Lethal Minds Volume 36
Volume 36, 01 July, 2025
Letter from the Editor
I was thirty-two years old the first time I aimed a weapon at a man and demanded his compliance in return for allowing him to draw his next breath. Even for someone ten years into a career in which such interactions were a fundamental aspect, it was a heady experience, a buzzing mélange of adrenaline and shouting and testosterone. Later, I mentioned it to one of the Marines who had gone farther down that road than I on a previous deployment. He smiled. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” I didn’t know then whether it felt good, but it felt something for sure. I felt it again and again during that deployment, to an eventual point that, for a while after, I didn’t want to feel much else. There’s an addictive aspect to being at the farthest end of American foreign policy, the weight of the citizenry propelling you towards moments of life and death. It’s something worth considering before you get there. Now, I contrast that with images of masked law enforcement officers, or maybe masked bounty hunters, it's hard to tell, grabbing people charged with misdemeanors out of their homes in the United States of America. Some of those people are citizens, some of them are here in contravention of the law. I am sympathetic to law enforcement’s need to sort it all out, experienced as I am in the practicalities of snatching people from their homes. But mine was a place and a time of war, ill-conceived though it was, and I was obeying my oath. I have to wonder if those law enforcement personnel are feeling that same rush? I truly hope not. I hold our law enforcement personnel to an even higher standard than I do the members of the U.S. military I served for twenty-seven years, and some of what I regularly see is not what I expect in my name. That’s not an assertion that we should not enforce our laws; it’s an assertion that we should expect more humanity in their enforcement than that found in a war. Because this is America, and someone told me I was fighting those kinds of injustices over there, so I would not have to fight them here. Of course, I was at least pursuing terrorists armed with AK-47s, RPGs, and RPKs rather than a man who fathered three U.S. Marines, a landscaper armed with a weed whacker. We all swear to support and defend the U.S. Constitution, but rarely are military members called to enforce the laws and policies that spring from it upon the same citizenry who give it life. That’s an elevated obligation. Perhaps it’s a burden, but if you accept the coin of the realm and take up the state’s authority to compel the citizenry up to the point of life or death, you damned well ought to be willing to turn your unmasked face to the light of public scrutiny as you hang a strip charge on a house holding a woman and two toddlers, all of them U.S. citizens. I prefer not to operate from emotion, so I spoke with Geoffrey Corn, the Killam Chair of Criminal Law at Texas Tech University School of Law. Corn is a retired Army Staff Judge Advocate who was the go-to expert for Law of War Matters for the Army. Corn said, “Due process is not just about legal authority to take certain action, it also extends to the manner in which that authority is executed. When the government's conduct is outrageous or shocks the conscience, that alone indicates a violation.” Color my conscience shocked. I speak from long experience in saying that the morality of your actions in the present will drive the sanctity of your sleep for decades. I sleep free of guilt. I wore no mask in the execution of my nation’s policy. I wore no mask when standing before people who cowered in my shadow. I wore no mask when pulling the trigger of my rifle or calling for explosives to rain from the sky. I turned my face to my reality, because I chose to serve the machine and honesty demanded, and will ever demand, that I own that. You may agree with me. You may disagree. That’s another great thing about this nation. Tell me why, whatever it is. Put your thoughts out there. 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
The Written Word
“Actually, I used to be one of those animals…”
They Sent Me to War Without a Weapon
Bad Beats
Opinion
Citizens
Poetry and Art
Banner
Blood, Pain, Peppermint
Bottled Up
IN WHICH A TORTURED ARTIST BEGRUDGINGLY RATIONALIZES LIVING A FULL NATURAL LIFE
peace is our profession
Mouse (there is)
Josh Schultz Artwork
Transition and Veteran Resources
Hard Won Professional Lessons in a Post-Military Life
From Chaos to Clarity: My Journey to Finding Photography
The Written Word
Fiction and Nonfiction written by servicemen and veterans.
“Actually, I used to be one of those animals…”
Frank Gonzales
When I was fifteen, I was a shithead. I had been an honors student up to that point, ranking in the top two in every class I had been in, usually right behind whatever girl I was trying to date at the time. But when I began my freshman year of high school, I stopped seeing the point in academics. I began hanging out with people who were ditching class and doing drugs. I never did any myself, but I would have the occasional beer with them now and then.
Something was missing in my life, but I didn’t know what. I was seeking pleasure and failing to fill the void in my soul. Classroom learning became a bore; I only went to class to socialize and to make sure I passed, so I didn’t have to stay in school longer than necessary. I was dissatisfied with life.
What was missing in my life was struggle. And least, meaningful struggle. My home life offered its own strife, but my interest in academics was waning because it had become too easy. I knew the answer to every question was in the chapter of my textbook that immediately preceded it. I knew I could push out an essay that would get at least a B+ if I just wrote passionately enough and played on the emotions of my audience, my teachers. In the early 2000s post-Bush America, that was not hard to do.
At some point, I began cutting class so much that even though assignments were easy, I was in danger of failing. My father was livid. He had retired from active law enforcement just before 9/11, and had since been working as a background investigator. He was adamant that I get my shit together or there would be severe consequences.
My mother didn’t seem to care as much. She was also a cop, a detective, and looking back, she had so much going on in her own life that the lives of her children weren’t really a concern. Sometimes I think my sister and I were more accessories to her lifestyle than anything else.
Either way, the following year, I began school still unmotivated, lacking a worthy pursuit. So when a friend approached me and proposed that we try out for the wrestling team, I laughed. “Roll around with dudes in those thongs? No thanks.” But he was hesitant to go alone, and even then, leaving a friend hanging was not something my conscience could bear.
I followed him into the basement mat room of our high school gymnasium. The wrestling program at our high school was at the bottom of a list of underfunded and low-performing athletic programs housed by the school. Long gone were the glory days of those who flooded rooms seeking to imitate Dan Gable or Cael Sanderson. And the UFC was still a fringe organization that, though it was gaining traction, had a fan base mostly made up of kids and men who had seen Fight Club too many times. They wanted to knock people out like Chuck Liddell…unaware that he was once a wrestler at Cal Poly.
In that basement, I had no idea what would happen. I was flooded with fear for the first year, really. Every match I wrestled filled me with anxiety that froze me in place. I got comfortable at practice after a while, but when the eyes of the crowd were on the mat and my match was up, I would get stage fright. Like if I lost in front of this crowd of my friends and family, I would be looked down on. Unworthy of their love and affection.
At the end of that season, to my surprise, I was the only first-year on the team who made it to day two of the regional tournament to qualify for state. At the time, I attributed that to luck, but in hindsight, I had no easy matches, and my opponents were bigger and stronger.
My second year, I had a coach who inherited the third-rate program and built it from the ground up. We had a full roster for the first time in years. I had worked out a bit to be more physical, but another guy at the same weight had transferred to our school. Eric Craven fell into our practices, and I quickly discovered he had more years on the mat and was better technically than I, while being just as strong. I was going to have to fight for my spot on the team.
But when the time came, Eric didn’t want to fight me for it. He volunteered to take a spot two weight classes up. He said he just didn’t want to cut the two pounds necessary to make it to 138 every week, and planned to bulk up to 152 anyway. I was happy to fill the spot.
For the first half of the season, I watched him dogfight his way through tournaments, facing opponents bigger and stronger without flinching for a second. I had never seen a clearer representation of the power of will. He didn’t take first place, but he made every person fight him for the length of the match. At practice, I worked with him daily, and every time he kicked my ass I took a lesson from it.
After the new year, we made the decision to switch places. I was having trouble cutting weight and felt he would dominate in my place. I was also gaining some confidence, but had a theory. If I were wrestling bigger guys, the odds were already against me. I would probably lose. I’m not sure why, but knowing that gave me the confidence and freedom to try whatever I wanted in my matches. And something crazy happened: I started winning. I even fought a couple times at 170 while weighing in at 145 and won my matches.
At the end of that season, neither Eric nor I made it to state. But we both had one more year in us and refused to fail again. We pushed each other in the off-season, hitting the weight room and attending practices at other schools when our coach ended up getting deployed. Our rivalry grew into a friendship that I am grateful for to this day.
By the time the preseason of my senior year started, I had put on ten pounds of muscle and become much more technically proficient. If I shot a double leg takedown, I was going to get it. I looked more intimidating stepping onto the mat, and saw that in the guys I fought. I wasn’t the scared shithead I was three years ago. The guy in the mirror looked, walked, and talked differently.
My senior year, despite a state ranking, I still fell short of a championship: a spinal injury ended my season and career prematurely. But the lessons I learned from my entry into combat sports stayed with me for life. I began to seek challenges and invite confrontation as a means to growth. Failure didn’t deter me anymore; it made me push harder. If hitting a wall ten times didn’t break it, twenty might.
I hid my cervical spine injury and entered the Marine Corps infantry, and found a place where that mindset wasn’t just appreciated, it was demanded. Courage under fire begins and ends with belief, what some would call a delusion, that you are the untouchable object and unstoppable force that the enemy fears on the battlefield. I applied what I had learned to the martial arts (a term that is used more narrowly than its definition) of marksmanship, weapons fighting, and tactics. I learned to plan aggressive attacks with infantry assets the way I had learned to chain together sequences of wrestling techniques to outpace my opponent. The scale and space was different, but the objective remained the same.
I became an instructor of Marine Corps martial arts, and enjoyed teaching what I had learned in school to get Marines more comfortable with hand to hand fighting. Even among grunts, I was a bit more confrontational than others. The idea that every service member is a born killer and lethal weapon is a myth: we are normal people, from all walks of life, and help each other in our weak areas. While I taught some how to fight, others taught me how to communicate and coordinate. Primarily, when to shut the hell up and do what I was told. I’m still learning that.
Over time, I did exactly what the Marine Corps asked of me: I let the aggression run rampant, dominating my character. I only did so in acceptable environments, on the job and on deployment. But even there, my superiors began having to rein me in with my methods, and I spent my free time drinking in my room or isolating in the wilderness because being in crowded bars and cities left me on edge.
I volunteered for training courses on weekends, never took leave, and spent my off time in a gym or on the range. I would visit home and find it difficult to relate to my childhood friends, even the ones I had wrestled with. I felt they had settled into a life of complacency and called it peace. I lived for a mythical conquest that seemed ever elusive. I had more in common with the enemy I was preparing to fight than I did with my countrymen.
Eventually, I reached my breaking point, trying to move at an unsustainable pace for too long. I ran a red light at 45 miles per hour, totalled my car, broke my body, and was lucky to survive. That event derailed the direction I was pushing my career in, and though I had other good options, it became the start of a slow shift in priorities. During that time, I looked for something to soothe the uncertainty and fear that accompany any drastic life change. And that search led me to a familiar setting: a mat room.
I started learning to wrestle with a bathrobe on, and this time the object was to make my opponent “tap out”, not just pin him to the mat. As a “new guy”, I dominated the other new guys positionally, and put them in painful positions to break their will. I wasn’t going to destroy them, but to destroy myself: exhaust my body and mind so thoroughly that I could not think. I found a way to keep deploying as a civilian, but the timeline to that was uncertain, and I had no interest in reassimilating into society. Instead, I retreated to the familiar proving grounds of my youth.
Eventually, I returned to mat rooms in my hometown, and later, Phoenix. I happened to move into an apartment next to the largest jiu jitsu gym in Arizona, and found a group of training partners there that pushed me to and past my limits, daily. I deployed, then returned, and instead of finishing school and my transition, I kept training. In fact, it became the only thing I wanted to do. I didn’t care about competing because I didn’t want to beat anyone else. I wanted to beat myself, completely, brutally, to a pulp. Maybe then my mind would gain peace, and I would finally be able to begin a life of relative normalcy.
The members of the gym became my family. I opened my home to them, gave them whatever they needed. They were my new tribe. In many ways, the fight community was my first tribe. I will forever be grateful for the lessons that I was taught in a mat room.
Eventually, I had to grow up and join corporate America. Normal life, or whatever passes for it, begins when you make it happen, not under some elusive set of conditions. Though my job still involves thinking like the wolf at the door, there is very little of the door-kicking work I used to enjoy with a squad of Marines. I’m well groomed and dressed, and carry myself as unassumingly as possible, hiding in a sea of civilians. But now and then, I still pop into a gym to thrash my brown belt buddies. Just to remind them, and myself, that I’m still an animal. Just domesticated.
They Sent Me to War Without a Weapon
Stephen Medrano
In late November of 2009, I was healing from a recent back surgery that had me laid out for a bit. Docs called it an L-5 discectomy. The surgery to fix the issue was performed off-base following a taser training event in Melbourne, Florida. There was more to it, but perhaps I’ll share all that a little later. Shortly after being tased and falling backwards into the arms of two E-6 hunks, one of the discs in my back had had enough. The next day the fellas drove me back home to Bragg in the backseat of a Nissan Xterra with a herniated disc. In pain, as the sun was setting and casting a glow on my beautiful brown eyes, turning them a Road to El Dorado gold, a single tear of pain escaped my right eye and slid down the dirty window. But that is neither here nor there. This story is about heading downrange for the first time. Without a weapon. While stationed at Bragg, I was assigned to a special operations unit as a 91B, a Heavy Wheeled Vehicle Mechanic. I worked in the motor pool primarily as a glorified parts changer. I worked on M-ATVs, M-RAPs, and HMMWVs. But sometimes I was sent out to do some cool shit like supporting training operations with dudes behind the fence (you know the dudes). One time, my unit sent me to a Mobile Force Protection Course in Florida. The one I mentioned earlier. This rootin’-tootin’ course is designed to teach military dudes how to gunfight from inside a moving vehicle, surveil, spot an ambush, and employ evasive driving maneuvers. We all took a good beating while there (some of us needed emergency surgery after), but we learned some valuable information to help us stay alive. From September 8 through October 8 2008, I supported various special operations units from the Army, Navy, and Air Force to test and evaluate the Special Operations Combat Assault Rifle, or SCAR. Great times and great training. Going from a conventional command to a SOF command was a night-and-day difference. Lots of information was soaked up on the fly. Some of you may be asking, “Why send a mechanic to these courses typically reserved for SOF?” The short answer, gang, is why the fuck not? A soldier is a soldier before anything else, and in the eyes of the enemy, we are all the same. So, the more dudes that have the opportunity to train up, the better equipped they are to serve in a greater capacity. Whether that is in a support role or if they happen to get caught with their pants down. Having been through those training courses and realizing I acquired a new skillset, I took a look at my Enlisted Record Brief (ERB) and thought to myself, I really need a fucking deployment. Miraculously enough, after my last round of physical therapy from my back surgery, I got a call from my team leader asking if I wanted to deploy. At first, I thought he was just fucking around. I reached back out and said yes and waited for him to say something silly like, “SIKE!” He did not. I asked where I would be going, and he responded with, “Dude, you are going to Africa.” “Africa, why Africa?” I asked. “Do you want to go or not?” he asked. At the time, I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to deploy, so again, I said yes. It wasn’t Iraq or Afghanistan...but it was something. After the deployment wheels began to move (passports, a will, death photo, etc.), somehow the deployment went from Africa to Afghanistan. Oh shit! I was going to war, dog! The weeks that followed were not how I imagined they would happen. Some confusion, but mainly stress from thoughts of leaving the wife and kids behind. Oh yeah, there was also another one on the way. Perfect timing. Things really started to get weird when I asked my command, “When do I go draw my weapon?” Silence. I’ll make this part quick. I was never sent to the arms room to draw a weapon. The changing mission went unnoticed by my leadership, and I boarded a C-5 at Green Ramp on what was formerly known as Pope AFB, without a weapon. I did not advocate for myself because I somehow knew it was going to work out. Maybe. Up to this point, everything in my life had seemed to work out if I remained positive and put it out there. I’ll make this one quick, too. From North Carolina, we flew straight up to Bangor, Maine. Bangor to Spain. Spain to Bagram. Finally made it. I reported to my POC, and the first question he asked was...Yep, you guessed it: “How was your flight?” Then he asked, “Where is your weapon?” I proceeded to explain the situation, careful not to throw anyone under the bus. After all, there was no need to cause any more of an issue. I was there, and it was time to figure out my next steps. My POC nodded and said, “That’s fucking weird, but no worries. We have one you can use. When you get to Farah, go and get it zeroed.” I shook his hand, said thanks, and headed over to draw the weapon. I would like you to all use your imaginations and visualize what this arms room looked like and what kind of weapon they issued to me. The arms room looks exactly like the images in your head at this very moment and the weapon… an M16A2 with a single-shot 40mm grenade launcher. The ol' M203. I signed for it, an adjustable rear sight for windage and all. I’ll fast-forward a few days here as well. I received word that one of my relatives, a cousin, was in Bagram and I ran over to meet with him, ASAP. I had not seen him in over 20 years and was excited to get the opportunity to chat. We hugged, joked, laughed, and swapped a few stories. Later on, in the conversation, my cousin mentioned he was headed over to Pakistan for a Civil Affairs mission. I wished him safe travels and good luck. A few days had passed and I was gearing up to take a Talon flight into Farah when I was notified that some Civil Affairs Soldiers were KIA in Pakistan. My heart instantly dropped to my feet, bounced back into my chest, and began to try and beat its way out. My first thoughts were of my cousin and his parents, and how I was going to have to fly home with his body. Everything was happening all at once. I time-traveled back to when we were kids and how much I looked up to him and his sisters. They were all older than me and had been raised in a world much different than mine. I was proud of the fact that he earned his degree and became an officer in the US Army. Everything was happening all at once. I rolled into the building, took a seat and tuned in to the soldier up front speaking. In time, he began to name the names of the fallen. I closed my eyes and held my breath for what seemed like... My cousin’s name was never called, but my eyes stayed closed for the three other names that were. Later that evening, we performed a flightline funeral in the cold Afghanistan night as we received the bodies of our fallen brothers. A few days later, I sat in the DFAC eating oatmeal, still processing the past few days, when I was called to speak with my leadership. They apologized for my flight being pushed back a couple of days and mentioned that tomorrow would be the day. I nodded my head. They proceeded to tell me that a team of dudes nearby needed an escort into Bagram. I volunteered to roll out and provide security; my weapon had still not been zeroed. We linked up with the team and escorted them in. Shortly after getting back to our area, I looked over at one of the trucks and noticed a familiar face getting out. I began to laugh, and I immediately pointed to one of the dudes. Everyone around took notice and froze for the incoming interaction. I yelled out, “What’s up, Sergeant Airborne?” The dude looked over at me with squinted eyes and asked, “Are you that motherfucker that made fun of me after Airborne School?” I replied, “Yeah, man. That was me!” You see, after Airborne school, we had the opportunity to pick our favorite cadre and razz them a bit. I chose this dude because he was mean as hell, or so we all thought. In my best Puerto Rican accent, I gave Airborne commands and did my best impressions of this guy. We were all laughing, the Cadre included. At one point, the laughter stopped, and I turned around to see him coming down the metal bleachers. Coming down to kill me. He walked right over to me as I stood at parade rest and said, “Airborne. You are stupid.” He then cracked a thin smile and walked back up the bleachers. In the middle of our small area on Bagram, many miles from Benning and Bragg, I extended my hand to another familiar face from my past. He pulled me into a bro-hug and said, “It’s good to see you.” I had not seen this dude since the summer of 2007, the fact that he remembered me meant a lot. I held in my emotions and replied, “You too, brother.” When we got back to Bragg, we became close friends and saw one another often. The rest of the deployment was nothing short of extraordinary. I made it out to Farah. I finally zeroed my weapon. I went on some missions. I saw the Texas Longhorns get their asses kicked by Alabama on January 7 2010 (it’s all good, I am an Aggie now) and experienced some highs and lows. I learned about the culture of the people of Afghanistan and how things came to be from an ethnographic point of view. I wrote poetry in my free time and called home when I could. I re-enlisted for a few more years (tax-free) while in Afghanistan and thanked God every day for keeping me safe. If you ask every dude who has ever been on deployment, short or long, each one of them will have a different story to tell. Yes, there will be stories that align, but perspectives look different from lens to lens. My story is about knowing in my heart that everything would work out in the end. I would find a way to take my negative start and turn it into a positive end. I am proud of all those who came before me, and those who will come after. And I will always raise a glass to all those who are still here and to those who are no longer. Be there for your people, but most importantly, never forget your people.
Bad Beats Benjamin Van Horrick Staff Sergeant Bennett Ryan’s left arm hung limp as he stood outside the office of Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Hayes, his former battalion commander. Hayes was also the man who had called in his MEDEVAC at Kajaki. Just the sight of Hayes’ door sent Ryan back: the SVEST’s heat, the washers in Hayes’ leg, the four dead. The rusty bolts in Ryan’s arm had severed nerves; numbness flared now, triggered by stress. He remembered the pushy first sergeants and the nosy nurses with their clip-on smiles. He thought of the degenerate gamblers, some of whom were former squadmates, who didn’t understand the word "no." And now here was Hayes, who’d sworn they’d leave Kajaki behind and forge something new. They’d both tried and failed. At Camp Lejeune, Hayes had tracked Ryan’s moves, or rather, his missteps—the missed medical appointments, the fights in the barracks parking lot, outbursts, late-night phone calls, welfare checks. Hayes hovered over Ryan like a ghost, trying to keep him alive, trying to get him to keep faith with the fallen. Ryan entered the office and began reporting to Hayes as usual. Hayes had no time for customs and courtesies. As Ryan sat, Hayes asked him, “What’s your limit?” “Limit, sir?” “Staff Sergeant, we’re all friends here.” But they weren’t. Hayes was a mentor and Ryan a mentee. After he changed command, Hayes was no longer in Ryan’s chain of command, but that didn’t change how Ryan thought of him. As he stood before Hayes now, Ryan’s nightmare began to unfold. The man he respected most seemed ready to confront him about his new off the record role: Camp Lejeune’s biggest bookie. In school, bookies didn’t visit on Career Day. Kids dreamed of being Michael Jordan, not setting lines on the games. Sure, it was an upstanding profession, just above a carnival barker or a sign spinner in terms of prestige and status. Being a bookie meant living in the shadows, relying on promises from degenerates, and accepting the possibility of both dealing and receiving violence. In the end, that was not much different from Ryan’s deployment. But being a bookie also let Ryan set lines and limits, and that gave him back what he’d lost in Kajaki: control. Most of his clients came from bars, tattoo shops, smoke pits, barber shops, and MMA fights—not a regimental XO’s office lined with diplomas, awards, challenge