PTSD for Christmas—The Boredom, Dispatch 6

This dispatch is way overdue but thanks for bearing with me.

Catch up with Dispatch 4 and Dispatch 5.

An Afghan policeman stands with a British mercenary

The 24^th day of The Boredom was a lovely, sunny Sunday in Southern California.  I woke up with plenty of time for leisure and knocked through a chapter of Erik Prince’s book Civilian Warriors: The Inside Story of Blackwater and the Unsung Heroes of the War on Terror.  It’s a dynamite read so far, and as a libertarian I like reading about the ups and downs of the military’s private sector.

Later in the morning I took my mom with me to the Christmas service at the First Baptist Church of San Dimas.  The First Baptist Church is the oldest church and building in my town—118 years old.  It’s always been a small congregation—thirty or fewer people usually come to Sunday morning service, and there may be ten or fewer at evening service.  However, it’s the small congregations where I feel most at home.

It’s written that “…if two of you agree on earth about anything that they may ask, it shall be done for them by My Father who is in heaven.  For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst” (Matthew 18:19-20).

The mostly-white church interior was lined at the front with pine garlands and bright red poinsettias, all running along the piano, pulpit, and communion altar.  It was simple but tastefully elegant.  The highlight (other than the Salvation message, which is open to ALL people, regardless) was the Christmas music.

In the first twenty minutes the congregation sang Christmas songs from the old hymnal.  Then, several members either sang or performed on instruments in front of the whole congregation.  Kudos to the Santana siblings and their killer saxophones!  The pastor rounded the service out with a sermon on Luke chapter 2 (the Nativity story).

Later that night, I met the older woman from Riverside for a date at the bookstore.  I honestly don’t know why I like to go on bookstore dates; that’s the one venue where I’m guaranteed to pay more attention to inanimate objects than to the woman.  Nonetheless, this one went fine and we ended up shooting the breeze til nearly three in the morning in the parking lot.

Monday, Day 25, I spent most of my free time hustling and bustling around town, trying to finish up my Christmas shopping.  I had another date with the same lady at night.  This time I went to her home where she surprised me with hot chocolate and marshmallows while we watched old movies by the fire.  Great times!  I ended up making it home around 4 AM, but I still rose and shone at 9.

Tuesday, Day 26, was an interesting mix that reflected a lot about the people I care about and the times in which we live.

We were calling it May Day—Havok’s birthday celebration.  (What is it with all my Navy friends and naming days after themselves???)  Anytime Havok hosts a birthday celebration—or any kind of celebration other than friends just getting together to drink—people know it’s going to be crazy, and it’s going to be fun.

Interior of the Yardhouse

I linked up with Havok—the Navy vet and buddy who trashed Karaoke at Lake Arrowhead—and a few other friends at the Yardhouse Bar and Grill in Chino Hills.  I’ve had nothing but good times there!  After wolfing through a giant plate of California roll—it’s one huge role, kind of annoying, but freaking delicious—and gulping down a Dr. Pepper, we officially started a bar hop.

It was about as fun as it could get for someone who doesn’t drink, but ultimately I was there for Havok’s company (and to see if he had anything to say for himself after ruining a previous Tuesday night).  It was at the second bar we were at that Havok began to get visibly trashed—he always gets cross-eyed and starts conversations about wildly inappropriate topics.

The guys and girls were all huddled around a game of pool, leaving Havok and I alone at a nearby table.  With the others gone, he started reaching deep down again.  I don’t like it when he does this.  If he were honestly getting things off his chest, that would be one thing.  But when Havok reaches down into that deep, dark place, he’s either jumping on the Woe-is-me Wagon, or he’ll look for whatever horrible things he can say to shock his listeners.

He opened up about his depression, his emptiness, his feelings of helplessness.  He talked about feeling like he was absolutely dead inside, and just wanted to get back to his brothers on the special ops teams.   Despite how upset I was with him for getting so drunk, so fast—I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d torpedo the night for everyone—I really couldn’t blame him for hating civilian life.

