Lethal Minds Volume 29

Volume 29, 01 December, 2024

Letter from the Editor

Many of us watched the evacuation of Kabul in dismay, anger, confusion, and perhaps a sense of betrayal. The deaths of thirteen Marines, sailors, and a soldier at the Abbey Gate seemed to cap off two decades of muddled strategy and unclear purpose. It all combined to engender a lasting current of distrust amongst some sectors of the veteran community, many of whom are still asking “What the hell was that for exactly?” 

I was only sixty days retired from a multi-decade career as a United States Marine on August 31, 2021, the day I consider the official end of the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan and twenty years of international efforts to help them stand on their own feet as a democratic nation. I spent the last two weeks of its existence frantically working phones and email to try and salvage something out of it all. Now, watching YouTube videos of Taliban gunmen rollerblading through Kabul’s streets seems like an almost fitting end to what became an exercise of playing “Who’s on first?” with an ever-changing cast of Commanders of the International Security Assistance Force-Afghanistan. I lost count somewhere around the time their number exceeded the number of years in the war. Hell, even Wikipedians gave up updating that list in 2014. 

I am angry about the way it all ended. I suspect I always will be. I spent thirteen months of my life in Afghanistan and missed the birth of my only child for my tiny part in our efforts there. Many more people gave much more than I. So, I am sympathetic to the desire for some accountability at the Four-Star level. I am even more sympathetic to the notion that politicians and policymakers, secretaries and strategists, all notoriously adept at dodging arrows and snatching laurels, owe some explanation for how we failed in an effort that began so righteously in the ashes of planes and buildings. After all, we believe in civilian control of the military and, as a friend and fellow retired Marine said to me, “Civilian control means civilians have reciprocal obligations.” This brings us to the case of Lieutenant General Chris Donahue, who, as of this writing, is under consideration for a fourth star and assignment as Commander, U.S. Army Europe. 

Donahue’s three decades of volunteer service includes combat as a member and leader of some of America’s most elite formations. As a Major General and the commander of the 82nd Airborne Division, a tactical command with no policy responsibilities whatsoever other than their execution at civilian direction, Donahue was ordered to Afghanistan on August 16, 2021, with fifteen days to slow down a stone that had been rolling downhill over four presidencies. Famously photographed as the last American to leave Afghan soil, Donahue set the standard for how a military officer comports himself. 

Now, for doing as he was ordered to by policymakers, Donahue’s nomination to higher command has been delayed by a U.S. Senator. It’s that Senator’s right, of course. But when applied to a tactical commander, it smacks of pure political theater and a betrayal of the obligations inherent to civilian control of the military. I’ll admit it seems on brand for the political class, but it still serves as a reminder to servicemembers that the chance of getting stabbed in the back is real off the battlefield.

Donahue did what America has expected of her military for the entirety of our nation’s existence. Handed an order and end state, he executed aggressively in the face of a foregone conclusion. Now, yet another multi-millionaire politician is using that for political fodder. President John F. Kennedy said of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, “Success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan,” but perhaps Rudyard Kipling was more instructive when he wrote, 

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

For all that, the essence of service is its persistence in the face of adversity. You can bet LTG Donahue will display the truth that with dignity in the coming weeks and months. Likewise, we have thoughts on service from veteran and active service members herein. Enjoy a look at what it takes to mobilize a Swiss reserve headquarters company and laugh with a US Army intelligence team preparing for war, consider thoughts on how Ukraine can prosecute its war against Russia and how veterans can serve in meeting America’s energy needs. Creatively, enjoy fiction, poetry, and fine art from your sister and brother vets. Most of all, offer your comments. Better yet, join us. 

We need your thoughts. 

Fire for Effect,
Russell Worth Parker
Editor in Chief - Lethal Minds Journal

Submissions are open at lethalmindsjournal.submissions@gmail.com

Dedicated to those who serve, those who have served, 
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In This Issue

The World Today

The Annual Maneuver of a Reserve Unit

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Paths Forward for Ukraine

Opinion

Veterans and Advanced Energy

The Written Word

Book Camp Must Suck

Probing Leadership: How Fort Polk Became the Proving Ground for my Soldiers

A Song for Daniel

Poetry and Art

“Meanwhile the world goes on”

Stray

Lani Hankins Artwork

The World Today

Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.

The Annual Maneuver of a Reserve Unit

Jonas Frey

As a regular officer of the Swiss Armed Forces, I am also obliged to go through an annual four-week maneuver with my reserve unit. Switzerland doesn’t have a standing army, but yearly puts roughly 20,000 conscripts through basic training and trains them as NCOs, SNCOs, and officers. The core of this conscription program are around 3000 regular officers and NCOs. The following are my thoughts and weekly summary of the past four weeks of intense training with my unit—a headquarters company of a headquarters battalion. The yearly training comprises a preparatory week for the reserve cadre, followed by the mobilization of the battalion, initial refresher training, and a long exercise with the following demobilization.

Before the Cadre Preparation Course

Tomorrow, my annual refresher course begins with the cadre preparation course. What many see as an obligation, I view as the highlight of my annual performance. Having my company in front of me and implementing all that I, as a professional soldier, always criticize in everything and everyone, trying new things, empowering people, and conveying sense—this is my own annual practical exercise, my benchmark, my public qualification.

Much is said about leadership by example, and anything I'm not willing to implement or apply in military service is removed from my role model repertoire. Every year, I see old acquaintances and new faces, receive direct feedback, and witness my planning errors unfold in real-time. I get to make decisions, live with the consequences, and lead MY company through the service with great joy. Even though we strive for perfection, reserve service remains a lived Pareto principle. I'm proud of this, feel humility, and am grateful for the trust placed in me.

Before the First Week

Tomorrow, my company reports for duty, and we're ready for it! However, this isn't a given, and during the previous cadre preparation course, I gained the following insights:

The parallelism of tasks in reserve service can hardly be managed without the pre-service commitment and planning effort of the cadre. We're already planning the end of the course; although the troops haven't arrived yet, new equipment has only been introduced to the cadre, and we haven't even done the problem assessment for the following exercise.

To create enough space for new tasks, a deputy must not only be constantly briefed but must already be at the helm in the cold state. In the Navy, the commander doesn't stand at the helm, nor does he run the daily business; that's what he has the XO, the Executive Officer, for. The transfer of civilian knowledge into troop service succeeds, not only in terms of expertise but also and especially in leadership.

