Our job, to clear the path of IEDs; a reliance on our senses to perform.
But before we step off, there is just one thing we must do.
A locker full of explosives, I’ll pack a satchel, maybe two.
We need to make charges, just in case.
For if we stumble upon an IED, it would be better to blow in place.
As we stood there, crafting our makeshift bomb,
“Snap, snap, snap snap snap,” we look around, where is it coming from?
Turns out the Taliban thought they could pop our all-seeing blimp.
So round after round, they shot, hoping it’d go limp.
Eventually, the snaps of rifle rounds ceased
We had assembled what was needed and were pleased.
Squad by Squad, we embarked armored trucks
We would drive to FOB Rob, taking the 611 and testing our luck.
Arriving at the base, faces hidden on each post,
Night falls, we hunker down, seeking rest, an ambivalent host.
With cramped quarters and plywood, we make a lean two at most,
Into slumber I fade, weariness settles like a heavy dose.
It’s still dark when I jolt awake.
Gear ready, rifle, metal detector, pack, and this yellow telescopic hooked rake.
They trained us to use it, to scrape for initiators or wires.
But if you set one off, all those fragments headed your way, the least of my desires.
I don my gear after I finish my food.
MREs, the tasteless fare, hardly considered good.
Rifle and Battery checked, ready for the mission ahead,
I’ll be the first out the gate, “It’s go time.” I said.
My orders were to cross the road, not too fast or slow,
Through the wide wadi, is where we begin the show.
I sat in the open, waiting on the JDAMs, patience as my guide,
I hear thumps and cracks, see a smoke plume and blast wave wash out like a tide.
This is my signal, I rise and begin to sweep,
Through the soft and wet mud, my ankles sink deep.
My arm swings wide as I hear the constant ‘tick.’
My metal detector will save lives, I know it. But to others it’s just a stick.
Who knew clearing compounds would be such a monotonous task.
Hut to hut, “bombs… weapons… drugs?” we ask.
Nothing turns up, we’re empty handed and the sun continues to bake
Holy shit this pack is getting heavy, I wonder if we will get a break.
Exiting the compound, I head down another trail
A gut feeling, not sure what, but I move as slow as a snail.
As I take another step, I hear the scream of my detector.
I get a hit in the wall, it’s large, an unknown specter.
Halting abruptly, cautious not to set anything off,
I glance downward, "Are you fucking kidding me?" I scoff.
A pressure plate in the dirt, nestled at the heart of my boot,
Holy shit that was close, my fate nearly moot.
Frozen in place, averted disaster sinking in,
Adrenaline starts pumping from toe to chin.
A step back from peril, a brush with doom,
“Time to dig,” I say with a tone of gloom.
Curiosity piques, anticipation fills the air,
Behind me, waiting, other Marines wondering whats hidden there.
With cautious precision, I scrape away ever so slight,
I find the edges and a white wire, I’m washed over with fright.
“Hey, I’ve got one!” I yell back.
Luckily we’ve got EOD nearby, I guess I’ll guard it and have a snack.
At this time, Bastean begins to clear a landing zone, just in case
He sweeps through the field, ensuring a safe space.
While I'm waiting, I spot my fellow engineer,
Standing on a metal bridge, searching, making it clear.
But what sense does it make, detecting metal on metal's trace,
A paradoxical challenge, a perplexing embrace.
We exchange a knowing glance, our eyes locked in thought,
Yeah, I get it…In this cat-and-mouse game, dangers must be sought.
Hidden threats lurk where we least expect,
Our skills and intuition we must truly perfect.
A burst of machine gun fire erupts from the south,
‘Snaps’ all around, “Get the fuck down!” I blurt out my mouth.
We take cover on the other side and look for guidance on what to do,
I look at the engineer and say, “I guess it’s just me and you.”
Incoming rounds slow down and cease,
“We’ve got one down, Corpsman!” the radio decrees.
We sit there and wait as one squad is incoming,
A limp body in the arms, no thoughts, just numbing.
They rush towards the base we recently left,
'They won't open the gates,' someone says, feeling bereft.
We wait in silence, hearts gripped by despair,
Praying for swift action, for help to be there.
Minutes stretch like hours, tension thick in the air,
‘Fuck it, ram through the gate!” the commander says without a care.
Through tears and fatigue, Marines unite to mend,
Coming together as one, a wounded comrade meets his end.
No time to dwell on this tragic moment in time,
Blowing the IED, pushing forward, another wall to climb.
Welcome to Sangin, I say to myself with dread,
Wondering when fate will claim me, to sit alongside the dead.
Writing It Down - Doug Patteson
I had a thought
A revelation
I know
I should write it down
Deep
And meaningful
It touched me
Explained me
And I know I need to
Write it down
Right now
But the groceries need to be
Unloaded
And the trash taken out
And my workout done
And papers graded
And
And
And
Then it is gone
Fragments only remain
Tendrils of the mind’s flame
That burned so brightly before
Wispy thoughts dissipating
Then gone
The moment never to be reclaimed
I should have written it down
——————————
This ends Volume 21, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01APRIL2024)
The window is now open for Lethal Minds’ twenty first volume, releasing May 1st, 2024.
All art and picture submissions are due as PDFs or JPEG files to our email by midnight on 20 April 2024.
All written submissions are due as 12 point font, double spaced, Word documents to our email by midnight on 20 April 2024.
lethalmindsjournal@gmail.com
Special thanks to the volunteers and team that made this journal possible: