On 25 March, 2004, a family in Texas lost their son. For a bunch of guys sitting in the Iraqi desert, we lost a young man about our own age, a guy with a soft heart and quiet maturity. When Casper left us late that morning, and while we sat all afternoon in the hot sun reflecting on his brief life, we had no idea what lay in store for each of us as individuals, or what his death might signify to us.

I didn’t know Casper very well. I had come to Echo Battery only a month before as an augment from Headquarters Battery to assist them in accomplishing their mission as a counter-fire artillery unit. I worked in Communications and Casper was in Motor Transport, which meant he wasn’t in my section. Because of that, I didn’t really begin to chat with Casper until we had touched down in Kuwait. Once I got to know him, however, I took a shining to the guy. He had a nice smile, liked to joke around, but would sweat alongside you all day until the assigned tasks was done. Working next to him pushed all of us to work harder.

It’s been over two years since Casper died, two years since I heard the gunshot and screams less than twenty feet away. None of those screams were Casper’s - he was mercifully spared the agony of dying, perhaps as a sort of inadequate compensation for being plucked from the opening moments of the very best years of his life. To this day I can still hear the pop of the rifle some nights when I close my eyes, sifting in and out of that one second when I didn’t know for an eternity.

On the one year anniversary of Casper’s passing, our Battery First Sergeant gathered up the vets, the guys who are still around from our Iraq deployment. He suggested that we tip a cold one for Casper that evening and remember the time we had together.

I’ve drank many a brew in Casper’s honor in the time since then, and I’ve spent many evenings remembering the few months I spent with Casper. Those memories always flow into thinking about the time I’ve had since his death - the time he never got to have, the time his family never got to have with him. There will never be children to call him “Daddy.” There were family members, a girlfriend, friends, and brothers-in-arms left behind to carry on his memory, to carry a piece of Casper that he would have otherwise given to his children.

I think about my loved ones: my family, my girlfriend, my friends, and the time we’ve gotten to share since March 25, 2004. That day is a day I will never forget and will forever observe privately, because it was the day that the finite quality of life was tattooed into my brain.

Casper taught me a lesson in death that he could never have in life. But it doesn’t sit well with me that it took a young man losing his life in a seemingly meaningless war to teach me how fleeting life is, how quickly it can be snatched away, and the value of that individual existence. When I remember Casper, it is with a gratitude that I can never repay, and an overwhelming desire to hold my loved ones tightly just once more, lest the same happen to me.

James Casper, may you continue to rest in peace, and may those of you who read this have a pleasant Memorial Day weekend. Hug your loved ones, remember the sacrifices of those who are no longer with us, and travel safely.

Two Notes
Due to a technical glitch, the entry I wrote last Thursday for the following Friday entry remained private. I’ve published it now, availabe here.

As I will be on vacation in Chicago until Wednesday, regular posting here will resume Friday, 2 June.

In my time I’ve packed for more than my fair share of trips.

As a kid splitting time between my mother’s house in Northwestern Minnesota and my father’s house in Southwestern Wisconsin I’d bring along a few key items, most important of which was my favorite stuffed animal, Harold the Bear (or simply, “Bear”).  I wasn’t really in charge of deciding what clothing I’d need to bring along, but the important matter of personal comfort was an area I exerted a certain amount of influence over.  Given that I’d be traveling close to 400 miles every few weeks, Bear and I learned early to bring what you need, because there’s no turning around to get it later.

Some trips stick in my mind for what I brought along with me.  Two trips I made during junior high and high school have soundtracks set to the music I had with me at the time.  My winter trip to the Concordia Language Villages for German Camp is set to the strains of ZZ Top’s Eliminator, while my trip to Washington D.C. the winter of my freshman year in high school has a background of a mix tape I made which combined tracks off Chicago IX and the first Heart of Chicago album, which is probably musical sacrilege to my dad as he doesn’t share the same fondness for the David Foster/Warner Bros. Records-era Chicago releases as I.

Other trips are conspicuous for what I didn’t have with me.  Over the Columbus Day holiday of 2001 I drove out to Rapid City, SD in a rapidly-aging 1981 Volvo 240 which had no exhaust pipe past the exhaust manifold, lacked a working radio, accurate speedometer, or gas gauge, and had an electrical system on the verge of failure.  Not only did I live to tell the tale, I came away with a story I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren.

Because the gas gauge didn’t work (and because that Volvo got atrocious gas mileage), I made a stop for gas every 175 miles.  In Sioux Falls, SD I pulled into a gas station and met up with a green Oldsmobile Aurora.  We left the station at about the same time, but after a few miles on the wide open Dakotan freeway I balled the Volvo up to about 85 and left the Aurora in the dust.