Surprisingly—or perhaps not—many reserve cadre members also hold leadership positions in civilian life and have experience there, as well as a value-based corporate culture. Through conversation and demonstration, this must now be transferred to the army. This helps service members adjust more quickly and reduces the need to switch between civilian life and military service.

The coming weeks remain exciting, and I'm looking forward to this service to serve and perform together.

After the First Week

After a strenuous first week, we begin unit training on Monday.

Looking back on this first week of this year’s maneuver, I'm left with the following thoughts:

We are all humans!

This may sound like a truism, and people-oriented leadership is a declared goal of our army. Nevertheless, I've gained insight into the concerns and needs of our soldiers this past week. The stress in their civilian environment is sometimes very demanding, and it's not easy to reconcile this with reserve service.

My platoon leaders are responsible for implementation, with personnel planning for more than 40 troops and NCOs with over 100 cross-platoon personal leaves being no easy task. Basically, humans, like soldiers, need little to be content. This includes a bed, sanitary facilities, regular meals, and especially in the here and now: information. This thirst for information—when do I need to be where, in what condition, and what's next—is always increasing in my experience and sometimes pushes the system to its limits. If details for the coming weeks must be clear at the soldier level—not least because of leave—then the fine-grained planning must also fit at all superior levels.

Strict adherence to the leadership rhythm is particularly important but requires a certain level of experience at all levels and thinking ahead by all chiefs. Flexibility (a principle of combat) must not be confused with lack of planning. An important input provider for me said: “Those who have a plan can improvise. Those who don't have a plan must improvise.”

I'm looking forward to the upcoming unit training and always keep the following in mind:

“Those who think they have sufficient means to fulfill their mission have not understood the mission.”

With this fortune cookie aphorism, I continue to serve and perform together with my company!

Major Exercise in the Second Week

I draw the following interim conclusion in the middle of unit training and at the end of the second week of my service:

Sustainability

Operating a service wheel—shift work with compensation regulation—is challenging. Coupled with the many mandatory personal leaves, it becomes a Sisyphean planning task that forces every leadership level to think at the bottom, at the soldier level. Our most important resource is the human being, and their basic needs must be ensured even in military service.

On the topic of personal leave: Recently, some comrades in my company have started their studies, while others are continuing their studies or further education. Unfortunately, the post-COVID remote trend hasn't persisted, and many leaves simply must be granted for physical attendance at mandatory university modules. I have only limited understanding for the apparent gradual elimination of remote options at universities.

Reporting System / Leadership Rhythm

"The time spent on any item of the agenda will be in inverse proportion to the sum involved."

C. Northcote Parkinson.

The following best practice has proven effective:

▪️ Publish an agenda (Factors: Personnel, Mission/Deployment, Logistics, Leadership; looking back at the last 24 hours and forward to the next 48 hours).

▪️ Demand preparation from participants

▪️ Set and adhere to the maximum meeting time; keep it short.

▪️ Find the sweet spot between bilateral problem solving and getting everyone on board.

▪️ Track pending issues

This sounds logical but requires discipline and, especially in connection with the service wheel, handover phases due to leave replacements and shift changes.

Personal Conversation with Subordinates

I'm allowed to maintain a good relationship with my soldiers. I always point out that discrepancies and problems must first be clarified with the direct superior, but I have an open-door policy. But that's not enough to feel the pulse. Just on Friday, I had a conversation lasting several hours with a handful of soldiers and was able not only to get direct feedback but also to hear what information reaches the bottom after the long telephone game of military leadership. That my soldiers and brothers open up to me is a privilege and underlines my interpretation of people-oriented leadership.

Now we're starting the final sprint of unit training, the final sprint of our service, and thus the preparation for the return to base logistics.

All Good Things Come to an End

It's done; the service with my company has successfully ended. This is what I take away:

Leading when it gets difficult.

The end of service presents the greatest challenge in leadership. It's not about tired people who can soon go home being more difficult to lead, but that probably the most complex action of a reserve maneuver is the transition back to civilian life—demobilization.

Here, Brooks's Law comes into play:

"Adding manpower to a late software project makes it later." Fred Brooks

Not only must demobilization be planned early and in detail but bringing those responsible up to speed while the previous action is still running is the crux.

Keep it short and simple.

Plans must be simple, then complexity can be added. Especially when dealing with our reserve, regular soldiers and personnel, whether in uniform or civilian clothes, must be careful to keep things simple. Simplicity is a principle of combat and is often compensated for by experience—experience with processes that the reserve often lacks.

This inevitably reminds me of John Gall's law:

"A complex system that works is invariably found to have evolved from a simple system that worked. A complex system designed from scratch never works and cannot be patched up to make it work. You have to start over with a working simple system."

In the end, we managed it together, and the reserve members of my company are safely back home until the next service, which I'm already looking forward to. Many thanks to all involved, a happy return to family life, and furthermore, that we hopefully won't need the skills we've demonstrated in our service in a real emergency!

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Paths forward for Ukraine

Hunter Keeley

Western military alliances are having a tough go of it in 2024. Intervention-skeptic political parties have exceeded expectations across the West, from American and German elections to Polish and French polls. Everywhere, the stark economic burden of financing foreign wars, in East Europe, the Levant, or Africa, and providing aid to their victims is questioned, as domestic obligations appear underfunded and unattended.

Most significantly, the dependability of American aid to Ukraine, over $175 billion of which has so far defined the Western response to the Russian invasion – massive, if cautious, material support without boots on the ground – is in question. Howsoever the incoming American administration might negotiate a deal or a truce in that war, Ukraine is now looking down the barrel of a future in which the lurching flow of red Javelin Missiles, white Patriot Batteries, and blue dollar bills is set to diminish, if not entirely vanish.

Ukrainian leadership has long hedged its bets against a shift in the winds of international sentiment, forging ties with political parties of every persuasion and making every effort to demonstrate that their war is not only noble, but winnable. Nevertheless, as American aid subsides, Ukraine will need to further adapt its own behavior and strategy to forestall Russian advances through its eastern oblasts. Their spate of options is not great. Still, one tactic Ukraine can employ to constrain Russia is by attempting to “re-internationalize” their fight against the Russian invasion.

Security guarantees, to include NATO’s Article 5, internationalize conflict. Alliances in which an attack on one is an attack on all deter regional disputes from boiling over into outright conflict because, in defensive circumstances, they throw regional balances of powers out the window by bringing a coterie of global firepower to the table. Ukraine enjoys no such official guarantees. However, American spend-thriftiness has had similar internationalizing effects on Ukraine’s war. Instead of a mere flareup in a regional backwater, the likes of which Russia enjoyed in Crimea a decade ago, this time around Ukraine’s newly modernized military found a force multiplier in American aid and dealt effects to Russia’s military outside the scope of Ukraine’s capabilities alone.