Here he was, telling me that he lived for the adrenaline rush, lived for being out in the field, out with his fellow operators.  And there I was, packing my days and nights with fun or time-consuming activities and projects, just to distract myself from the fact that I slowly was—and am—going crazy not being back in the desert with my teams and my brothers.  Except I knew I’d be back on base doing what I love soon, whereas Havok may or may not be hired by the private firm he applied for.

However, Havok and I have very different ways of dealing with our boredom and… that nagging feeling of emptiness.  And his is worse, that I’ll admit.  But his coping mechanism has been to drink copious amounts of liquor.  It used to be that getting drunk and partying helped him get his temporary fix.  Nowadays, he gets as drunk as possible, as fast as possible, because passing out and not being conscious for hours at a time is preferable for him over facing his demons.

And then there’s the PTSD.  Picture yourself in this situation: it’s your best friend’s birthday and you’re explaining why it would be wrong for him to kill himself.  “You have every reason and every right to be depressed,” I told him.  “I know you have nightmares, and I know you see that shit in the daytime too.  But the fact stands that you survived.  You’re alive, still here, and our other brothers aren’t.  We owe it to them to live a long and happy life, because they no longer can.  You can’t quit, because they wouldn’t want you to.”

And I’m terribly, terribly afraid that he might quit.  I’m an ex-wino; I know how quickly alcohol can break a good man down into a sub-human lifeform.  The wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa shattered my best friend, and he doesn’t know how to put the pieces back together, and alcohol turned this once-proud, accomplished operator into a pathetic drunk.  The worst thing for me is I don’t know how to help him.

He somehow held on until we got to the third bar—where he promptly needed to be marched to the car for trying to pick a fight with the one dude who was going out of his way to be nice to our group.  I got into the driver’s seat, Havok climbed into the backseat, and a pretty friend of his climbed into the front passenger seat.  As we talked, I lit up a cigarette.

Havok asked for a drag, took a puff, and started to puke in his mouth—the girl barely reached back and opened his door in time.  After hurling, he passed out in the back seat, face naturally angled to the side.  He was done for the night.  Satisfied that his airway was still open, I gathered the rest of our group, tabs were closed out, and we all went our separate ways for the night (Havok was taken home by our buddy Joker).  It was 11:37 P.M.

Wednesday, Day 27—or should I say DAY ZERO IN MIDDLE EARTH TIME!!!—my dumb ass got carried away writing copious research notes so I missed The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies on IMAX 3D.  I looked at the listings and saw a regular “Real-D” 3D show in the next town a half hour later, so I jumped at that one.  What a fun movie!

I spent most of Day 28, Thursday, with another close friend, Aqua Bat.  He picked me up from home in his brilliant, deep orange Volkswagon Beetle and we went Christmas shopping for our families.  I happened to find the Extended Edition of the second Hobbit installment, The Desolation of Smaug, and I jumped at the chance to buy it.

Aqua Bat loved the Lord of the Rings Trilogy but had never seen the Hobbit movies.  Wrong thing to say to a geek like me!  We promptly finished our shopping trip, swung by my place to grab An Unexpected Journey, and thus began our Hobbit Trilogy marathon.  We powered through both of the films on DVD and then caught a 10 PM show of the third one; I was totally game to see it again!

Around 1:30 in the morning was when Aqua Bat dropped me off at home and my numb, tingly ass went to bed lying on my stomach.

Day 29—Friday morning—I put a gun to my own head and forced myself to write Dispatch 5, despite my overwhelming desire to set up the old PlayStation 2 and play Star Wars Battlefront.  I spent most of the day researching for the Vietnam War project.  In the evening, Aqua Bat threw a kickback with a sweet bonfire in the back yard.

I made good company with a pretty local girl and we hit it off for a good minute.  There was only one problem: she’s a terrible kisser!  I feel guilty as if this makes me shallow or something, but… it was really bad!  I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly good kisser—good as any man who’s been at it for a few years, I suppose—but I really didn’t feel like getting her up to speed.  I guess wedding bells aren’t chiming in this town any time soon.

Saturday, Day 30, I went to the gym and hung out with family.  I stayed home on Saturday night—I was just too damn tired to go out.

