Lethal Minds Volume 35
Volume 35, 01 June, 2025
Letter from the Editor
In late 2022, a friend in western North Carolina, a therapist who works with veterans, reached out to me about starting a veteran’s writing therapy group here in the eastern end of the state under the aegis of the North Carolina Veterans’ Writing Alliance. NCVWA was already successfully doing so in Asheville and with its proximity to major bases (an hour from Camp Lejeune and two hours from Fort Bragg), the thinking was that there would be a ready population of folks interested in and around Wilmington. But when I started making the rounds of veteran groups, civic organizations, and the local VA, I met with no success. I started to feel like a Marine Corps recruiter in Berkeley. After two months of no interest, I threw up an invite to join me for a free, eight-week, writing therapy group on Zoom, no experience required beyond literacy and a DD214 or an active/reserve/Guard ID card, on my Instagram page (@b00kwar). Interest was immediate and high. Soon, I had a list of sixty folks, active and veteran, from all ages, service histories, and walks of life who were at least interested in participating. Three iterations and two years later, I’ve learned that if you build it, ten to fifteen folks will come for ninety minutes once a week. Along the way, we’ve built a core group of regulars. Larry and Dick are Vietnam vets. Evan is a poet with time in Afghanistan. Stan rode a gun truck in Iraq, now he writes a great Substack and runs a writing group for the Veteran’s Creative Art Project. Trevor was a paratrooper before he became an evangelist for the power of hunting and fishing to help vets find themselves again. Cole was a Marine grunt and dog handler in Afghanistan, now he’s finishing his PhD and volunteering in veterans’ programs focused on homecoming and belonging. All of them are Lethal Minds contributors. Eventually, we invited therapists and other care providers with a desire to work with vets to join us and help bridge the civilian-military divide, a tough gap to cross in a nation in which 1% serves. Jill and Elizabeth and Camm brought helpful observations and expanded the way we think about writing for mental health. Of course, Jill is also the heart and soul of Lethal Minds Journal, keeping all of us shooting at the same target each month while I just nod sagely and write this monthly missive. All of it has been successful enough that the staff at the Camp Lejeune Intrepid Spirit clinic asked me to add a four-week version to the Return to Forces program executed six times a year there. Some of those folks, mostly SOF types, have become contributors here as a result of things they wrote there. Now I spend eight months a year working with my fellow veteran writers and all twelve with the amazing volunteer staff that makes the world go ‘round here at Lethal Minds Journal, all of them veterans or volunteers who just really care about America’s service members and our ideas. You can be part of it. We always need volunteer writers, editors, and advocates. Join us at lethalmindsjournal.submissions@gmail.com. Fire for Effect, Russell Worth Parker Editor in Chief - Lethal Minds Journal
Dedicated to those who serve, those who have served, and those who paid the final price for their country.
Lethal Minds is a military veteran and service member magazine, dedicated to publishing work from the military and veteran communities.
Two Grunts Inc. is proud to sponsor Lethal Minds Journal and all of their publications and endeavors. Like our name says we share a similar background to the people behind the Lethal Minds Journal, and to the many, many contributors. Just as possessing the requisite knowledge is crucial for success, equipping oneself with the appropriate tools is equally imperative. At Two Grunts Inc., we are committed to providing the necessary tools to excel in any situation that may arise. Our motto, “Purpose-Built Work Guns. Rifles made to last,” reflects our dedication to quality and longevity. With meticulous attention to manufacturing and stringent quality control measures, we ensure that each part upholds our standards from inception to the final rifle assembly. Whether you seek something for occasional training or professional deployment, our rifles cater to individuals serious about their equipment. We’re committed to supporting The Lethal Minds Journal and its readers, so if you’re interested in purchasing one of our products let us know you’re a LMJ reader and we’ll get you squared away. Stay informed. Stay deadly. -Matt Patruno USMC, 0311 (OIF) twogruntsinc.com support@twogruntsinc.com
In This Issue
Across the Force
The III MEF Exit Interview
The Written Word
The Unexpected Beauty of War
Tom
Save Your Pity
Poetry and Art
Heavy Things
Telling Lies
Graduation Parade
A Soda Can’s Philosophy from Inside a Machine
Health and Fitness
Tactical Strength Series, Part 3: Bridging the Gap – Practical Applications for the Tactical Athlete
Book Excerpt
Other Than, Person featured in All This and War
Across the Force
Written work on the profession of arms. Lessons learned, conversations on doctrine, and mission analysis from all ranks.
The III MEF Exit Interview
Benjamin Van Horrick
If you are a Marine, you need to get to III Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF). A tour here gives you the chance to execute the same mission, with the same partner, on the very terrain, should war break out. You owe it to yourself and your family to understand the risks, challenges, and rewards of a tour inside the enemy’s Weapons Engagement Zone (WEZ).
The observations I offer are not an authoritative list. These can serve as a guide, not gospel, as you consider or prepare for a tour in Okinawa.
Okinawa needs missionaries, not mercenaries. The complexity and urgency of the mission dictate the level of attention and effort. This mission is worth your time, but one must be clear about the costs.
Self-Starters Needed
Hand-holding in III MEF does not exist. Too many obligations and too few Marines require all Marines to pull their weight. You will likely not receive a turnover because the person you’re replacing is either executing their overseas Permanent Change of Station (PCS) or has already departed. But this is an opportunity. You can prove to yourself and your unit that you can gather information and make sound decisions.
What is Your Superpower?
The sheer amount of work offers a chance to carve out a role for yourself in III MEF. From the Private to the Colonel, there are opportunities to find a project to iterate on and improve. For instance, each week a new program or piece of equipment comes online without proper training. Exceptional work finds an audience and builds a network.
Treat III MEF Like a Deployment
Be clear with your family: III MEF tours include frequent and extended trips off the island. When at home, your attention will remain on work, and the anxiety-inducing demands will serve as mood music. The ping and vibrations of your phone serve as a constant reminder of work. Your family will pay the price. Placing guardrails is wise, but will be difficult as you remain in the clutches of III MEF’s operational tempo.
Okinawa Just Works
Processes, procedures, and services off-base in Okinawa just work. From Starbucks to convenience stores to boarding airplanes, Okinawa's ease and efficiency make life easier. The pace of life is much slower, and the care given to small tasks is inspiring.
But You Remain an American
Your time in Okinawa does not remove you from being an American. Holding domestic strain and strife at arm’s length is convenient, yet hollow. Even when forward-deployed, you remain an American citizen. The strong American dollar and your Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) status may appear to cleave you from America – they do not. Orders to Okinawa stretch the sinews that tether you to America, but they do not sever.
Outward Facing
Be honest with yourself and your command: Do you possess the intellectual curiosity, cultural awareness, social energy, and mental endurance for partnering missions? If not, that's ok. If you do, prepare for a demanding and rewarding experience. Outward-facing roles with regional partners are mentally and emotionally exhausting experiences. Partners want to do their best, but their processes and pace will not match yours. Your patience will grow thin, and your energy will be drained. But we need each partner’s trust and confidence. Command should also vet incoming personnel to assess whether their Marines are suited for the partnering mission. Institutional expediency should not come at the expense of a partner. These considerations are even more important as recent policy shifts leave partners questioning America’s resolve and commitment.
Prepare for War, Pray for Deterrence
Immersing yourself in the Pacific mission leaves one with a fervent hope: that deterrence works. A full-scale war will ensnare you and your family on the island. Every action we take prepares for war while advancing deterrence. We pray the latter occurs, but prepare for the former.
The Written Word
Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.
The Unexpected Beauty of War featured in Dissonance Personified
Stan Lake
The war in Iraq was ugly, but the country of Iraq was not. I’ve never seen a more perfect sunset than when I was in the turret of a gun truck. The horizon lamented the turmoil in the land with scarlet and crimson to a degree I may never see again. It’s as if she were mourning the loss of our humanity, all while reminding us of our insignificance in history. The same dirt Jonah and Abraham walked on now swirled in my Wiley X ballistic goggles.
In each convoy, I stayed hypervigilant and surveyed all that surrounded me. It was hard not to be enraptured by the beauty of antiquity. The date palms showcased their verdant greens, and the mosques proved that even humans could create beauty. Our buildings were beautiful, but our actions were not.
I saw blue-cheeked bee-eaters perched on concertina wire bordering fields of sunflowers in full bloom outside Balad. Who knew such tropical-looking birds existed in a place I had been told was a barren wasteland? Roadside blossoms showcasing eternal glory next to the ruins of a bombed village felt slightly poetic. Amid the scrublands were highlighter yellow Uromastyx lizards living in burrows, while dining on the yellow flowers that bloomed in the spring.
The beauty was there and had been for time immemorial. My task was as a soldier, not a naturalist. Yet, I was only a soldier for a short time, and a naturalist I’ll always be. Old habits die hard. I spent the time I should have been sleeping gazing at more stars than I could count. I was awestruck by the same bedazzled sky that may have created the religion I now subscribe to. The reverence I felt on some of those nights was overwhelming. I would lie prone with flashlight in hand, watching harvester ants billow out of their sandy mounds late into the night. When the days are too hot, nature shifts nocturnal, which has always amazed me.
Splendor subsists even in places where horrors exist. It’s all a matter of perspective and the beauty of surviving to an introspective middle age. Things can always be worse, and sometimes we let the ugliness win, but beauty is always there if you only take a moment to notice. Sometimes, that small shift in focus is all it takes to change your outcome.
Tom
Stephen Kwiatkowski
“Tom was killed tonight.”
The words hung dead in the air. Every Marine in the formation, silent. My chest swelled with emotion. A distant C-130 rumbled out of Camp Bastion and into Helmand’s black night. I don’t recall what my platoon commander said next. Tears in his eyes, he walked away.
“You okay, man?” Sean tugged on my sleeve. The words far away. “Come on man, let’s smoke.” I followed Sean to the smoke pit, a wooden shack with an ammo can in the center for cigarette butts. Members of 3rd Platoon were already there, silently exhaling smoke.
A lit cigarette appeared in my hand. My hands trembled as I sucked in the smoke. Tears hesitant to fall, as if they were shy. Someone else’s sobbing encouraged mine to release. Warm and salty. They slowly rolled down my face.
An hour before, we knew something had happened.
The hot summer night was just starting. Marines of 1/7 3rd Platoon ending the day at the luxurious hooches of Camp Leatherneck. An early night of sleep meant an early wake-up. The following morning 3rd Platoon would be conducting a heliborne raid. We had rehearsed the mission a thousand times: Operation Mattis-6. Contact was expected.
Sleep was slow to come. In between the excitement of a high-profile op and the danger that came with it, my nerves were coiled like a high-tension spring.
The first sign that something had gone wrong was the call of River City - the term used to cease all contact to the outside world usually because of a casualty.
Those who had made the late-night visit to the MWR had calls ended prematurely. Internet connections closed. News of River City spurred Marines from the sleeplessness of their cots and into the smoke pit, where rumors were born.
Baker Company was out on patrol, as was 1/7’s Scout Sniper Platoon.
A few hours before, I had seen the scout snipers make their final preparations at the Company CP. At the time I had truck watch and as I left to head back to the hooches, Sgt. Spitzer walked past me and towards his MRAP. Usually, we would stop and chat. He would ask how I was doing, checking in with the guys in his old platoon. Stepping past me, he looked serious. The setting sun painted his face gold. Instead of cracking a dumb joke, I gave him a curt “Rah.” He returned it with a silent nod.
That was the last time I saw Tom.
While the Marines of 3rd Platoon contemplated what happened, the Lance Corporal Underground began to work.
“I bet 1/2 is in a TIC.”
“It’s probably an ANA patrol, no?”
“No, you fucking idiot, we wouldn’t be in River City for the ANA. Or else we would always be in River City.”
“Yeah, you fuckin’ boot.”
Flip-flops slapping the dirt. Heavy steps on the wooden floor of the smoke pit, announcing Timmy’s presence. His rifle clanged against his body; a cigarette hung on to his lips. A spark. Flame. Inhalation. “I heard…” exhale of smoke, “I heard Baker took contact.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, I talked to Steven from 2nd Platoon. He just came off COC watch. He said Baker is in contact.”
The weight of the words pressed us. We all knew and had close friends in Baker. The news set the tone for tomorrow morning.