Putin, regardless of whatever miscalculations accompanied his decision to invade, keenly understands the regional-to-international spectrum of conflict. How the war is defined and understood either limits or delimits the opponents Putin’s generals face at any given moment. On the one hand, the war is local, and Putin’s “special military operation”, motivated only by a desire to protect ethnic Russians in parts of Ukraine that are debatably more Russian than Ukrainian, is opposed only by his misguided brethren across the Dnipro. On the other hand, the war is global, and Putin’s unconscionable invasion of a nearly-European country is a provocation to the West in its entirety and can be placed neatly in a civilizational struggle between Democratic and Autocratic nations.

Whatever rationale caused the United States to back Ukraine so strongly these past few years – whether because all free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin; or because a condition of Ukraine’s 1994 denuclearization was security against invasion; or because for NATO the Cold War never ended; or because, as Putin sometimes claims, decadent Western powers desire the corruption and downfall of the Russian state – it is in Ukraine’s interests to stoke and revive them, if not for the promise of future aid, then at least in order to keep the Russia-Ukraine War in a global context and prevent Putin’s narrative, that it is all just a special military operation, from taking hold. As it happens, this is neither the first time that imperialists have tried to paint a violent attack as a neighborly dispute, nor the first time that a nation beset by invasion has sought to convince those across the English Channel and Atlantic Ocean that faraway battles might be worth fighting. An unexpected historic analogue can guide Ukraine’s efforts to preserve its ties to the Western world.

The Spanish Civil War took place at a moment when isolationist tendencies reached their high watermark. Still reeling from the Great Depression, developed nations adopted policies of non-intervention, despite widespread understanding that the Spanish Civil War was the front line in the emerging struggle between Bolshevism and Fascism. Pearl Harbor had not yet relaxed the Monroe Doctrine’s hold on American politics, so no support, for either side, was forthcoming from there either.

Nonetheless, Spanish Republicans and Nationalists fought for a global audience, and international opinion checked military planners’ impulses throughout the war. Because of the conflict’s ideological proportions, both sides attracted large numbers of foreign fighters to join their cause. The Nationalists actually enjoyed the relatively formal support of the Condor Legion, a Luftwaffe detachment of planes and pilots. On the other hand, a menagerie of high-profile adventurers and idealists joined the Republicans’ International Brigades. Famously, Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell would go on to write about their experiences in Spain. Today, Ukraine’s Foreign Legion is reportedly 20,000 strong. However, luminaries of Hemingway’s stature are presently absent from its ranks.

Particularly as the tide of battle turns against it, Ukraine is unlikely to inspire a surge of volunteers for its International Legion. Still, the foreign fighters on both sides who do exist are a relatively untapped resource for Ukraine. The first North Korean soldier fighting today for Russia that is captured should be paraded and interviewed in front of the global media, and then offered a lucrative resettlement and amnesty package in exchange for his continued cooperation as proof that Russia sees fit to use regiments of its allies’ soldiers in a ‘military operation.’ There is a reason Russian talking heads have been conspicuously silent on, and indeed have made denials about, the North Koreans in Kursk. Separately, it is past time to confer celebrity status to some heroes in Ukraine’s International Legion. An Instagram page is a good place to start.

Foreigners fighting in Ukraine are not the only conduit available for Ukrainians to show their war to the world. The Spanish Civil War’s most lasting intrusion into the global psyche was brought about not by a soldier, but by an artist. After bombs dropped by German Junker and Heinkel airplanes leveled a small Spanish town by the same name, Pablo Picasso painted Guernica, which he then displayed at the 1937 Paris International Exhibition. The painting’s reception was lukewarm, but Picasso had planted seeds of dissonance which would plague the Nationalist cause for decades to come. No matter how Francisco Franco, the Nationalist General who would become Spain’s Prime Minister, tried to tell the story of their Civil War, to include with reference to Spain’s nonparticipation in the Second World War, the Guernica testified to the Nazi bombing of women and children at the genesis of his rule. By throwing thousands of North Koreans at Ukrainian positions, Ukraine has an opportunity to bind Putin’s progress in the war to that hermit country. The brutal but compelling logic that the Russian blood spilled to take the Donbas legitimizes Russian rule there is undermined by each drop of Korean blood spilt, if only Ukraine can remind the world of the fact.

Guernica was commissioned by the Republican government. Ukraine could commission a memorial to North Korean lives lost in the Ukraine war, perhaps utilizing the agrarian history the two nations both take pride in to create common ground. Though the North Koreans fight enthusiastically for Russia, their foot soldiers are no less victims of the invasion than their Ukrainian counterparts. Indeed, Ukraine might also include ethnic minorities Putin has shoveled into his war machine in the memorial. The irony that Ukraine, not Russia, could be the first to commemorate Putin’s own fallen is sick enough to gain some sticking power in geopolitical discourse. Lord knows the Kremlin, inoculated to the costs of war and loath to suggest that a North Korean ever won territory for Moscow, is not likely to put up a monument of its own. The last task would be to put it somewhere accessible for Western media to reference when reporting on elections in the Luhansk and Donetsk People’s Republics.

Whatever their ability to keep Ukraine’s war an international affair, memorials and celebrities will not make up for the falling off of American aid. They were not significant enough to reverse the fortunes of war in the Spanish Civil War. However, a critical difference in the nature of the Spanish Civil War and the War in Ukraine today indicates that there is reason to believe that Ukraine can fill at least some of the gap in support left by the United States’ changing policies. For all its Bolshevik and Fascist subtext, and for all the international warriors of fortune that flocked to the Riviera, the actual Bolshevik and Fascist power centers did not care that much who won and lost the Spanish Civil War. Germany sent a fighter squadron to validate theories about area bombing, and the Soviets directed the Comintern to back the Republicans, but neither had enough at stake to get more involved. France was equally unconcerned with the actual outcome. Critically, neither the Spanish Nationalists nor the Spanish Republicans had ever invaded other countries, and so neither side posed a credible threat to international interests.