* * *

Afghan police and mercenary photo by the U.S. Marine Corps and in the public domain; obtained from Wikimedia Commons.  Yardhouse photo courtesy of Roadtrippers dot com.  Hobbit poster is the property of New Line Cinema, was obtained from Wikimedia Commons, and used in accordance with Fair Use.

Life and Death—The Boredom, Dispatch 5

Thank you for reading about my continuing exploits on my quest.  I’m trying to fill my holiday season with actions that are productive and/or meaningful to me before I go back to working at the job I love.

Catch up with Dispatch 1 , Dispatch 2 , Dispatch 3 , and Dispatch 4.

Sunday, Day 17 of The Boredom, was spent mostly with family. Still, I dedicated more than a few hours to peaceful solitude in front of the glow of my computer screen.

Not gonna lie, playing The Lord of the Rings Online has become one of my favorite pastimes.  It’s an epic role-playing video game and the designers created worlds that allow me to explore and learn more about the regions and peoples written about in one of the greatest literary masterpieces of Western civilization.

Day 18, Monday, was mostly spent working on manuscripts and doing research, both for building my business and for a future writing project.  The academic research has been for the purpose of writing a multi-volume history of the Vietnam War, entirely from a libertarian perspective.  So far I have seventy pages of notes typed out on the computer, single-spaced and 12-inch font.

In the evening I attended my Civil Air Patrol (U.S. Air Force Auxiliary) squadron meeting.  Our guest that evening was an Air Force colonel who happened to be the staff director for the Fourth Air Force at March Air Reserve Base.  He spoke with us in the headquarters board room—really a section of the squadron’s double-wide, walled off by chalk boards on one side and bookshelves on the other—and I managed to get an interview before the end of the meeting.

I take pride in having volunteered in the Air Force Auxiliary.  I originally joined to have a joint activity with my nephew, whose old man was long gone and badly needed a structured program at the time, but I stayed because I truly enjoy the program.  Three years later, I’m a First Lieutenant and one of the most active public affairs officers in California Wing.  I take pride in my own accomplishments and in serving with this incredible, humanitarian manifestation of the “organized militia.”  Plus, it’s pretty badass that CAP sank two German submarines prowling our coast during World War II, with dozens more air-struck and damaged into retreat.

Day 19, Tuesday, I had my nose in books, smoked too many cigarettes, and then forced myself to go to the gym.  It seems like I’m only ever motivated to work out when I’m on base...  Oh well, at least I went.  The highlight of my day was finally getting in the mail my new green vinyl record of the Misfits' Project 1950 Expanded album—the entire thing is punk rock covers of oldies songs.  Listening to that was too cool!

Wednesday was spent doing more research, further work restoring manuscripts, and I managed to step into the sunlight to get some lunch.  In the evening I went to my older sister’s house to honor our tradition of, whenever I’m back from the desert, watching Modern Family as a family—myself, my sister, and my niece and nephews.

I don’t even remember Thursday.  I honestly don’t remember caring.  It was probably a pleasant day.

Friday, Day 22, I punished myself at the gym.  I did a full forty minutes of cardio, then migrated upstairs to do the bar dip for four sets of twenty-five suspended reverse sit-ups.  I followed that up with three sets on the horizontal chest-press machine—one set for my left arm, and one reduced-weight set for my stump.  I do my best to work out the right side of my torso despite my limb deficiency.  I’ve been lucky enough to reverse some of the muscular atrophy on that side.

Following the chest-press I grabbed a forty-pound weight bar and did four sets of squats, fifteen reps each.  While it’s been good for my thighs and tush, it’s been remarkably good for my right shoulder muscle (which is noticeably smaller than my left).  I finished everything off with another ten minutes of cardio—this time on an exercise bike—and in my time at the gym I downed another chapter of War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning.

Saturday, Day 23 of The Boredom, was as incredible day of days.  I got up at 0530 (not my finest of hours), showered, and put on my CAP uniform.  After picking up a Powerade, Red Bull, and a stick of beef jerky—the popular food of the modern warrior—I made my way to squadron headquarters by 0645.  The squadron departed for Riverside National Cemetery.