coins, pictures, plaques, and war trophies. "It’s a side business," said Ryan. "A successful one," said LtCol Pat Hayes. Ryan’s left arm stayed numb; his pulse quickened. "Look, sir..." "I’m looking for action, not to pop you on bookmaking. You read me?" That last bit was Hayes’ verbal tick. All commanders had one; junior Marines always picked up on it and mocked it. "I’ve got kids doing spice and bath salts, throwing themselves off the barracks roofs, not to deploy. Yours is an enterprise—not exactly above board—but we play in the margins. You think I’d fuck you after Kajaki? Alabama is always ready for prime time. You read me?" Ryan thought about it. The bond between them was seared into their skin. The collective memory of the incident had trapped them both in a loop they couldn’t seem to escape, even if they had wanted to. "Five is the limit on college and the NFL." "Five grand it is." Ryan’s arm had started to regain feeling, but in an instant, it went numb again and now hung limp against the chair. Ryan had meant $500, not $5,000. If Hayes won his bet, Ryan risked his entire side business—and more importantly, his reputation. With kickoff imminent, Ryan couldn’t adjust the lines or hedge the bets. "Can you cover me?" "Yes, sir." "Why are you betting big on football, sir?" "What the fuck else am I gonna do? Plus, I’ve got a hunch. Saban gets his teams ready for prime time. You read me?” "So, we meet on Monday to settle?" "Just come to my boat on Sunday." A knock came at Hayes’ door. Ryan’s pulse spiked. “Come in," Hayes said. "Sir, you’re fifteen minutes late for your meeting with the CO,” said the Sergeant Major. “Not fucking again,” Hayes said, exasperated with himself. He looked back at Ryan, and told him, “Just come to my boat on Sunday." Hayes lived on a sailboat docked at the Lejeune’s marina—close to work, avoiding distractions, keeping life simple. Hayes stood, scrambled for his notebook, and prepared to leave—but in that moment, he looked lost. His eyes drifted out the window and fixed on some distant point. Then he came out of it and rushed out of the office to see the CO. Rumors swirled about Hayes since Kajaki. His once-fit frame, honed from years in Force Recon, had grown bloated under his sweat-caked, sun-baked cammies. His tanned complexion turned a blotchy, deep, and ruddy red. Hayes rarely made an office appearance on Monday mornings or Friday afternoons—plenty of his Marines covered for Hayes. Rank didn’t grant him privileges, but loyalty did. The anchor in his life was fraying, too. It seemed to Ryan, in that moment, that the man he’d relied on had become as unreliable and scattered as Ryan himself. It was now 1415 on Friday, giving Ryan a little over 24 hours to raise as much cash as possible to keep his operation afloat. The knots in Ryan’s stomach made the hellish Friday afternoon commute off Lejeune unbearable. He fumbled for his meds and washed them down with a Monster. You can take meds with energy drinks, but not whiskey—well, not too often, Ryan reasoned, and not when you have to drive. Ryan hit Holcomb Boulevard. He had always loved the character Michael Cherrito’s line from Heat: “Well, ya know, for me, the action is the juice." He made his platoon watch the movie to teach small-unit tactics and weapons handling. While others identified with De Niro or Pacino’s characters, Ryan saw himself in Sizemore’s character Cherrito. For him, it wasn’t about escaping a past—it was about running toward action. From foster care (six homes, three states) to the Marine Corps, from Ramadi to Now Zad to Kajaki, Ryan wasn’t fleeing anything. He sought the rush. As Ryan crept toward the front gate, he cataloged what he could fence, debts he could collect, and who he might borrow from. If Hayes' bet went bad, he’d lose his operation, the trust of his mentor, and his connection to Kajaki. He’d found action, but for the first time, the risks began to outweigh the gain, as the ground was already shifting beneath him. For all his life, he was running towards something. Now he was just running.
Opinion
Op-Eds and general thought pieces meant to spark conversation and introspection.
Citizens
Cole Caudle
While walking the Ridgeline overlooking Highway 1, our sergeant pointed to the cars and reminded us that the people down there just woke up and kissed their loved ones, got their coffee, and are now headed to work as their pillow cools with no idea that a machine gun platoon is preparing for war. Our sergeant said that this is the proper order. The people should not know that we are up here—they need to live in the shelter we made for them without thinking of the existential threat we defend against. I took his advice as gospel and always held back when talking with civilians, friends, and family. But then, I began to despise them for their naivety. For how could they be so clueless as to the ways of the world? Why do they not understand? After I accepted the state of affairs, I realized that maybe all of the other veterans had sergeants like mine who said similar things about the state of the world. I realized that maybe others wanted to keep our technical knowledge esoteric – but I wondered whether doing so really helped anyone, in or out of uniform.
I have come to believe this separation hurts both parties and the nation as a whole. Veterans facing issues of societal integration, like belongingness and alienation, are hurt by this divide. The civilian in the workplace or a student on campus might be curious about the veteran experience. Still, they are too afraid to ask questions because of stereotypes and misconceptions about veterans, and the sense they have that veterans have experiences that are not for civilians to understand. As a result, the veterans and non-veterans exist in topical silence where nothing of substance occurs before each goes home, laments their isolation, and satisfies their curiosity by reading online forums and books written by SEALs. But why shouldn’t these people simply talk and listen to each other? How can we move forward?
Moving forward requires openness and courage. It takes time, effort, and patience. Perhaps it starts in a reading group, perhaps it starts in a Touchstones discussion group? Perhaps it happens in town halls (but who goes to those?). And just what is the “it” that I keep gesturing at? It is the moment of seeing the Other for themself and respecting them for who they are. The culminating moment is when a mixed group of civilians and veterans stops building and maintaining the divide and recognizes that they are all just citizens. The truck driver also sacrifices for the country, without medals, honors, or Veterans Day coffee. The postal carrier performs vital functions, as do the teachers, the painters, the steel workers, the bakers, the chemists, the auto workers, and many others. All of these people are AMERICA.