In Ukraine, the situation is markedly different. The Polish, for all their emergent Russophilia, still have in living memory the Katyn Massacre, in which the Red Army executed nearly 22,000 Polish military officers. The Germans, whatever the Sara Wagenknecht Alliance may claim, will have an easier time recalling the Stasi. Point being, Spain’s neighbors could tolerate a world in which either the Republicans or the Nationalists took control of Spain. Ukraine’s neighbors might not be able to cope with a world where Ukraine collapses. So, Ukraine finds itself in a similar position to American banks in 2008, except instead of the Federal Reserve, the bailout may come from Germany and Poland. Not that those countries aren’t already generously backing Ukraine’s struggle, Germany has given over 35 billion euros, and Poland nearly 4 billion, but to them Ukraine might be “too big to fail.”

The most likely candidates to backfill American aid are countries with firsthand experience of Soviet occupation. They won’t match American quantities, but then again, you don’t need to destroy a Russian T-72 twice. To squeeze more aid out of these donors, Ukraine has to thread a semantic needle. Without their aid, Ukraine will be so weakened as to potentially collapse completely, whereas with their aid, Ukraine will be able to maintain the current battlelines, or at least something similar. If it appears that Ukraine will collapse either way, potential donors might as well keep their arms for themselves, as to deter Putin themselves. Poland and Germany will already be doing this calculus, Ukraine need only refine the data.

The international landscape is swinging towards isolationism, and for Ukraine the future is much more lonely than the past. As the United States slows its outflows of military aid, Ukraine will need to keep its war on the international scale in order to prevent Putin from retconning his invasion into a local matter that warrants no external meddling. Creating international celebrities and memorials in the fashion of Spanish Republicans can move the needle in the right direction, but didn’t win the war then, and won’t now. It is impossible to conjure up a complete replacement for American support, but some aid will be forthcoming if Ukraine can prove to its neighbors that, unlike the Republican Cause, it is too big to fail. As Hemingway wrote of his time in the Spanish International Brigade, “the world is a fine place, and worth fighting for.”

Opinion

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

Veterans & Advanced Energy

Evan Young Weaver

Intro

This is a departure from my stabs at poetry here lately. I might be a poet by definition, but one thing I will not be by anyone’s even kind consideration is a policy writer. Hell, I am not great at corporate emails in which I want to sign off “Love, Evan” and include impressive vulgarity. However, I was recently given the chance to try my hand at policy at least, which was very charitable. The following is a summary look at where I had that chance: the Veterans Advanced Energy Project at the Atlantic Council. If you stop reading here, the message is that energy security is national security, veterans belong in advanced energy, and the community of veterans in this space stands rather unafraid. For this little meander of thought, “advanced energy” includes all the emerging technologies you have not even heard of, but it also includes more traditional renewable energy technologies such as solar, wind, and battery storage. My background for the sake of the reader is that I am an Army veteran, an MBA, and now a developer of utility-scale (big) renewable energy projects.

The Project

A few weeks ago I attended the summit and capstone event of the yearlong fellowship at the Veterans Advanced Energy Project (VAEP). VAEP is a younger program backed by the Atlantic Council and was founded and is now managed by veterans turned renewable energy professionals alongside Atlantic Council staff. It gives emerging veteran leaders in the advanced energy space a shot at contributing to real thought leadership. This is accomplished through seminars with industry, academic, and military standouts and then evolves into policy positions drafted by each fellow. Finally, the summit in Washington, D.C. closes out the current cohort and kicks off the next year’s cohort. The fellows come from all branches and components of service in their past lives. They work in private and public roles. They all seek to understand their role in the uniquely powerful community of veterans in advanced energy. We do like our fellow veterans in oil and gas, too, and many highly successful veterans in renewables come from oil and gas. The event itself was a terrific gathering of fellows, energy and national security professionals, and senior leaders of this country discussing a massive range of topics and challenges; all national security challenges are in some way tied directly to energy challenges. The who’s who is impressive and included leading academics, elected and appointed officials, senior military officers, representatives of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and most importantly, dear friends and colleagues working on the same challenges; dedicated patriots and masters of their respective crafts. The majority of the summit is available on the Atlantic Council website and much of the speakers are on their YouTube channel.

The Philosophy

Three points here. The first two are the clear, if not hard, truths. First, energy security is national security. There is not a national security challenge that is not at least indirectly tied to energy. Second, veterans are uniquely and directly knowledgeable of the true cost of energy. From the budgeted cost of jet fuel in a given fiscal year to the human cost of losing American servicemembers to an IED that targeted a convoy escort team securing said jet fuel, veterans understand the cost of energy. Veterans understand how energy affects the tactical, operational, and strategic functions of our expansive national security apparatus.

Third, veterans have proven their skills in renewable energy. There is a strong and diverse community of veterans in advanced energy. Labor stats show that veterans are disproportionately highly employed in advanced energy in comparison to other industries. Energy problems are complex, vast and deep. It will take forever to solve them. Development of utility-scale projects, which is what I do meagerly well, is one starting place but transmission development, government affairs, energy finance, turbine technicians, construction management, policy roles at the Department of State, Department of Energy, non-profit energy groups…the list does not end. Most importantly, the community needs more veterans as energy and national security challenges grow and compound. Veterans are in a great position to enter and succeed in renewable energy with creditability, skill, and our demonstrated dedication to what we choose to do.

My Editorializing

Every period of energy transition historically brings improvements to the human condition and advancements to how we experience this life. If you want a mission post-military service, you will find purpose in many places. I argue that only a few careers will combine your faith in our future and the chance to contribute to that future. Grid resilience is a phrase the media uses lately, but it means that babies in NICUs stay alive during energy shortfalls and powerful storms. Working on greener and more efficient fuel systems in attack helicopters could mean that not only does an endangered species last a little longer but that an attack helicopter can stay on station a minute or so longer; life and death. So for those in the back, energy security is national security and we want you to come work on it with us.

I suggest Energy by Richard Rhodes but it is a heavy book so get the audio version or go back to the gym before picking it up. If any veteran wants to discuss a path to a career in energy, ask about the Veterans Advanced Energy Project, or complain about my improper syntax, I'm here.

The Written Word

Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.

Boot Camp Must Suck!

Hector Fajardo

A summer night in 1998, Parris Island, South Carolina. A hot, muggy, and miserable place and time. I found myself at the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot on a bus full of high school grads and a few older guys. I decided to sit in the back of that bus, not knowing what a mistake that was. Upon our arrival, I somehow sensed how my fate would surely change. A strange figure suddenly entered the front of the bus. This apparition, which I had heard so much about, clearly scared me and the other lost and clueless recruits. In an instant, and while speaking at a rate I had never heard before, his hoarse voice reached us, explaining and giving instructions in a barely understandable tone. The only sentence I deciphered from his speech, which I am sure all other recruits also heard, was: “Get off my bus...!”