After 175 or so miles, I pulled off the highway into a truck stop to refuel and get an iced tea.   When I got back on the freeway I pushed the Volvo back up to 85, and after a short time I passed the green Aurora.  This same thing happened 175 miles later - fuel up at a truck stop, get back on the freeway, and streak by the Aurora.

On my way back to Minneapolis at the end of the weekend, I stopped for fuel at the same gas station in Sioux Falls.  A couple guys approached me, one asking if I’d been headed out to the Black Hills a few days earlier.  When I said yes, he nudged his companion and said “It’s him!  It’s that guy in the Volvo!”  He turned back to me, laughing, and said I’d flown past them three times on the road.  “We started to think you were lapping us!”  I explained the lack of nearly any amenity on my Volvo, including even necessary gauges, and he laughed even harder.  It was nice to know running into me was the highlight of someone’s weekend.

Other trips are conspicuous for things I left behind.  A small hotel in Normandy was the beneficiary of a nice spring/fall jacket I forgot in my closet while on a study tour in culinary school.  A set of my dog tags are probably still hanging on a metal pole in a rundown building on the Iraqi border.  I left them dangling from a piece of 550 (parachute) cord in one of the buildings I’d been sleeping in for two months.

Everyone has that one trip in their life where they take everything and the kitchen sink.  My own packing skills were best put to the test when I went to Iraq two years ago.  In addition to the gear I was required to take (a list some 200 items long), I managed to fit fifteen books, five cartons of cigarettes, five pounds of laundry detergent, a pound of Gatorade powder, a laptop and external hard drive, camera, and mp3 player into a regular-sized seabag and small backpack.As I acquired more books throughout the course of my deployment (my parents were kind enough to send me enough reading material to keep me semi-sane) I simply mailed gear I didn’t need home.  I don’t care who you are, there is no reason for long underwear in Iraq when the temperature outside is 125 and climbing at ten in the morning.  Heck, other than to keep the wind off, there wasn’t that much of a need for it in March, either.

Each time I take a trip, the act of packing reminds me of these and other adventures I’ve been on.  Playing Tetris with the various objects going into my suitcase is a time-honored tradition.  In fact, there are few things I’m as meticulous about as packing to head off on a new exploit.  Depending on how excited I am about the trip or how extensive my itinerary is, I might spend a week packing a small suitcase for a few nights away.

Tonight was one of those packing nights, for I’m off on another trip Friday afternoon.

Military unit organization isn’t the easiest concept to grasp.  Unless you’re in regular contact with a particular branch of the military, you’re as lost as most of those Athenian youths in the Minotaur’s labyrinth.

One of the things I’m typically asked when I meet someone new is what unit I belong to.  My standard response is either “2/11″ or “Second Battalion, 11th Marines.”  Usually, this statement is followed by a rather puzzled look on the part of my new companion.

I’m going to try and clear a few things up, and to help me (and you) along, I’ve created a very rudimentary diagram:

At the top of the food chain is the Marine Corps.  The Corps is one of two parts of the Department of the Navy, the other being the US Navy itself. The Department of the Navy is one of the branches of the Department of Defense, which is overseen by Secretary Rumsfeld.

The second level is composed of the various divisions.  The Marine Corps has four ground divisions, four air wings, and four support groups.  Ground divisions, which is what we’re concerned with in my case, are the Marines who fight house-to-house, go on patrols, shoot artillery, drive tanks, and build fortifications.

There are four such divisions in the Corps, numbered (cleverly) 1-4.  Three of these divisions are Active Duty, while the 4th Marine Division is composed of reservists.

I belong to the First Marine Division, the oldest and most-decorated.  Composed of some 19,000 Marines, it is the largest of the three Active Duty divisions.  The Division is composed of a Headquarters Battalion (more about battalions later), four regiments, and various other independent battalions.

The four regiments in the First Marine Division are composed of three infantry units (the 1st Marine Regiment, the 5th Marine Regiment, and the 7th Marine Regiment) and one artillery unity (the 11th Marine Regiment).  I’m part of the latter, which is commonly referred to as simply “11th Marines” or “The Cannon Cockers.”

11th Marines is divided into four battalions and a headquarters unit.  Each artillery battalion is assigned to provide artillery gunfire for an entire regiment.  The battalions are generally referred to by number.  For example, you’re much more likely to hear “2/11″ come out of a Marine’s mouth than the more formal “2nd Battalion, 11th Marines,” even though they mean the same thing.