Our mission was to participate in Wreaths Across America, an event to place holiday wreaths at the graves of departed armed forces veterans, thus keeping their memory alive.  The event was very touching and moving.  The only part that weighed on me was talking with some of the Gold Star wives and mothers.  Whenever military family members see me, they see the crew cut and the missing arm and mistakenly do the math to think I’m a combat veteran.  I tell them I’ve never been in combat, but they don’t care—they already respect the uniform and they have things they need to get off their chest.  I have an obligation to these women who lost so much for their country, to listen to what they need to tell me.

And so seventy-year-old women wept in front of me for the husbands they lost in Vietnam, and forty-year-old women wept for the sons they lost in Iraq and Afghanistan.  What particularly disturbed me was the Vietnam War widows—forty or fifty years later and the grief still hits them hard.  It always stays with you and doesn’t go away, just like Abe’s death in Al Anbar province hasn’t gone away from me after ten years.

I got off duty just in time to drive across Riverside, where I made it just in time for my friend’s wedding.  One of the senior NCOs in my unit—we’ll call him “Job,” after the Biblical figure—was getting re-married.  Since he’s been through emotional hell and back in his life—long story, you don’t want to know—and he’s become a mentor to me over time, I wasn’t going to miss his wedding for the world.

Three amazing things happened that afternoon.  First, I saw my friend truly happy for the first time in years.  Second, an important bond was strengthened.  I noticed several tables had reserved seating; one was reserved for the bride’s family—a thriving, bustling table—and another reserved for the groom’s family.  The latter was empty; the entire groom’s family has since passed away.  I asked “Job” if I could eat my meal at his family’s reserved table and he said, “Yes, I consider you family.”  And I made sure he saw me eat at that table.  The third wonderful thing that happened was that I met an intriguing older woman—one who’s kind, classy, sexy and smart.  We shot the breeze for hours and had a ball.  Phone numbers were exchanged.

After I got home from Riverside I had a nice hour-long visit with my older sister.  She and I are very close and I consider it a blessing that one of my siblings is also my close and true friend.  Following the visit that primarily consisted of laughing and talking smack about psychotic relatives, I picked up my good friend Midshipman.  He and I had gone up to Big Bear and Holcomb Valley together two weeks ago.

Midshipman (right) and I (left)

We sped over to the American Legion hall in Azusa, California, to join my friend “Shark” for his birthday celebration—SharkFest 2014.  Let me just tell you, SharkFest was AWESOME!  It was seriously the best party I’ve been to in months, if not longer.  A cemetery and a wedding in one day are a bit much, especially after talking with the war widows.

Shark is a Navy veteran who saw combat in Afghanistan.  Nowadays he’s a student at Mt. San Antonio College.  I met him through the San Bernardino County Libertarian Party, he was always supportive of my writing, and we’ve been friends ever since.  We were celebrating his 31^st birthday that night.

It was such a relief to shoot the breeze and swap stories with veterans and fellow current reservists my age.  The special bond between veterans that you read all the clichés about, then mentally discard, is real.  I hadn’t realized the extent before, but I did that night.  I realized that I’m not a 19-year-old FNG—f***ing new guy (a liability)—in a shiny new uniform, amazed by everything going on around him.  I’ve been a weekend warrior for seven years, added to three years of extra duty with the Auxiliary, and another two years as a contractor embedded with the regular Army.  I’ve done my share, endured both the outdoor elements and the bureaucracy, and it was great to be around other guys and girls who actually knew what the hell I was talking about!

Gotta love Vietnam vets!

Better yet, the party wasn’t great just because I met solid people and partied hard with my buddies.  Other than making a host of new friends, I danced with some of the prettiest girls in the San Gabriel Valley, civilian and veterans!  One girl, currently a student, was the prettiest woman Marine I’ve ever seen—seriously, I’m a sucker for dark brown hair and green eyes.  Better yet, she’d been “downrange” (military slang for the wars), which made her a badass.

The entire night was therapeutic, and the entire day was an incredible ending to my week.

* * *

CAP historical painting courtesy of CAPhistory dot org.  All other images are by the author.