As the next to last person to get off the bus, I could watch through the windows a hellish view: Every one of the kids who previously occupied the bus was now on the ground being screamed at by a multiplication of the figure I first saw standing next to the driver. My turn came up and I got off the bus. Instantly, a six-foot gigantic male figure, with what I could only recognize as a saucer on his head, came within .005 millimeters of my left ear and commenced to rupture my ear drums. I then realized what it was: It was a Drill Instructor! The person whom I had heard so much about, yet had never seen before. In a time before the internet or YouTube, the only idea of a Drill Instructor was what I remember watching during the first hour of Full Metal Jacket.

After walking into the processing room last, and while continuing to get destroyed by DIs,—as some referred to them—I realized that I had just been in Boot Camp for less than 20 minutes and I already thought it was a bad dream. The rest of this long afternoon culminated with the first haircut. Because of my position as last in line, I got the last cut with a set of barber clippers that had already been used to cut 90 other recruits’ heads. The heat emanating from those clippers found a resting place on my small, weirdly shaped grape. As I continued to feel the passing of the hot razor, I contemplated my choices and consequences, yet one thing was true for me: This sucks, but I want to do it!

The mission of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island is to, “… make Marines by recruiting quality young men and women and transforming them through the foundations of rigorous basic training, our shared legacy, and a commitment to our core values, preparing them to win our nation’s battles in service to the country.” There are two key points I would like to highlight here: The fact that this training is aimed at being rigorous and preparing future Marines to win our nation’s battles. There ought not to be any other two pillars upon which any basic training should rest. I say this not merely on what I believe personally, but based on the fact that the young men and women who raise their hand to join the military must have the clearly expressed understanding that their lives are on loan to the nation, even if only for a short period.

Everyone who joined the Marine Corps in the time I did knew this reality. In all honesty, there was no other idea behind joining such a prestigious, yet obscure force. Taking nothing from current Marine Corps boot camp experiences, the late 1990s Marine Corps Boot Camp was not for the faint of heart. It was physically demanding, mentally exhausting, and emotionally draining. Yet, amid the insanity, there was great instruction and amazing examples of camaraderie and esprit de corps. Every stage of training came with a new set of challenges. My platoon alone saw six changes in drill instructors, including our Senior DI. We lost about 15 percent of the platoon and recycled about five percent of previously dropped recruits. Some for medical issues and some for failing certain stages of training. The rifle range, the gas chamber, drill and ceremony, and the dreaded Crucible: all were parts of an experience that truly sucked, yet made each one of us recruits thirstier for graduation and for the chance to become one of “The Few.”’

After graduating from boot camp, you must report to the school that you were scheduled to go to based on the military occupational service field you picked before joining. After you finish that phase, you then go to “The Fleet,” as it is commonly known. This is the real Marine Corps. Your new home for the next four or five years, depending on your enlistment contract. The Fleet may not be as structured and robotic as bootcamp is, but in my opinion, it sucked just as much, especially if you end up in an infantry battalion. My first impressions of my new unit were troubling. My battalion had just come back from a field op and everyone looked like a bag of worms. And yet, here I was, standing next to my fellow “boots” in our pretty Service Alphas. The stares, the hate, and the funny comments didn’t finish until we got our rooms and unloaded our bags.

As a new member of a Marine unit, you now have to earn your spot in the “gun club.” A club made up of hardened warriors, who have experienced much in their time as Marines, yet are not much older than you. This is not an easy feat to accomplish, but I do think that my hellish time in boot camp molded me and prepared me for it. Not only on the practical, but also on the personal. Boot camp allowed me to become more thick-skinned and flexible to all the bullshit that was going to be thrown at me. Dealing with “salty” Lance Corporals, over-stressed NCO’s, and short-tempered Gunnies is something that no one could imagine, unless you got a good taste of the “suck” while in boot camp.

After my enlistment ended, I entered the workforce. I tried a couple of jobs in the private sector, and some in family businesses. The adjustment to the “real world” was not an easy one. Yet, I was able to identify something about me that I had not noticed before: I got used to the suck! I got used to not being treated nicely, and being thrown into circumstances that challenged my critical thinking and my decision making. I got used to being treated like a man, even if at the time I thought I was being treated like a child.

I then decided to become a police officer. I entered the police academy, which has some components of military boot camps. My time at the academy was easy, yet I noticed that for people who did not have military experience, it was a challenging one. To them it sucked, but for me it was something I was familiar with. I successfully graduated and was assigned as a road cop in a very rough part of town. One of the things that helped me navigate a new career, on a field that resembled the military, was my experience in Marine Corps boot camp. The foundations I received there helped me turn negative experiences into positive traits that I used while dealing with conflict resolution and difficult people.

Yes, boot camp sucked, but you see, it must suck. Although that experience was challenging for me, I considered it one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life. Every single one of those recruits who joined with me came from various walks of life and areas of the country. We had different ways of dealing with stress and pain. We had different cultural upbringings, faiths, and even languages, yet we all became a single organism: A United States Marine. The boot camp experience quite possibly sucked for them too, but we all persevered, earned the title, and became part of a synchronized machine called the Marine Corps. The things that we experienced during boot camp followed many of us even after our service came to an end.

The key to the Marine Corps’ success in creating a legacy for its recruits starts with the understanding that your previous life is no more. That your life before boot camp doesn’t define you, but that your ability to deal with stress does. Your understanding of honor, courage, and commitment can be nothing short of what the military expects of you. However, these experiences should not be exclusive to the Marine Corps. All branches of service should have a boot camp that is challenging, stressful, and mentally draining. Change that makes a lasting difference is not easy to insert into the mind of a young person joining the United States military. A boot camp experience that does not challenge a person’s understanding of pain and suffering will result in that person’s indifference to what service ought to be: a selfless sacrifice for others and our nation.

Probing Leadership: How Fort Polk Became the Proving Ground for my Soldiers

Morgan Lerette

Joint Readiness Training Center (JRTC) at Fort Polk, Louisiana is where the Army sends soldiers to train prior to deployments. It was created for two reasons. First, it simulates combat operations outside the daily distractions of garrison. Second, it shows soldiers there are worse places to be than the active combat zones of Iraq and Afghanistan. If the United States had an anatomy, Fort Polk would be the anus.

