The crew
The end is near and most of us are happy for it. Our time in beautiful CONUS (CONtinental United States) will be over soon, by the time this is posted there is a good chance I will be over the pond. It is time to go, the training was useful, it was needed. Now it is over. No more First Army trainers, no more boxes to check and sheets to sign.
I sit on the porch stoop smoking a cigarette and watching the tendrils disperses into the evening air. SPC Bongo is next to me. He has been back from his last tour less than 6 months. We are just done.
I look over at him and ask, “You ready for this?”
He gives me that silly grin and laughs, “Sarge, I was ready when we showed up.”
It is so true. When I came back from the last trip half the troops got out as soon as they could. Another quarter spread to the four winds, some beyond the reach of a combat deployment in recruiting command or the Air Force. The rest are still here. There is something addicting about the army. Something that we get here, that we don’t get anywhere else.
Part of it is family, a second family that is. Looking down the barracks I can tell you the about each guys marriage, how his home life is going, and so much more. You don’t get this kind of social situation anywhere else. They try to capture it on film or in books and it all falls short of the mark. These are the men that I will trust with my life a network of mutual dependence.
Then there is the destination. This will be an opportunity. A place to test yourself, where nothing matters, but what you do, and how well you do it. This will not be the wild west of OIF II and III, the rules are more strict, the enemy (according to reports) is less bold. Still the challenge is there.
I have always said that the army sponsoring a NASCAR was a bad idea. They need to sponsor AMA or Moto GP motorcycle racing. The drive is the same, to push your self and your body faster or further than the other guy. There is an acceptance of risk, an understanding that gain comes only with risk.
Riders come in two types, those that have perfected self deception, (these do not usually last past their first good crash) and those that accept the price for what they do. I think I am in the second group, but I could be deceiving myself. I have seen the risk that Iraq shows. The risk is worth the reward. It really was last time. Back then we had few armored vehicles and most didn’t have doors or roofs. Just three to five guys, hanging out the doors or standing behind a piece of metal pipe welded to the floor with a machine gun on top.
Now there are gun shields and MRAPS, ASVs and nothing unarmored rolls out the gate. Most gunners don’t even stick their heads out of the hatch. The mission is more dangerous, but the risk to me is lower. Just like heading out on a cool summer morning to ride HWY 9, just because the road is dry, and the tires are freshly scrubbed in doesn’t mean you relax. Ease into it, and feel where your skill is today. I wonder what my real skill level is, how much has the training refreshed and improved?
SPC Bongo and I know what is there, the good, the bad and the ugly, yet we still go. Is it any wonder that humans still war? With an inexhaustible supply of young and in my case not-so-young men looking for a chance to step beyond the bubble wrap protectiveness of our society, and a limited supply of motorcycles?
Something drives us to risk, to push to take the long dark journey. This is mine. If the urge hits me again, I should have the means to just get on the bike and ride. You don’t have to go through 120 days of train up to ride to Panama.
The end is near and most of us are happy for it. Our time in beautiful CONUS (CONtinental United States) will be over soon, by the time this is posted there is a good chance I will be over the pond. It is time to go, the training was useful, it was needed. Now it is over. No more First Army trainers, no more boxes to check and sheets to sign.
I sit on the porch stoop smoking a cigarette and watching the tendrils disperses into the evening air. SPC Bongo is next to me. He has been back from his last tour less than 6 months. We are just done.
I look over at him and ask, “You ready for this?”
He gives me that silly grin and laughs, “Sarge, I was ready when we showed up.”
It is so true. When I came back from the last trip half the troops got out as soon as they could. Another quarter spread to the four winds, some beyond the reach of a combat deployment in recruiting command or the Air Force. The rest are still here. There is something addicting about the army. Something that we get here, that we don’t get anywhere else.
Part of it is family, a second family that is. Looking down the barracks I can tell you the about each guys marriage, how his home life is going, and so much more. You don’t get this kind of social situation anywhere else. They try to capture it on film or in books and it all falls short of the mark. These are the men that I will trust with my life a network of mutual dependence.
Then there is the destination. This will be an opportunity. A place to test yourself, where nothing matters, but what you do, and how well you do it. This will not be the wild west of OIF II and III, the rules are more strict, the enemy (according to reports) is less bold. Still the challenge is there.
I have always said that the army sponsoring a NASCAR was a bad idea. They need to sponsor AMA or Moto GP motorcycle racing. The drive is the same, to push your self and your body faster or further than the other guy. There is an acceptance of risk, an understanding that gain comes only with risk.
Riders come in two types, those that have perfected self deception, (these do not usually last past their first good crash) and those that accept the price for what they do. I think I am in the second group, but I could be deceiving myself. I have seen the risk that Iraq shows. The risk is worth the reward. It really was last time. Back then we had few armored vehicles and most didn’t have doors or roofs. Just three to five guys, hanging out the doors or standing behind a piece of metal pipe welded to the floor with a machine gun on top.
Now there are gun shields and MRAPS, ASVs and nothing unarmored rolls out the gate. Most gunners don’t even stick their heads out of the hatch. The mission is more dangerous, but the risk to me is lower. Just like heading out on a cool summer morning to ride HWY 9, just because the road is dry, and the tires are freshly scrubbed in doesn’t mean you relax. Ease into it, and feel where your skill is today. I wonder what my real skill level is, how much has the training refreshed and improved?
SPC Bongo and I know what is there, the good, the bad and the ugly, yet we still go. Is it any wonder that humans still war? With an inexhaustible supply of young and in my case not-so-young men looking for a chance to step beyond the bubble wrap protectiveness of our society, and a limited supply of motorcycles?
Something drives us to risk, to push to take the long dark journey. This is mine. If the urge hits me again, I should have the means to just get on the bike and ride. You don’t have to go through 120 days of train up to ride to Panama.
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