Following this circulation of rumors, we headed back inside our hooch. I got ready to tell the junior Marines the news. I thought about how to phrase it so as not to generate useless fear but to land the weight of the seriousness of our mission. I was particularly worried about our sweeper, a combat engineer who had never left the wire. When I told him that he couldn’t stop if we got shot at after getting out of the bird, his pale face gargled, “Aye Corporal.”
A banging on the door announced someone’s presence. I opened the door; Josh’s stocky frame dominated the doorway. “LT wants everyone downstairs.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. Just get fucking downstairs, Ski.”
I grabbed Victor and Oscar.
That’s when we found out about Tom’s death.
There was a memorial that night. The majority of the platoon sacrificed much needed sleep to say goodbye.
There were other Marines there, not from 1/7.
The casket, draped in an American flag, silently glided in the night into the belly of the roaring C-130.
When it was my turn to go, I saw Tom’s casket. Called the detail to attention. Hand Salute.
I remembered Tom as the Lance Corporal who drove a skinny Private to L.A. The fact that he suffered three hours of awkward conversation with a boot who couldn’t comprehend talking like a normal person was evidence of his kindness.
“Fuck, Ski, it’s libo, stop saying ‘Aye Lance Corporal.’ ”
“Aye, Tom.”
I remembered my hours practicing speed reloads in Bridgeport, wanting to beat LCpl. Spitzer. “I do this shit while watching T.V.” Wanting to be better.
The memory of standing post in Sangin, Cpl. Spitzer making the rounds as Corporal of the Guard. He stopped by to share a cigar with me. He sensed I was down. I gave him the pity party of how much I thought I sucked at my job. How I felt like I let people down. He taught me the most important leadership lesson of my life.
“If you really feel that way, if you feel like a fuck-up. Change. Learn from it. Care. If the next generation sees that you don’t give a shit, they won’t respect you. You have to care.”
Even though Sgt. Spitzer left 81s for Scout Snipers, he was an older brother to all of us.
I cut the salute.
Tom went home.
Save Your Pity
Frank Gonzales
“Were you in the military?”
Yes
“Thank you. I know what you guys did. I’m sorry.”
Why?
“Because it was hard.”
You’re sorry that I had to do something hard?
“Well, yes.”
Do you not think people should do hard things? Embracing the strength that suffering brings?
Do you think I regret it?
I don’t regret a second.
I don’t regret the ruck runs and beers shared with people no longer on this earth. Gone too soon because they could not persevere.
I don’t regret the broken bones and torn flesh; they gave me scars that only warriors possess.
I don’t regret the times I missed back home, because a regime had to be dethroned, or because I was roaming through lands unknown with brothers who became my own.
I don’t regret witnessing carnage and atrocity, doing what I could to spare a few from reckless monstrosity.
I don’t regret learning to be a weapon. The look in someone’s eyes when they realize I am a threat is reassuring, and knowing what caliber of violence I am personally capable of is empowering.
I don’t regret being humbled by leaders who knew they could cut something out of the overconfident teenager who got dropped into their unit. The cockiness had to be cut away and replaced with quiet fortitude.
I don’t regret seeing the anguish of people who lost a loved one. It makes me hold those I love tightly so they know through my embrace that I would fight the forces of Heaven and Hell to ensure their safety.
Please, don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for people who are gone. Or for someone who didn’t see those lessons in their trials. Be sorry that you don’t see the value of hard things.
But don’t you dare feel sorry for me.
Poetry and Art
Poetry and art from the warfighting community.