As a Multi-Function Team (MFT) leader, I was sent there to support the 2nd Infantry Division with my team of intelligence misfits prior to our deployment to Iraq in 2009. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a Fort Polk summer. It’s hotter than the blue blazes of hell with more humidity than an Athenian sauna. This was quite the contrast from the mild summers at Fort Lewis, Washington. The positive was it gave our team a chance to train with the people we’d support in Iraq.

Upon landing, we jumped in the back of a deuce and a half and made our trek as the sun set. Wild hogs ran alongside the convoy like labrador retrievers until we reached our Forward Operating Base (FOB). The first order of business was a briefing by an overweight Sergeant First Class (SFC) who was part of the cadre. To paraphrase, he stated “It’s hot and humid and if you don’t drink water, you’re bound to be a heat casualty (HEATCAT). The only way to know if you need to be taken to the ER is by getting your internal temp taken.”

I sent my soldiers to eat as I attended a battalion briefing where I’d learn who and what we’d support in the coming days. After dinner, we had a team meeting where I gave a half-assed Operations Order (OPORD) for the next day. First order of business was PT at 0500. My team groaned, but if we were going to support infantry soldiers, we had to act the part.

Me: Any questions?

SPC Wesley: (with a lisp) Thir, whath an internal temp?

Me: They check your temp the baby way.

SFC Gomez: They stick a thermometer up your ass.

Me: Eloquently put, SFC Gomez. Drink water and you’ll be fine.

SPC Lewis: I’ll be drinking water.

There are two types of soldiers. Those who follow all directions and those who think they know better. I’d learn the difference the next day as we went on our first mission.

Our team jumped on a convoy of Strykers the next day to conduct a raid. That sounds cooler than it was. Let me rephrase. My team sat in the back of a mobile crock-pot while the infantry guys conducted a raid. Once the area was secured, they let us go collect evidence. This is called Sensitive Site Exploitation (SSE) where we gather up papers and electronics for analysis to identify the next target. We had no way of exploiting what we found but felt good grabbing the kids coloring books hoping it would lead us to Usama Bin Laden on a later raid.

Our mission ended around 3 p.m. and we got back into the Stryker. It felt like a Dutch oven. There were several HEATCAT’s evacuated in the previous hours so the tactical commander (TC) asked for a volunteer to stand in the turret as we evacuated. I volunteered SPC Wesley for the 45-minute drive back to the FOB.

Twenty minutes into the ride, SPC Lewis looked uncomfortable, grimacing every time we hit a bump. Our uniforms were soaked in sweat from neck to ankle and the engine noise was deafening. Thankfully, we had our 3M ear plugs to save our hearing.

SFC Gomez: Lewis. What’s wrong with you?

SPC Lewis: I need to piss.

SFC Gomez handed him an empty Gatorade bottle and he turned away from the crowd to relieve himself. After a couple minutes, he turned back and tried to hand the empty Gatorade bottle to Gomez who recoiled away from it.

SPC Lewis: I couldn’t go.

SFC Gomez: Hell of a time to have stage fright. Just piss your pants.

SPC Lewis: No way. Can we stop?

SFC Gomez: No. This is a combat operation. Are you going to ask to stop in Baghdad? This thing is soaked with sweat and they’re going to wash it out anyway. Just piss your pants. Or don’t. I don’t care.

SPC Lewis looked at me and I shrugged. Everyone in there was so hot and miserable, no one noticed as he pissed down his leg on the floor. The puddle, and smile on his face, let us know he was done.

Within five minutes, SPC Wesley sat down from his gunner position, stating he felt woozy. We had piss-pants take his spot, knowing he’s fully hydrated, as we relay to the TC we have a HEATCAT. They stepped on the gas to get us back to the FOB as we fed Wesley Gatorade. He kept repeating, “Don’t let them probe me, shir.”

I assured him I wouldn’t as we helped him to the medical tent and handed him off to the medics who moved him behind a curtain, greased him up, and shoved a thermometer up his butt.

After some rest and dinner, we had a quick team meeting. I walked up to the team and the talk was about Wesley’s alien abduction. I laughed as they recounted the day’s events.

SPC Wesley: Thir, you promithed not to let them probe me.

Me: I would have promised you there were strippers and cotton candy behind that curtain.

SFC Gomez: After this, everyone grab a bottle of water and drink.

After another one of my half-assed OPORDs, I released them and walked to my bed. It had been a long day and another was coming tomorrow. I laid in bed, salt crystals from the sweat scratching the parts of me that rub together, and laughed. I grabbed my shave kit and walked to the shower.

All-in-all, it was a lot more like operating in Iraq than I’d anticipated. We’d shown the infantry unit our value, put soldiers in uncomfortable situations, and got a heck of a story out of it. Somehow, I found myself feeling thankful for the God-forsaken hell hole of JRTC, Fort Polk, Louisiana.

Morgan Lerette is the author of Guns, Girls, and Greed: I was a Blackwater Mercenary in Iraq. He served in the US Air Force, spent 18 months working for Blackwater in Iraq, and later became a US Army intelligence officer.

A Song For Daniel

Joshuah Landspurg

I reckon he is wearing a blue uniform somewhere. A boy assorted into McLellan's regulas with their fresh attira’, fancy leatha’ pouches, and abolitionist ideals. I yearn to see my brother again, but notta here. Notta’ now. Momma and I told him not to join. Mah letters sent home of battle and glory and camaraderie may have enthused somethin’ in the youngin. I remember betta days with Robert. Our swingin’ off a tree into the creek. To huntin’ game in the backwood and to holdin’ a tune together at sunset. I couldn't imagine it would go this far.

The Maryland regulas surround Sharpsburg as we wait with empty stomachs and loaded muskets. Our gray, tattered clothes are remnants of uniforms that have faded these two years. Men stir with a chatter of breakin’ through the Yanks, then straight to the capital to end this war. I shall pursue no other course until victory; any other involves dishona’. No Southern man should apologize for defendin’ our home and inheritance—I know I caint. Our cause is sacred, and we shall endure for the posterity of our lives and legacy. This Northern onslaught upon slavery is nah more than a baseless humbug for economic control of our land.

I wake to the trumpet and taps from a drumma’ boy. We hear enemy commands in the distance as these damn Yanks march south to our position. All are fools in the open, equally aligned in rows.

I join in the Rebel cry, which is shouted with a slur of vulga’ names for the blue asses that march across the field. I find a tree for cover and remove a piece of bark to naw on. It calms the nerves but does little to address my hunga’. Others scavenge the Earth; they tuck behind logs, or stones, or anythin’ that may protect their flesh.