Five Libertarian Ideas #22 - Libertarian National Defense at Home and Abroad

The Second Amendment and the next generation

Being a rifle shooting instructor has been a privilege. I love being able to teach the next generation about proper gun use, sportsmanship, and self-defense. The police can't be everywhere, nor do we want them everywhere, and criminals will continue to disobey the rule of law and human rights (surprise, surprise!). I'm a firm believer that the best way to stop evil people with guns is to have more good people with guns. -7/23

US Army troops patrol Afghanistan's Highway 1

"Limited war" in Afghanistan

This half-assed policy of undeclared "limited war" is only getting my brothers and sisters killed. We either completely conquer Afghanistan so that it will never be the same, or we leave and give the Afghans the liberty to destroy each other rather than have more of our people killed by "allies." -8/5

Toward a small standing army

You want a small standing army like the one envisioned in the Constitution? It can be done in 3 years.

1) Increase and expand special operations in the regular forces so we can neutralize threats without conventional forces.

2) Increase and expand the state militias (i.e. the National Guard and state defense forces). This gives us Title 10 troops who can be activated to fight constitutionally declared wars, while giving the several states citizen-soldiers immune from federal activation. -8/5

National Guard Special Forces soldiers in counterterrorism training

Groupthink: hating the police

It disturbs me to see so many libertarians expressing hatred for the police. I thought we were the enlightened group who sees people as individuals--free agents--rather than lumping them all together based on race, religion, or occupation. Keep in mind, the vast majority of police officers have neither beaten protestors nor shot people. -8/14

Civilians who think they're military experts

Not gonna lie. When civilian libertarians lecture me about the military, it's like listening to a Keynesian try to "teach" me economics. Just 'cause you read Albert Jay Nock and watched 'Lone Survivor' does NOT give you the right to be a pain-in-the-ass know-it-all intellectual. We have plenty of THOSE in academia. MILITARY ORGANIZATIONS WILL NOT DISAPPEAR IN ANARCHY; THEY WILL MERELY BE PRIVATIZED. (Furthermore, don't assume the PMC or militia in your area will be libertarian...) -8/14

* * *

Images by the Department of Defense and National Guard Bureau and are in the public domain.

SENATOR OBAMA short story (fiction)

Download this story for FREE on PDF!

Senator Obama

A short story by Zach Foster

Based on “LBJ” by Walter Jones

The sun shined bright as a cool breeze swept through Galena, Illinois.  The trees were illuminated to glow an unusually brilliant shade of green as the energy in the air was high, almost electrically charged.  A large crowd at least a thousand strong had gathered on Main Street which was closed to cars for the morning.

A line of city police and county sheriff’s deputies held back the crowd, pushing them back as they pressed closer and closer to the stage and podium erected in front of the Galena General Offices.  At the front of the crowd stood Giovanni Hernandez, standing at an unintimidating 5’6” but holding his ground nonetheless.  Today was his eighteenth birthday and he’d checked himself out of school for the day.  This was, after all, a special occasion.

The growing crowd of people continued to lurch forward as more excited onlookers tried to push their way to the stage.  Everyone pushing to the front did so only in his or her own interest, but they unknowingly acted in unison as a mob and sent the leviathan pushing forward into the line of police.  Giovanni held his ground.  He hadn’t woken up extra early and waited all this time just to lose his place in front.

From the back side of the stage, the Jo Daviess County Sheriff ascended the steps and stood next to the podium with a megaphone in his hand.  One of the deputies behind the stage made an unintelligible radio call.  He nodded to the sheriff who seemed to have been expecting a signal.  His expression changed.  Raising the megaphone to his face, he addressed the crowd.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just received word that Senator Obama has just landed at Heller Airport.  His motorcade is on its way here now.

The crowd exploded in cheers.  The energy had just increased tenfold and Giovanni was incredibly excited.  What better way to spend his birthday than seeing the next President of the United States?

Minutes passed.  He looked past the stage  and saw in the near distance a small crowd of hecklers.  There were only five of them, and they held signs with some of the strangest messages.  One of their signs said “End this war!” while another read in large red painted letters “Clinton = Bush” on the top row and “Obama = McCain” on the bottom row.  Next to that activist was a woman wearing a POW-MIA t-shirt who held up a sign saying “4,127. How many more?”  The most noticeable in their little group was dressed like one of the minutemen from the Revolutionary War as he proudly held up a yellow flag with a snake outlined in black over the words “Don’t tread on me!”  Next to him was a muscular young man in his mid-twenties with a crew cut holding up a Ron Paul campaign sign.