Now we’re getting somewhere.  2/11 is my parent unit, and is divided into four “batteries” (the artillery term for the more common “company”).  The batteries are Headquarters (HQ), Echo, Fox, Golf, and Kilo.  Kilo is actually part of 12th Marines (the artillery regiment for the Third Marine Division), but they are permanently assigned to our battalion for logistical reasons.  Delta Battery existed at least as recently as the Vietnam War, but for some reason is no longer around.  I don’t know the story there.

So, we’re down to the most basic components now.  I belong to HQ Battery, which has three platoons.  Operations Platoon is in charge of planning and supervision, well, operations, not only for HQ Battery, but for all of 2/11.  Service Platoon consists of three sections, Supply (more or less self-explanatory), Logistics (getting the supplies where they need to go), and Motor Transport (maintaining and managing vehicles).  The last is Communications Platoon, where I work.  We plan, implement, troubleshoot, and maintain all of 2/11’s communications capabilities, from telephones and e-mail to satellite and Ultra-high frequency radio transmissions.

So, if someone were to ask me specifically who I belong to, my answer would be the following, from bottom to top: Data Section, Communications Platoon, Headquarters Battery, 2nd Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, United States Marine Corps.  Kind of a mouthful, eh?

A few random facts about 2/11:

Activated: 3 January, 1918

Motto: “Second to None - The Regiment’s Best”

Significant operations: Guadalcanal, Okinawa, Inchon, Chosin Resivoir, Hue City, An Hoa, Desert Storm, Global War on Terror

Personnel: approximately 750 Marines and Sailors

Primary weapons systems: M198 howitzer and M777 lightweight howitzer

A Brief Note Regarding Upcoming Events
The next few weeks are going to be very atypical.  I’m heading out to Chicago at the end of the week to visit Jo, and I won’t be back until Wednesday.  There won’t be any updates after this Friday until I return.

The week after I get back from Chicago (which would be the second week of June) I have to go out to the field for nine days.  Some reservists are coming out to do their annual training, and that means us Active Duty guys get to miss a weekend and supervise them.  I’m going to try to keep it interesting by altering my usual field routine, but I can’t say I’m particularly hopeful that I won’t be completely bored out of my mind by the second evening.

Between work and a few other commitments, I’ve been feeling a little burnt out lately.  There have been a few things dragging on me, and as much as I’d like to put something up here today, I’m left here standing empty-handed.  It’s really is getting me down a bit; I want so badly to write, to be successful at writing.  Writing, despite everything else I’ve been through, is all I’ve ever wanted to do, and to be honest, I sometimes worry I’ll never amount to much.  The routine I’ve worked myself into is very important to me as well, the discipline almost refreshing, even though the demand is daunting at times.

I’ll be back on Monday.

I don’t ever want to see United 93 again.

As a platoon function, the guys I work with voted to spend the early portion of Thursday afternoon watching United 93. Having a decent idea of what was in store, I abstained from voting. To be honest, I really didn’t want to go. I still wish I didn’t watch that movie, wish I’d walked out, wish I could just forget everything it made me remember, but deep down, even though I hate admitting it, I’m grateful (though not glad) I saw it.

Not often does one go to a movie knowing exactly how the plot will unfold, exactly how the movie will end. From the moment United 93 starts, however, you know precisely what is going to happen. And, just like being in a horrible automobile wreck, it seems to unravel at a painfully slow pace, allowing your brain to grasp every horrific detail as it is presented. You’re strapped in, unable to alter the course of the action. Crying out changes nothing, closing your eyes does not prevent the worst from happening; it merely means you only refuse to accept the full burden of knowledge.

United 93 angered me in ways I haven’t been angry in years. It provoked and mocked me at every turn, forcing the light of reality into my writhing brain, dredging up memories with a galvanized blade, daring me to deny anything I was presented. I hated every minute of it, but I watched. No weak stomach or faintness of heart can excuse me of the responsibility I have to bear witness to everything that went on that day.

I’m grateful to be the age I am, to have had the window of opportunity presented to me to serve this country in the wake of an event that has changed the lives of every single American, and every single person on this earth. We have all been bystanders, and it is up to us to remember forever, no matter how painful or infuriating, what went on.

I remember being in the Butchery lab on the lower floor of Le Cordon Bleu, breaking down a side of beef, when one of the other students came into the classroom. The whine of the bandsaw I was using on the beef was too loud for me to hear what was said, but soon a friend came over. I turned the saw off, and he told me the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane. At first I thought he meant the Trade Center in St. Paul, where friends of mine were at work, but he clarified, saying it was one of the towers in Manhattan.