Why do we keep up with the distinction? Do veterans want a special cookie, and do civilians want to play the fool to reality? All citizens share in the keeping of the country. It does not matter what you did in your life if you aren’t helping now. I urge all to behave as citizens first.
Poetry and Art
Poetry and art from the warfighting community.
Banner Evan Young Weaver We are not the only ones who relied on the person next to us for simply everything We are not the only ones who fought street by street to get back home We are not the only ones who saw friendly faces turn to be beasts against all dignities We are not the only ones who saw children wield AKs while parents waited We are not the only ones stricken with cancer, disease because of what was burned where we slept We were not the only ones who did our jobs with deadly and defective equipment with no recourse We were not the only ones who went into a fight as Americans Blood, Pain, Peppermint Shawn M. Jones I will finally call the VA and I will make that appointment with Doctor J. And tell her that the dreams are back, That he is back. And how every nightmare we fly around Afghanistan In a rusty, old Blackhawk with no pilots, And how he tries to speak but can only scream For someone to save him. His eyes beg for forgiveness But I will refuse to forgive I will tell the doctor why. I will explain to her my definition of terror And describe how it feels when I become overwhelmed by the flashbacks, The smell of blood and sand, The grinding odor of copper, dust, and sweat. I will tell her how that smell comes crashing down At the worst of times And how I damn near wreck when it does. I will tell her about depression About not wishing to die But not wanting to live About how I don’t want to get out of bed To face the day but I do anyway Because, to me, not to is worse I will tell her about pain And how torn ankle tendons feel when I walk. How I can feel the pieces move with every step, And how the surgeons can’t fix them, And how constant pain hurts. I will school her on what anxiety really feels like. The crushing pressure on my chest. The nights left curled up On the bathroom floor. The dry heaves And the reason I always have peppermint gum. I will tell her all these things and more, And wonder if she can help. I will hide the things I can’t say All while I look her in the eye. “Bottled Up” Stan Lake Some stories stay On the tip of my tongue, As if nestled there Never spoken or sung. Things no one Wants to hear. Retelling trauma from Bygone years. Penned up, boarded, Some stories stay Closed off permanently. It has to be this way. I wish I could share, Or even divulge, But I’ll swallow it down. That terrible, tearful bulge. War stories, And youthful folly Stay tied up On tongues with faux jolly. Bottled up, And forced to the bottom Because no one wants To hear your problems. IN WHICH A TORTURED ARTIST BEGRUDGINGLY RATIONALIZES LIVING A FULL NATURAL LIFE Jake Lucas “Lord, help me get my shit together,” I used to pray Well I got my shit together and I’m still sad How much shit do you have to get together How much shit can a man have? I feel like the devil called my card Like he tracked me down to another hotel And got the clerk to give up my room number Probably offered ‘em waterfront property in hell And he swiped the key Walked in room 319 and caught me On my last leg with my pants down Gun on the dresser across the room and no friends in town “I’m not going with you” I tell ‘em with a grin Wonder if that kinda thing is up to me or him “I’m not coming with you” I reaffirm Less convinced in my mind but more confidence in the words “Yes you are and I’ll tell you why You’re in the middle of a lifelong hangover and I can take you to the other side” He doesn’t list my sins, or bring up the mistakes of my past He doesn’t read the vin numbers of cars I’ve stolen or give coordinates to the boats I’ve sunk He doesn’t even play recordings of sentences spoken in anger Or read back to me the things I’ve said while I was drunk He just takes out a little blue iPod shuffle He puts in one plastic earbud and holds out the other I take it, and dig it into my skull ‘til it ruptures the drum And it plays songs I can no longer bear to hear A note strikes and I am overflowing with memories I pull the little cord but can’t remove the piece from my ear I scramble around the room scraping memories off the floor He smiles and simply points towards the door There's no memories out there If you come with me they’ll all be gone No more sadness on joyful days No more loneliness when the shadows grow long The door flings open on its own Theres a sweet soft light flowing in from the hall I look desperately for my phone But I can’t make myself call peace is our profession Ryan Dahl another sleepless night, in the performance of our duty. be it stuck behind a screen, or banished to the box- we bring only the things we carry, and even more in our thoughts. too early for war, and too young for space- but so ever thankful that a fragile peace is in place. it was built on the backs of those who came before- "the burden and the blessings of freedom," -a simple thing, but one we adore it will not come easy, but we know it is right. we will find it- After one more sleepless night Mouse (there is) Keith Walter Dow There is a mouse Living behind the bookshelves in my home As a child I might have read stories about the life a mouse lived among giant items in a human habitat But There is no wonder now Beyond how the mouse got in And how I will kill it. There is the difference. Josh Schultz
Josh Schultz is a Nashville-based artist and U.S. Army veteran. After retiring from the military following 21 years of service, he earned a Bachelor’s degree in Visual Art Studies from Anglo‑American University in Prague and is currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts at Watkins College of Art at Belmont University.
Instagram: Gershei2
Transition and Veteran Resources
Career and civilian transition guidance, geared towards helping servicemembers plan their careers and help transitioning servicemembers succeed in civilian life.
Hard Won Professional Lessons in a Post-Military Life
Dan Head
I’m a veteran and a father who sees great value in practical knowledge transfer. I do this with my kids in order to offset the chance they have to learn things the hard way, like I did. Here, I’d like to lend some hard-won knowledge in hopes of helping at least one other veteran who may be coming into the civilian workforce or may be experiencing some of what will be outlined here.