Heavy Things J. Dugan I’ve carried heavy rucks in unforgiving terrain. I’ve worn a fully loaded kit for days at a time. I’ve lifted hundreds of pounds at a time on rusty barbells. I’ve shoveled shit on farms for hours. I’ve carried injured people to care. I’ve lifted my teammates in lineouts in rugby. I’ve worn a fifty-pound weight vest on long walks. I’ve pushed broken-down cars up hills and through the sand. I’ve reeled in decently big fish in fights that lasted hours. I’ve picked up my hundred-pound uncooperative dog to carry him to the car when he hurt his paw. I’ve moved overflowing trash cans of debris from yard work hundreds of meters to the compost site for hours on end. I’ve helped plenty of people move boxes that were very clearly more pounds of stuff than the cardboard was prepared for. I’ve packed myself and moved the same style of boxes. I’ve carried litters through the woods and mountains. I’ve pulled a fully loaded sled for miles in the snow with a full pack, postholing the entire way. I’ve dragged and carried men bigger and heavier than me by more than ten pounds through a very silly series of cones. I’ve loaded and unloaded trucks with all manner of equipment and gear. But the heaviest thing I have ever carried. Is a box. Small. The size of a book a few inches deep. Wrapped in a green satin bag with a soft gold drawstring cinching it. I wrapped my hands around it, hesitating, wondering if it could really be so heavy, and brought it to my abdomen. The heaviest thing I have ever carried were my father’s ashes. And they always will be. They weren’t heavy because he was perfect. They weren’t heavy because we always had a great relationship. They weren’t heavy because I missed him or wanted him back. They were heavy because they were final. Telling Lies Evan Young Weaver We tell war stories. We tell truths. We tell lies. We tell war stories. We live. And we die. We tell war stories. We might raise children. We might marry. We tell war stories. We love. And we fight. Graduation Parade Emma Blunt When all is said and done, one more night creeps closer. On the heels, a quick march. Family and friends gather for morning parade. Number all the waivers, The line of resilience and grace blurs in and out of favor. Count all the ways, Stand steady. Leave a second only to dwell. It is not the sum of all odds. It is a summation of a single journey. A continuum, for better or for worse. A Soda Can’s Philosophy from Inside a Machine Brandon Noel I’m sandwiched as though on an early sixteenth century ship. My peers keep disappearing, I’ve heard through folk that there’s a place beyond, a passageway through a tunnel, at the end there is light. But no one has ever truly come back so we don’t know for sure. Here we’re kept separate Pepsi, Diet, Mountain Dew, Orange and Others _____. Our outsides are different yet our insides are just about the same: carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, sugar, natural/artificial flavor and other_____ stuff but we are basically, all about the same. I haven’t been here very long, Me and my kind are actually moving along a lot quicker than some of the other_____ cans. It’s rumored that we are more popular for that tunnel because our outsides are darker, yet I like to think, it’s ‘cause our insides are sweeter. That’s another rumor I’ve heard- that dark colors attract light but then again that’s only what I’ve heard. If it’s true though, that opposites attract, why are we kept separate? I’ve been told that in the past some of the other_____ cans have gotten mixed-up with us and us with them. Eventually, as they were seen outside the sanctity of our space there were yells and screams as though something was mad and our world started to shake and pound. I guess that we, or the others_____, were in a place that this thing did not want us. I can’t see what the big deal is though, after all we are about the same and eventually pass through the same tunnel.
Health and Fitness
Guidance for improving physical and mental performance, nutrition, and sleep.
Tactical Strength Series, Part 3: Bridging the Gap – Practical Applications for the Tactical Athlete
By Andrew Siepka, CSCS, Siepka Ludus Strength & Conditioning
In Parts 1 and 2 of this series, we broke down the role of tension and stability and how to weaponize them through methods like accommodating resistance and chaos training. This final installment takes it to the dirt—bringing the weight room to the fight. We’re moving from principles to practice, focusing on how to apply strength in real-world tactical environments. For tactical athletes, it’s not about how much you lift in controlled settings—it’s about whether that strength holds up when the stakes are high, terrain is unstable, and your life or your teammate’s life is on the line.
From Training to Application
Strength without function is decoration. In tactical environments—military operations, firefighting, law enforcement—the goal isn’t just to be strong in the gym. It’s to express that strength under fatigue, load and fire. You need to be stable, mobile, and explosive in environments that don’t care about your numbers, only your ability to execute.
Let’s break down some mission-critical attributes and how to train for them.
1. Load bearing Under Stress: Strength That Lasts
Carrying weight is non-negotiable in tactical work. Whether it’s a ruck, weapons system, hose pack, or a downed teammate, your body has to hold up. That means your training needs to reflect this demand.