“What are they doing here?” Giovanni heard himself wonder out loud.

A random man to Giovanni’s left, wearing tight black jeans and a faded t-shirt with a French cap over his balding head, answered his query. “They’re the Ron Paul people.  They’re waiting to heckle Obama.”  He looked to be in his mid-thirties though he had the aura of a college student.

“I’ve never even heard of that guy,” Giovanni replied in bewilderment.

“Most people haven’t,” said the man.  “I give him credit for wanting to bring the troops home, but the rest of his platform is crazy.  Totally loony.  So not that many people pay attention to him.”

“Oh.”  Giovanni had nothing else to say.  He was bewildered at the idea that any anti-war activists would support anyone other than Obama, let alone the strange concept of an anti-war Republican in the year 2008.

Out of nowhere arrived a team of men wearing black suits and dark sunglasses, flanking the stage behind the line of police.  One of them hopped onto the stage and said something in the sheriff’s ear.  The sheriff nodded and handed over the megaphone to the Secret Service agent.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the agent blared at the crowd, “Senator Obama will be here in just a moment.  For his safety and for yours as well, we need everyone to move back at least ten steps away from this stage.”

People grumbled and boos emerged from the crowd.  There was no way Giovanni was about to back up without everyone else backing up first.  He’d arrived extra early for his place at the front.

The agent demanded once more, “Move back, ladies and gentlemen, or else Senator Obama’s motorcade will turn around.  This is for everyone’s safety!”

People began to halfheartedly shuffle back upon being threatened with not seeing their hero.  When Giovanni shuffled back he accidentally bumped into a pair of breasts.  “Oh, sorry!” he and the woman exclaimed anxiously at the same time.  When he whipped his head around to apologize, it took him a split second to realize that the thin, curvy frame, stout bosom, shiny skin, and long black locks of hair belonged to Kiara Williams.

“Oh, hey!” she greeted his dumbfounded face.  It took him a moment to replace his befuddled look with a sheepish smile.  “Hey,” he replied.  He wished he had something clever to say.

“You came to see Obama too?” she asked with a smile as she touched his upper arm in a congratulatory manner, hardly even realizing she did so.  Her smile was perfect, just like out of a Hollywood headshot.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” he answered with a beaming grin.  Kiara went to his high school and was in his grade.  She even sat near him in his history class.  She was a breathtakingly beautiful black girl who could easily have been a glamor model in magazines.  She had no idea what a crush he had on her.

The electric crowd erupted in cheers as a line of police motorcycles flanking a shining black SUV turned the corner onto Main Street, approaching the stage and coming to a slow stop.  Exiting the vehicle first were two bodyguards, finally followed by the man of the hour.  The crowd went insane as Senator Barack Obama made his way up the stairs, waving as he approached the podium.  In his youthful aura he seemed to feed off the energy of the crowd and return it in greater amounts, sending off wave after wave of positive vibrations that had people jumping up in down in tears of joy.  Giovanni heard Kiara shout “Obamaaa!!!”

Every race and creed could be seen in this crowd almost acting in unison.  Many of these people seemed to genuinely love the young Senator from their home state.  Many people wore Obama campaign t-shirts and held up the famous red, turquoise and navy blue posters of him.  Others held up artistic signs on which Barack’s trademark red, white and blue “O” was superimposed over the peace symbol.  People from all walks of life were truly uniting around Barack Obama.  This was how Giovanni was certain his hero would be the next President.

The Senator raised both his hands and then brought them down in unison, signaling for the crowd to quiet down.  A hush fell over the entire assembly. 

“Boy, is it great to be back in Illinois!”  Another cheer erupted, though it faded quickly as Giovanni, Kiara, and a thousand other people hung onto his every word.  “I see those peace signs that some of you are holding and it gives me hope.  It gives me hope that many Americans are finally awakening and uniting to bring change to America.”