My friend Gibbons perished last week at the skirmish at Harper's Ferry—a fool hearty errand runnin’ into the open. It is but a remindah that has me clutchin’ this old Oak for cover. Talk from my perished friend meddles my thoughts while I focus on takin’ another’s life.

"Y’all wait until ya can see their faces! Wait for my command!" Shouts the Lieutenant. Gibbons’ memory fades as I aim on a face.

Rifles are being loaded around me as I hear artillery fired in the distance — fresh Union recruits walk across the field this brisk mornin’. I steady my rifle and find a young fellah, not much older than a boy. He's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with two others. Should my shot stray, may the Lord's will carry it to anotha’. How many Yanks need to stain the ground ray-ed before —

"Make aim, y’all!" the Lieutenant said behind our position. "Fire!"

There is no longa’ a single artillery boom in the distance but ratha’ a commotion of smoke from all musketry in the woods and across the field, with the first volley pattering the trees like drops upon a roof, and like the ocean, it comes in waves with a crash, a roar, then a collision again; pebbles and tree bark rain down as I faar into the blue display; a state of agitation distresses ah troops, ah muzzle-loaded guns slow to reload; I pull one musket from the hands of the dead not mah than three paces away and faar with the ramrod still in the barrel, hopin’ for a twofold execution; screams and yells fill the void between the volley of shots that entered the woods. The blue mass grows closer. The field is littered with their wounded.

"Give those damn Yanks everything ya got, boys!"

Upon reloading and aiming once more, the force of a hammer strikes a solid portion of my leg. I drop my rifle, sprawlin’ on the ground. Excruciatin’ pain grips my body and I hear nothin’ for quite some time, but then my thoughts of anguish are coupled with screams and an occasional Rebel yell.

I reach into my pocket for the one thing that can bring me comfort.

To stay on the farm and hear tales from Daniel after the war would only belittle me with every word. The ill-treatment of the Negro and my abolitionist attitude forced me to travel north in servitude to the Union. Only my youth slowed enlistment.

Even now, I see a few Negros among our ranks. Upon further assessment of my convictions, Nathaniel, an older black soldier, strengthens my opinion with his discourse of Death as a chance for others to obtain freedom instead of generational servitude. Not sure where he received his education, but he converses like a learned man. Even now, on the brink of battle, he pushes his glasses up his nose and thumbs through pages in a small book.

I have won favor with soldiers, black or white, for my skill with the harmonica has tranquility about it. Playing it in this moment, I reflect on my brother, who taught me my first tune. The harmonica twirls in my hand as I run my thumb over the metal inscription—Robert W. Terrill. I’m part of a legacy of musicians since Grand Pappy and the War of Independence.

There was much talk now, as it had been weeks of this in anticipation of this moment. The calm of conversation was replaced by boots flattening the wet grass and booms in the distance. The warm sun with a light breeze on our faces gave us the feeling that this was the wrong place for a battle. I wait until most lines march ahead toward Dunker Church, then join with my rank. A bell rang opposite the artillery explosions—a symphony of sounds playing for those about to close their eyes forever.

General Rickett shouts from his horse to carry us forward as he waves the troops toward the Rebels. The Lieutenants repeat his command to "Hold the line" in all directions. I hear the Rebel yell from the trees, a most frightening battle cry from a wounded animal that would fight until it bore no more breath.

The walk across the field feels like we are crossing the state of Maryland itself. There is occasional Rebel movement in the shadows, followed by more Rebel yells behind the trees. The first volley from the tree line is popping and crackling as men around me drop into the grass; "March forward, men; hold the line!"

We close ranks into our formation, stepping over and around the wounded as artillery battered the woods, ripping trees in half and shredding foliage onto the troops below; then comes a momentary pause before General Rickett orders us to fire, reload, and fire again. Cowards and fools are made to walk into fire with their muzzle-loaded muskets and iron ramrods. Reloading a rigid brown paper cap and conical ball is a cumbersome process.

While reloading, a viscous spray across my face causes momentary blindness; I wipe my eyes clean to clear the blood, knowing not if it is my own. Thomas, my friend the same age as me, slumps to the ground, lifeless. I stopped briefly to share a last moment with him but feel a hard shove from the preceding rank. General Rickets tumbles backward, his steed falling on him as soldiers rush to his side. With obstructed vision, I trip over a dead soldier and keep still in the grass. I stay on the ground until numerous volleys are finally reduced to an occasional shot.

May it be cowardice or self-preservation, I stay down. Transient courage helps me crawl a few paces and cling to my rifle. I arrive at a pile of wounded; I wait longer until the gunfire grows tired and the sun has observed enough bloodshed to retreat from the depravities of man.

The coolness of the night is far worse than the heat of the battle. The physical pain is not the most tremendous pain to suffer. How awful that the dead appear sickening, but their pain is no more. The unfortunate mutilated soldiers that cling to consciousness make a most unpleasant picture. The flickers from torches reveal the dead form of a drummer boy a few years younger than I, maybe 14 — with blonde curls and eyes of blue. Shrapnel protrudes from the boy’s neck. By his side lay his shabby drum, never to be tapped again for the Stars and Bars. I give him a gift of a melancholy melody for his departure to the next life.

The command staff say this battle of Antietam Creek is a Union victory. Blue and gray soldiers are scattered in every direction — no such occasion should be considered a success. An immovable stone in the field, I made no effort to sway our triumph but only to live another day. I want to see Momma and reunite, God willing, with my Brother Daniel. I want to sit around a fire and eat cake and drink cider. To meet a woman and raise a family on the farm. To rebuild what has been destroyed.

Groans. Cries. Laughter. Conversation. An occasional shot. All are fragments post combat. I pray that no more Americans die in vain, and the shackles be unchained for my brothers and sisters lost in the South. Celebration and sorrow are a double-edged knife that has pierced every soldier and civilian from New York to Georgia. They don’t see it yet, but we’re all men under God. Here, near this creek and meadow, the white man has waged war on his brother.

General Hooker rides his steed across Bloody Lane; he directs soldiers to collect ammunition and supplies. Bodies are lying two to three high in the ditch. In the distance, wounded Rebel soldiers are pulled out of the wagon and lined up for questioning.

“Robert!” I shout. The young soldier with the harmonica improved spirits before we crossed the field. He is mindlessly looking around for something. Is he disoriented? I walk closer to him as night devours our visibility. Union soldiers throw a Rebel flag into the flames and share a drink fireside. I would be fond of some firewater myself, to numb the head pain and drown what my eyes had witnessed today.