Field Application:
Ground-based training, such as loaded carries, sled work, and ruck marches, develops full-body tension, reinforces posture, and builds endurance under duress. These movements hit the posterior chain, core, and grip—all crucial for tactical tasks.
• Farmer’s Carries: 3–4 sets of 60 seconds with heavy kettlebells or trap bars. Focus on staying tall, ribs down, and maintaining stride integrity.
• Ruck Marches: Progress to 3–5 miles with 45–55 lbs. Maintain posture, and train with purpose—this is not a casual hike.
• Reverse Sled Drags: 3–5 sets of 20–40 meters. Emphasize force production and whole foot contact for knee-dominant conditioning. Pair with forward sled drives for posterior chain balance.
As emphasized in the NSCA TSAC Report and Westside Barbell methodologies, strength is only valuable if it transfers. Ground-based load training builds tension capacity and structural integrity over time, both keys to longevity and resilience (Ebben, 2008; Tate, 2011).
2. Chaos and Control: Movement in Unstable Environments
Tactical athletes live in the grey, climbing, breaching, sprinting, or maneuvering through uneven terrain. Their nervous systems must be ready to stabilize on demand.
Instead of unstable implements like BOSU balls, we double down on ground-based, chaos-induced drills that reinforce joint control and reactive stability through task-driven movement. BOSU balls and instability tools have their place in rehab and prehab environments—but not in strength development for healthy athletes.
Field Application:
• Sandbag Shouldering & Carries: Train with asymmetrical loads to mimic the unpredictable nature of real-world demands.
• Band-Resisted Crawls & Lateral Shuffles: These challenge scapular stability and core control under tension and in multiple planes.
• Agility and Obstacle Circuits: Blend sprint-shuffle-change of direction with weighted movements. Add environmental variables like elevation, weather, and gear to stress-test positioning and proprioception.
The Tactical Barbell methodology advocates cyclical exposure to high-variability training to cultivate durability and adaptive fitness across a wide range of occupational demands. The principle is:train for the known, prepare for the unknown.
3. Force in a Fight: Strength in Combat Conditions
When it hits the fan—whether in combat, a fireground emergency, or a use-of-force incident—your strength better show up fast, violently, and repeatedly. Tension, energy system capacity, and coordination need to blend under pressure.
Field Application:
• Barbell Complexes: Combine front squats, push presses, rows, and cleans for 4–6 reps each, cycling through 2–3 rounds without racking the bar. This keeps the system under load while challenging anaerobic capacity.
Tactical Circuits:
• 5 rounds for time:
• 10 weighted pull-ups
• 15 kettlebell swings (70/53 lbs)
• 20 burpees
• 400m shuttle sprint (50m x4)
These drills reinforce the physical-mental crossover: making decisions while smoked, moving with urgency under fatigue, and hitting every rep with intent.
As outlined in the NSCA Journal of Strength and Conditioning, combining strength with energy system development enhances tactical readiness and reduces injury risk during real-world operations (Fry, 2004).
4. Injury Prevention and Longevity: Build the Armor
You can’t perform if you’re sidelined. Joint integrity, tissue quality, and recovery capacity must be part of your daily rhythm—not just accessories.
Field Application:
• Ground-Based Mobility Routines: Prioritize ankle dorsiflexion, hip rotation, and scapular mobility. Use CARS (Controlled Articular Rotations) and banded joint mobilizations to restore and maintain function.
• Posterior Chain Prehab: Glute ham raises, banded good mornings, and standing pullovers reinforce hinge patterns and spinal alignment.
• Soft Tissue Work: 10–15 min post-training targeting major chains—quads, glutes, T-spine, lats.
Recovery is your insurance policy. As Westside Barbell has noted, the most elite lifters don’t just train harder—they recover better. The tactical athlete needs to apply the same mindset to stay operational year after year.
Final Thoughts: The Mission Is the Metric
Strength and stability must serve a purpose. Tactical athletes don’t train for aesthetics or PRs—they train to perform and survive. The methods we use—accommodating resistance, chaos training while blending combat conditioning, and strategic load application—are designed to build capacity, not just output.