The crowd nearly exploded in cheers and applause as the word “change” echoed a hundred times throughout the assembly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, together we can end this war in Iraq, and we can bring a responsible conclusion to the fighting in Afghanistan.  It is unacceptable that seven years after 3,000 Americans were killed on our own soil, the terrorists responsible for 9/11 are still at large.  We can find Osama Bin Laden and Al Zawahiri and bring them to justice.  We will soon be able to bring our troops home, and we must begin by ending the war in Iraq.”

Applause thronged and the peace signs shook and waved on the mention of ending the war.  Giovanni cheered as well, and felt Kiara’s breath and energy as she applauded and shouted in agreement.

“We cannot tolerate this strain on our forces to fight a war that has not made us safer.  I will restore our strength by ending this war, completing the increase of our ground forces by 65,000 soldiers and 27,000 marines, and investing in the capabilities we need to defeat conventional foes and meet the unconventional challenges of our time.  We can bring our troops home in sixteen months.  I want the Iraqis to take control of their own future and their own stability so we can be at peace once again.”

The assembly broke into the loudest segment of cheering and applause yet.  Giovanni wasn’t left out.  He cheered and whooped until his voice was hoarse.  He was genuinely pleased at the possibility that the war would end and America would return to peace.  He would be able to join the Marine Corps during peacetime, see the world, and then go to college on the GI Bill.  He would get a degree, find a good job, and never have to struggle to make ends meet like his immigrant parents.

“Let’s be clear on something,” Obama continued, “Senator McCain would have our troops continue to fight tour after tour of duty, and our taxpayers keep spending ten billion dollars a month indefinitely.”  The entire crowd booed and hissed the mention of John McCain.  Giovanni eagerly awaited the next statement.

“My campaign is still about hope.  It’s still about change.  We can change the country.  We can change the world.  Change is coming to America.  It is time to stand for CHANGE!”

Sparks flew and hats were thrown in the air as the entire crowd screamed praises for the Senator.  Obama then stepped away from the podium, stepped off the front of the stage, and began shaking the hands of admirers as the two bodyguards scrambled to flank him.  Dozens of people were pushing past the line of police to get to Obama.  Giovanni barely managed to reach past two city cops when he saw Obama approaching.  He was overwhelmingly stupefied and star struck when he saw and felt Obama squeeze his hand.

“St. Louis, Senator, St. Louis!” one of the bodyguards shouted into the Senator’s preoccupied ear.  If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the fundraiser!”  Giovanni’s adrenaline was pumping and he hardly noticed Obama turn around with his bodyguards and re-enter the SUV.  The crowd chanted in unison as the motorcade drove away: “O-ba-ma!  O-ba-ma!  O-ba-ma!”

When Giovanni came to his senses he was looking into Kiara’s ecstatic face.  She screamed in hysterical joy, “Oh my God, Obama touched your hand!” and she threw herself at him in a full embrace, her bosom pressed tightly against his chest and her arms locked around the shoulders of the boy she knew who had touched the legendary Barack Obama.  She let go and was absorbed by the crowd as if it were an amoeba looking to expand.

What a hell of an eighteenth birthday!  He not only got to see his hero but shook his hand as well!  On top of that, he had something to talk about with the girl he was sweet on.  He would never forget this incredible day.

Nearly four years later Giovanni was on his third combat tour, slogging through a river bank with his platoon as the ceaseless sun baked down on them and their Afghan counterparts.  Wary villagers eyed them from a distance.  He looked up at the merciless sun in the heated blue sky and thought of Kiara and how radiant she looked on that day four years ago, joyful hope written all over her face.  She was the last person on his mind as an AK bullet slammed into his neck.  He hit the ground hard and was met by a second round that vigorously tore through his femoral artery.

Days before his twenty-second birthday, Giovanni Hernandez died of gunshot wounds in the Helmand River Valley.

"Only the dead have seen the end of the war."

--Plato

END 

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If you have an opinion on US intervention in Syria, take a look at this idea for action in Syria that involves no US troops.

Obama family photo by Ben Stanfield and used via CC BY-SA 2.0 license.  Military photos are by the US government and in the public domain.  All images were obtained from Wikimedia Commons.

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