“Robert!” I yell. He still does not acknowledge my call. I break his stare by waving my free hand. "Not a scratch on you, Robert. The angels have looked most favorably on you."

"Pardon, Nathaniel. The ringing in my ears is God-awful. I fear you may need to speak louder," Robert replies. A sad glimpse of a smile twitches on his face. Is he not grateful that he breathes life as he maneuvers near others with a worse fate? This soldier needs news to raise his spirit.

"Did you hear?" I say. “Lee's Rebels are runnin’, tales tucked, movin’ back South."

"I have not heard of such talk,” Robert replies as he gazes in every direction. “Will you join me in searching the bodies?"

Minimal words are traded as Robert and I rummage through corpses. We remove various trinkets and then drag their previous owner to the ditch. Musket fire explodes as we run to our rifles propped against a nearby tree. A line of Union Soldiers lowers their rifles as the smoke dissipates. A small group of wounded Rebels from the wagon have been executed near the church.

"No more, we beg of you —" As a Union soldier bayonets the two remaining Rebel survivors on their knees.

"Down to hell, Rebels!” I yell through the smoke. “Bunch of slavin’ degenerate graybacks." My outburst surprises Robert and others nearby. There is no use explaining the struggles or fear my family has suffered at the hands of the Southern man. For if they take the white man as a prisoner, to the camp with him. The same cannot be so for a man of color. The Rebel has other intentions for him — he goes back to the fields. Back to the whip.

“There appears to be no God near this church,” Robert says, “but more than the average amount of the Devil.”

“God’s righteousness is within us, Robert.” I remove the soaked bandage from my face. I remind him, “It’s in our cause.”

“Are we not transferring the wounded and prisoners to a camp?" Robert asks while walking over to another corpse folded in the grass. “Would that action not be one of virtue?”

"The General wants the wagons free for supplies and ammunition," I say. "If we're going to finish off Lee's Army, we'll have to move soon. Prisoners will slow us down."

"Nathaniel, may I borrow your —" Robert stops and turns his head. We hear a musical tune in the distance.

"Borrow my what?" I ask, thinking nothing of it.

"Quiet, please. Do you hear that?"

I pause my task and look in the same direction as Robert. "Yes, I hear it. What of it?"

"It's someone playing a harmonica, or trying to," Robert drops his knapsack. He walks closer to the noise.

"Where are you going? We still have to —" Robert walks away before I can determine why he’s leaving. I follow him out of curiosity.

Behind the church, a small group of soldiers gather. One attempts to bang a harmonica on his canteen while another inspects a rifle.

"Sir, do you need help with your instrument?"

"It’s all gunked up, can't carry a tune on this damn thing," the soldier says.

The soldier hands Robert the muddy Harmonica. He removes a cloth from his pocket and cleans it until it carries a dull shine.

"Where did you get this?" Robert asks.

"From this lot." The soldier waves his hand in the opposite direction. "The Rebs, there. Can you play?"

Robert breaks the silence by playing a song that sounded like Amazing Grace, a tune I’m vaguely familiar with. He walks at a sluggish pace but in unity with every musical note, and everyone near is captivated. The song washes away the day’s atrocities, if only for a moment. He reaches the area of the executed soldiers and sits down with his back against the church, face in his hands.

My hatred of the Southern soldier cannot be contained. "That was a beautiful song Robert, but them Rebs don't deserve that."

Robert uncovers his face, looks briefly at me, and then over at the lifeless gray Rebels slumped in a pile. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his harmonica, and holds them both out together. The small objects weigh down his hands, and my judgment. None of this is right.

"No, them Rebs don’t deserve a song. But he did,” Robert says. He glides his fingers over the inscription: Daniel L. Terrill.

*The Battle of Antietam (Sharpsburg, Maryland) September 17th, 1862.The most significant loss of American life in a single day. 23,000 Soldiers were killed, wounded, or missing in action in a 12-hour period. *

Poetry and Art

Poetry and art from the warfighting community.

“Meanwhile the world goes on”

E. Blunt

18.10.2024

Missile strikes and thunder shakes
A mother’s heart pains and breaks
Return from war for homely fill
Agitation for life’s trivial thrills
Bodies ache and memories thin
A 20-year-old feels aged within
The soccer match that caused a riot
Envy turns to anger, “Be quiet!”
A drug induced forgetful moment
Overcome by screaming bullets
Plots of land already dug
Sons and daughters won’t return
“Thanks for coming”, gratitude’s sincere
Held behind floods of tears
A pious man that can’t aid a body
Extended hands accused as demonic
Streets turn quiet for solemn rest
Minds walk backwards as a test
Limestone towers for a portrait
Survivor’s assemble for a promise
A spiritual encounter affirms a truth
We’ll return to this beloved hill

Stray

Evan Young Weaver

The bridge into my hometown is named 
for a fellow, fallen, warrior. 
And if you drive north just a little
there are highway markers for another. Driven around all that with a girl I loved,
and a decade later with another. 

There are a few more but 
high school classes separate memory so intensely. 
My sister knows those better.

The entire road through the Presidential Range named aptly 
for the Mountain Division, but I can recite the names. 
I drove that road once or twice with a girl I loved, too. 

I even remember the dogs' names, 
their dogs and no one’s dogs, 
and one or two strays. Dogs of girls I loved, too. 

In Oklahoma once, driving with a girl I loved, of course, 
I accidentally found the highway to match the bridge. That is, 
two passed together…
There is a bridge in New Hampshire. There is a highway in Oklahoma. 

There is a second bridge I know well in New Hampshire. 
I’d have to think a bit to put all these little bits of road in order because, 
memory, love, and dogs, all stray.

Lani Hankins Artwork

Casualty of War

Fall of Kandahar

War: Then and Now

Lani Hankins is a self-taught artist residing in the Flint Hills of Kansas. She served in the U.S. Army as a supply and dispatch clerk, became a member of her unit’s female engagement team (FET), and completed one deployment to Afghanistan. Lani enjoys mixing elements of expressionism, romanticism, and surrealism in her art to create either dream-like compositions or symbolic imagery. Lani’s work is intended to be emotionally impactful or thought provoking, challenging viewers to look beyond what is in front of them and to present different perspectives of nature, war, or the subconscious mind.

Both of my social media accounts are on Instagram @lm_hankins_art & @lm_hankins_writing

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This ends Volume 29, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01DEC2024)

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