I fancy myself as a pragmatic individual. Full of faults, of course, but we are all human and have to learn how to navigate life with those. When I experience a situation with valuable life lessons in it, I think it is a great disservice if I were to withhold that experience and the lessons learned from those who would benefit from it. My transition from the military to the civilian workforce has been wrought with hard lessons I was never adequately prepared for in the transition assistance program from my respective service.
I have learned through these experiences and the experiences of my closest friends that our military service isn’t necessarily valued by a whole lot of civilian employers. We grew up through the GWOT, where, as many of us hated it, “thank you for your service” was a regular occurrence. Well, in civilian life, those are mere simple words with very little substance to back them up. I’ve had the pleasure of working as a DoD contractor where my military experience was valued by my immediate employer, but less so by my customer, who was the DoD activity in which I was supporting. Generally, the civilians with no military experience were either completely dismissive or saw little translatable value in it. I recall being told my leadership experience as an NCO would be invaluable in the civilian workforce. Turns out that is not the case. There are so many folks transitioning out of the military at any given moment with the same “leadership experience.” It is all about how you market yourself. Put some serious thought into the resume, the interview, the questions, and most importantly, how you carry yourself in the workplace. Professionalism is now solely in your hands to live day in and day out. There is no more accountability for such things. It’s all on you.
Which brings me to my next point: accountability. Broadly in civilian life, you are accountable to yourself. And to the single enlistment E4 mafia member, this sounds like the greatest thing. Until you wake up sometime after getting your DD-214, grossly overweight in some dingy apartment, realizing you let a lot slip. Heed my words, take self-accountability seriously early on. I understand the desire to be free and do your own thing, but you have to have the self-discipline not to let it get out of hand to the point of injuring your personal and professional potential.
Learn the civilian workplace lingo as well as the culture. The civilian workforce is its own beast to conquer. The way you carry yourself and engage others is going to set the tone for the quality of your experience in that job. The 22-year-old recent college graduate who majored in Business Marketing doesn’t necessarily care about your war stories or your service. It is up to you to figure out how to connect with that person and others like them. Again, here is a theme of personal responsibility. The civilian workforce is not going to capitulate and mold itself around you. You have to figure out how to work in to it. This was one of the more difficult challenges I faced when getting into it. Interpersonal skills, the “soft skills”, hold their weight in gold out here. Figure out what right looks like as quickly as possible. This will be different for everyone, so know yourself, your likes and dislikes, your strengths and your weaknesses. And as always, be adaptable. Failure to adapt will guarantee hardship. This transition is already hard enough; don’t make it harder for yourself by expecting others to change for you.
Some of the biggest lies I was told while processing out were that a security clearance and/or polygraph was the golden ticket into a well-paying civilian job. It is not. Again, as referenced above, it’s how you market it. There are plenty of folks getting out with clearances and making their Clearancejobs.com profiles. You are not special. Having a clearance and polygraph are only two of many boxes to check. Do they help? Yes. Are they the golden ticket? No. Market yourself wisely. Figure out what employers are looking for and tailor each resume to fit the bill. But don’t lie. You don’t want to be that person who claims to have a certain experience or qualification on a resume, gets hired, and is discovered a liar by falling short. Own your strengths and weaknesses. Integrity is about all you have out here; that, and a good work ethic.
Networking is key. Start building your professional network in your desired industry as well as outside of it. The more you gain insight into other business areas, professions, trades, and markets, the more rounded you are. At the very least, these can be professional conversation topics or ice breakers. I knew nothing about business development and marketing when I got out. But I took the time to sit and chat with folks I had nearly nothing in common with, other than being human. And with that little extra effort, I grew both my network and my professional knowledge. Never stop learning. If you think you know it all about any given topic, you are completely wrong. I was arrogant enough at one point to believe I knew it all until something blew up in my face and I nearly had to start from scratch. Be humble and hungry.
Resilience will never lose relevance. You will have setbacks. Not just in the beginning, but through both personal and professional life. You may even find yourself changing careers completely. I’m going over a big speed bump right now, which is my initiative to share these hard-won experiences with you. The ability to bounce back from disruptions, frustrations, getting stabbed in the back, or any other kind of setback will ensure opportunity for success. There have been so many times in my life to this point that I had no idea how I kept putting one foot in front of the other, but I did. The only words I can ever put to that ability are what I tell my kids: never quit. It’s okay and necessary to pause, breathe, adjust, and refocus. We all need that proverbial tactical pause as part of our lifelong OODA Loop decision-making process. But that’s just it, it’s a pause, and it has to be done wisely. Bills and other expenses don’t stop because you’re burned out. You have to find balance to address concerns, maintain resilience, and still ensure needs are met. No one is coming to save you. You have to rely on you and your ability to get things done. And you have to be smart about it.
And here we arrive at my final point: mental health. I have struggled with depression and anxiety for a big portion of my life, exacerbated by PTSD and TBI. For years, I was dealing with it in ways that ultimately did not benefit me or fix the problems. But through this trial and error, I found methods that smartly work for me. You must take this seriously because your mental health, positive or negative, will affect your personal and professional life. Talk to people, find a group of like-minded folks, go to counseling, do something positive. Your mental health must remain relevant if you want to be successful out here. We all slip - we all zig when we should zag, and we all definitely have rough patches. You cannot let that define your life. There is much more positive out here if you put in the work. You cannot expect to perform at your best in the workplace if your mental health is left uncared for. You are the only person who can work to improve this. You are the only person who can address whatever it is that needs to be addressed. I believe in you.
Good luck out there. Remember, it’s all on you to make this work. Please take these words and advice and tailor them to your needs. We veterans have to look out for one another because it is only us who understand what it’s like to go from the military culture to a completely different world after getting out. The civilian workforce will be a new land to explore. It is our individual responsibility to do it wisely.