Unstable surface training has a time and place in controlled rehab settings to re-educate motor patterns and rebuild proprioception. But for the healthy, deployable tactical athlete, ground-based training reigns supreme. It’s the closest simulation to real-world demand and provides the most direct transfer to performance.
Training must be mission-focused, adaptable, and brutally honest. In this line of work, the weak links will expose you and become the critical vulnerability— now execute.
References:
• Ebben, W. P. (2008). Accommodating Resistance Exercise for Athletic Performance. Strength and Conditioning Journal, 30(4), 64-69.
• Fry, A. C. (2004). The Role of Resistance Exercise Intensity on Muscle Fiber Adaptations. Sports Medicine, 34(10), 663–679.
• NSCA Tactical Strength and Conditioning Reports (various issues).
• Tate, L. (2011). Westside Barbell Book of Methods. Westside Barbell.
•Tsatsouline, P., & Kilgore, L. (2016). Tactical Barbell: Physical Conditioning for the Special Forces Operator. Black Kettle Press.
Book Excerpt
Other Than, Person - A short story from All This and War
Matt Eidson
The MRAP is a clunky machine with a hole punched through the roof and a gunner’s mount bolted on, allowing a junior Marine to poke his head out and swivel around behind a big ass gun. Usually a .50 cal, which is a pretty cool weapon. It’s close to a hundred pounds and the barrel is almost four feet long. Teenagers with that kind of firepower make a lot of dick jokes.
I used to think MRAPs looked badass too, but then I rode in one. Now I’m pretty sure the months of getting thrown around in the back of this thing are going to end up as bullet points on my final physical. Another thing my recruiter forgot to mention.
Screw it. More disability money for me.
Lance Corporal George is manning the gun and smoking cigarettes with a horseshoe of wintergreen Skoal in his bottom lip. He’s also downing energy drinks and picking through an MRE that some other Marine has thoroughly rat-fucked, leaving only the crackers and a tiny packet of instant coffee. He crouches down so he can see me and nods at me before speaking.
“POG.”
I snort and grin at him. “Bitch.”
We’re both right. George is a little bitch, and I’m not a grunt. I’m a “Persons Other than Grunts,” a radio operator. The only one in the platoon. It’s weird being the only POG around a bunch of grunts. I’m not even a permanent member of the unit, I’m just attached while they need me. And honestly, these guys don’t really need me. Luckily they haven’t figured that out yet. Or maybe they have and they let me hang around anyway.
George chuckles and shakes his head at me.
“Errrr.”
I shake my head back at him. “Errrr.”
You can tell a lot about a Marine’s motivation level by his “errrr” usage. “Errrr” is a variation of the Marine Corps chant or yell or whatever it’s called, “Oohrah.” I don’t know shit about where that saying came from. Most of us don’t. But that doesn’t stop us from screwing with it in the hopes of pissing off an officer.
If you hear a Marine say “Oohrah” then he’s probably a boot fresh out of bootcamp. Or he’s been out for decades and hangs out at the local VFW, trying to recreate the glory days. “Errrr” is harder to explain.
You hear it a lot from Marines deployed to combat zones. “Errrr” is the sound of acceptance and defeat. It’s the sigh of the well-meaning Marine with death on his mind and the flight back home getting closer, the Marine who earned a Combat Action Ribbon not because of some epic fire fight, but because a vehicle in his convoy hit an IED and, except for a few perforated eardrums, all was just fine.
So when George and I say “errrr” to each other, soaked in sweat and chain-smoking with full cans of dip protruding from our bottom lips, we both know exactly where the other’s motivation level lies. George sighs and slaps his hands on his thighs.
“Alright. Stay motivated, POG.”
He flashes me a cock-salute, his right hand saluting just above his cock instead of his forehead. I return the salute. He grins and stands up, the upper part of his torso disappearing through the hole in the MRAP.
George is a goofy dude. He’s rail skinny and wearing the usual getup for Marines in Iraq: desert cammies with thick salt lines and fresh sweat poking out around his flak jacket. There’s pouches and pockets galore on his uniform, and every one of them is filled with random bullshit like sunflower seeds, notebooks, a camera, an eight-point cover, and probably a picture of a naked woman torn out of a Hustler.