From Chaos to Clarity: My Journey to Finding Photography Julian Valles Trauma doesn’t wear a uniform, but it leaves scars just the same. My earliest memories are not of playgrounds or birthday cakes, but of surviving. I grew up in an abusive household—one riddled with physical beatings, emotional neglect, and sexual abuse. It’s a strange thing, surviving your own childhood. You carry it with you, a heavy weight that no child should ever have to bear. And yet, I bore it. Not without damage, but with a stubborn will to live, to prove that I was more than the sum of the pain inflicted on me. The day after I graduated high school, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. It wasn’t a decision made lightly or out of patriotism. I joined the Marines because I was desperate for structure, identity, and escape. I was 18, furious at the world, broken, and full of questions I didn’t yet know how to ask. If I couldn’t find purpose in my upbringing, maybe I could forge it in fire. I became an 0311 rifleman—infantry. I joined 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, and by the age of 21, I had already worn multiple hats: team leader, guidon bearer, and drone operator. The Corps gave me more than I expected. It gave me discipline, camaraderie, and a temporary distraction from the chaos I carried inside. It also gave me a front-row seat to violence, the kind that can either bond you or break you. For a while, it did both. In 2017, I left the Marines at 22 years old. Honorably discharged and stripped of the mission that had consumed me for years, I stepped into civilian life with the naive hope that I’d find purpose waiting for me on the other side. But purpose doesn’t greet you with open arms. It hides. And I spent the next several years chasing it through dead ends and dashed dreams. College was the first attempt. I failed. My mind couldn’t focus, and my trauma clashed with the mundane normalcy of classroom life. I tried becoming an EMT—failed again. Federal law enforcement offered a brief glimmer, but I didn’t follow through. Private contracting? I backed out. Nursing seemed like a noble path; maybe I could save others the way I wished someone had saved me. But nursing, too, was a mismatch. I failed to connect. Each failure wasn’t just a closed door—it was a reinforcement of the belief that maybe I wasn’t meant to thrive in the world I had fought to protect. Family problems continued to compound my inner turmoil. Old Marine brothers, brothers I had served with, began dying by suicide. The calls started to come in—one, then another, then another. And each death chipped away at what little hope I had left. I spiraled. By 2019, I couldn’t hold the pieces together anymore. One night, the darkness consumed me, and I attempted to take my own life. But something inside me—maybe the last ember of that stubborn will to survive—pulled me back. The next day, I checked myself into therapy. That decision changed everything. Therapy didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me a flashlight in the dark. I began to unravel the years of trauma, to face the demons instead of running from them. Most importantly, I began to believe, for the first time in years, that I was capable of healing. I didn’t want to die—I wanted to live. I wanted to become more than a survivor. I wanted to become someone who created something meaningful out of all the brokenness. In 2021, I found photography. It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. It didn’t come with fanfare or clarity. It came through curiosity. I picked up a Sony a6400 camera and a DJI drone, not fully understanding what I was looking for, but knowing I had to do something. When I held that camera, something inside of me stirred. For the first time in years, I felt stillness. I felt focus. I felt free. Photography and cinematography became more than hobbies—they became lifelines. Through the lens, I began to see the world in a different light. I noticed light again. I chased moments instead of running from them. I realized that capturing the beauty around me was a way to reclaim something that had been taken from me: wonder. I dropped out of nursing school. Some thought I was throwing my life away. But for me, it was the first time I was truly choosing to live on my terms. I stopped chasing jobs that looked good on paper and started chasing what made me feel alive. That camera—the same one I bought out of desperation—became my sword and shield. With it, I went to war against hopelessness. I shot landscapes, portraits, fast cars, slow moments, gritty emotions, and quiet peace. And as I grew more skilled, people began to take notice. Within a year, I had the privilege of working with brands I once only dreamed about: Ferrari, Porsche, Audi, McLaren. I captured electric moments at Coachella. I created visual stories for Haley Strategic. These weren’t just jobs—they were validation that my voice, my vision, mattered. That I could turn pain into art. That I could transform trauma into meaning. People see the glamour now: the cars, the events, the polished visuals. But behind every photo I take is a man who had to fight tooth and nail just to feel alive. Photography is not just my career; it is my therapy, my rebellion, my declaration that I will not be defined by what I survived, but by what I create. I’m often asked why I chose this path, especially given my past and the paths I’ve abandoned. My answer is simple: because art outlives us. Every frame I shoot, every scene I edit, is a piece of me preserved in time. It's my way of saying, I was here. I made it. I mattered. I still struggle. Healing isn’t linear. There are days when the darkness tries to creep back in. But now, I have tools. I have a mission. And I have a community of fellow creatives who understand that expression is survival. Photography taught me that beauty doesn’t need to be perfect—it just needs to be real. And so do we. My story is not unique in its pain, but maybe it’s unique in how I’ve chosen to respond. I won’t pretend to have all the answers. I’m still learning, still growing, still healing. But I am no longer running. I am no longer silent. I am no longer just a product of my past. I am an artist. I am a veteran. I am a survivor. And with every photo I take, I am proving that even the most broken beginnings can lead to something beautiful.
Watch Julian's story here in a self-created short film.
——————————
This ends Volume 36, Edition 1, of the Lethal Minds Journal (01JULY2025)
The window is now open for Lethal Minds’ thirty-sixth volume, releasing August 01, 2025.
All art and picture submissions are due as PDFs or JPEG files to our email by midnight on 20 JULY 2025.
All written submissions are due as 12 point font, double spaced, Word documents to our email by midnight on 20 JULY 2025.
lethalmindsjournal.submissions@gmail.com
Special thanks to the volunteers and team that made this journal possible:
Strong. Thank you for these words. They matter.
Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share my story. Semper 🔷🇺🇸