I’m dressed the same, lounging with my feet up and the radio receiver tucked into my Kevlar so I can hear if the Lieutenant calls out. I for sure have a picture of a naked woman, from some British nudie mag I stole—excuse me, “tactically acquired”—a couple months back.
George reaches his hand down through the porthole.
“Hand me an empty bottle, POG.”
I lean forward and dig through the trash in the back of the MRAP and find an empty water bottle. I reach out and put it in his hand and lean back in my seat.
“There you go, fuckface.”
“Errrr.”
The Police Station in Rahaliyah is as good a place as any to hang out and pretend there’s a war going on. I’ve been here for months now and it seems like no one’s getting any action. This isn’t what I thought Iraq would be like. Some shit hits the fan every now and then though. We heard about some Army guy getting his legs blown off somewhere near Ramadi. But who knows if that’s true. I could see it going down though.
Not even a week before, we got sent out to check for IEDs in some patch of desert somewhere. I don’t have enough rank to know the specifics, but I’m guessing the dude that planted the damn thing called our CO to tell him there was a bomb in the area. And then our CO sent us to see about it without a Combat Engineer or a metal detector.
Sometimes I wish I’d actually step on one of those fuckers just so some officer would have a bad day. But I know better than to assume an officer would be held accountable for my bloody stumps. That and, with my luck, I’d probably bleed out. And they don’t send you a disability check if you’re dead. So, I watch my step.
We scanned the area and found it. Or, said another way, Doc stumbled on it when he happened to look down between his legs and see some wires poking up from the ground. The IED didn’t go off. He lived.
George finishes his cigarette and lights another one. I do the same. The day is as miserably hot as it was the day before, and the day before that. The inside of the MRAP is one of the few places we have to escape the heat. Sure, it’s an oven in there. But it’s not in direct sunlight, so it’s the closest thing to AC we get. But the MRAP can’t save us from everything.
Not even two drags into my newly lit cigarette and Sergeant Bryan, a 6’6” chaos machine with arms as thick as my thighs, jerks the backdoors open. I’m not supposed to be smoking in the MRAP. Sergeant Bryan knows this, and now he’s got a decision to make—be cool about it, because it’s Iraq and every day sucks, or fuck me up somehow. He decides to fuck me up.
“Private First Class Eidson, smokin’ in my goddamn MRAP. Good, bitch. Get your fuckin’ gear on and grab the SAW and get your fuckin’ ass out here right goddamn now.”
“Aye, Sergeant!”
I put out my cig on my boot and take my M16 off my lap and grab the SAW. The M249 Squad Automatic Weapon is a “Light” Machine Gun that weighs something like, I don’t know, too fucking much. I toss the sling behind my neck and lumber toward the back of the MRAP. I can hear George laughing from the gunner’s mount.
“Have fun, POG.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
The backdoors to the MRAP are wide open, so I step just outside the door and jump the three- or four-foot gap to the ground. My knees creak under the weight of my body, the SAW, my flak jacket, and my Kevlar. It’s easy to ignore the strain in my knees because I refuse to imagine the damage I’m causing to my body. I’m sure I’ll regret it someday.
But again, fuck it. More disability money for me.
Sergeant Bryan points to the far side of the building. “Okay bitch, go ‘round back of this shithole and pull security.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I fucking say, POG bitch.”
“Aye Sergeant.”
I’m really rolling the dice on my well-being today. Sergeant Bryan shows me mercy and ignores my passive-aggressiveness, turning around and fucking off to wherever demons go in their free time. I start the short journey around the building to “pull security,” which likely means standing in the sun and trying to avoid becoming a heat casualty. As I walk away from the MRAP, George calls out to me.
“Hey POG.”
I turn around. He raises his sunglasses and blows a couple kisses at me. I pretend to catch them in my left hand, put them in my pocket for later, and flip him off. He grins and takes another drag off his cig. He’s probably my favorite Marine in the platoon. But I’ll be damned if I ever tell him that.
Matt Eidson is a writer and Marine veteran. You can find his work in The Wrath-Bearing Tree, Collateral, and Bull. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and son.
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This ends Volume 35, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01JUNE2025)
The window is now open for Lethal Minds’ thirty fifth volume, releasing July 01, 2025.
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