Class continued, but no one was paying attention. Students would wander out into the hall, listening to a radio that Eileen, the director of student resources, had placed outside her office. We slumped against the walls, listening to the every breaking report, conversing in small groups and low tones, muttering words like “JFK,” “Oklahoma City,” and “war” under our breath.

We went home that night, and I immediately headed to the store and bought whatever extra food I could afford, filled up the Volvo with fuel, and returned home to drink a good deal of Wild Turkey. The next day was my birthday, but my mind was no closer to turning twenty than Neptune is to the sun.

Less than a year later, only two months after finishing culinary school, I’d taken the oath of enlistment and was preparing to say goodbye to my family.

I was just one of many younger Americans who felt a call. I’ve served with guys from all over this country who left the plow standing in the middle of the field, either literally or figuratively, to be a part of what we hoped would be an effective solution. I’ve gone on patrols alongside a guy from New York City with an MBA who had friends that never made it out of the towers alive. I fought through boot camp, training schools, and a hostile ground tour with former firefighters, electricians, paramedics, undertakers, computer programmers, cops, college students, and pothead high school dropouts who had been scraping by with a job at McDonald’s. We weren’t there to stop IT from happening, but we were damned sure IT wouldn’t ever happen on our watch.

It’s hard to believe nearly five years have passed since The Day. My memories have been forced underground, compounded by the weight of almost four years in the military, a deployment to one of the nastiest places in Iraq, and the everyday silt that accumulates in the creases of the mind. Today those memories were shot to the surface and sandblasted clean.

Sadly, it was obvious that the new kids who have joined our unit, and who watched the film with us, don’t share the same perspective. Many of these kids were only in their mid-teens when IT went down, a scary adult problem, parents with worried looks, a few days off of school, then back to life again as normal. They don’t have much of a perception regarding how life shifted in the wake of those early autumn events five years ago. But for the guys I came in with, “normal” is a world we’ll never see again, a world we said goodbye to when we woke up that morning and went to work, to school. No matter how many of us stay in for a career or go on to other parts of our life after our time is up, we’ll always be the First Responders, the guys who remember the urgent feeling deep in our heart that we needed to take care of something.

United 93 brought anger, frustration, and sadness. For me, the anger and frustration was directed not at an ethnic group, a foreign government, or even a terrorist organization, but at us. We failed that day. Or rather, our system failed. The film confronts you with this bluntly:

Individuals crucial to the tracking of and reaction to the hijackings aren’t where they’re supposed to be, aren’t able to be contacted.

No one is communicating with anyone else, let alone in a timely or effective manner.

The Air Force has no standard operating procedure in place to deal with the situation (after the disbelieving supervisor finally confirms it to be a “real world” situation instead of a training operation or drill), and they have insufficient equipment and access to deal with the situation.

The Air Force can’t pass along RoE (Rules of Engagement) to their pilots. Shooting down a hijacked aircraft on a suicide run takes approval of the President of the United States, who can’t be contacted, even though he’s flying on Air Force One. When they finally do get the approval to shoot down suspicious aircraft, military commanders don’t take action, fearing they’ll make the wrong decision.

The Air Force had to clear emergency fighter jet patrols with the damn FAA. And the stupid sonsofbitches at the FAA denied their clearance.

Bullshit. All bullshit. The fact that we were sitting ducks, protected only by our own illusion of safety (witness the disbelief in the voice of every individual when told of a new hijacking), is one thing. But my true anger and frustration comes from my personal, first-hand knowledge and experience with the bureaucracy, politics, and red-tape that handcuffs the entire military and any associated governmental agency. It maimed us back then, and it continues to mortally wound us through the State and Defense departments’ mismanagement of the war.

The anger and frustration continues because five years later we’ve not come one step closer to catching the individuals ultimately responsible for the deaths of so many regular folks. We’ve mired ourselves in the quicksandish occupation of a nation which had absolutely no effective connection to the terrorist acts. We’ve killed innocents, ruined lives and entire cities, alienated an entire region of the planet, needlessly spilled the blood of our own military, and wasted trillions of dollars.

Meanwhile, the families of the dead are still without justice.

The sadness came from the telephone calls made by the passengers and stewardesses on board United Flight 93, the brief, choking goodbyes to loved ones and friends, the anguished thought in the back of my mind that one of them got a busy signal from their spouse, parent, or child’s telephone. The humanity of that situation is beyond anything of that I’ve ever experienced in any other film, the sadness more profound than any other emotion I’ve had provoked by art in my life.

The MPAA gave United 93 an “R” rating for “language, and some intense sequences of terror and violence.” I believe this to be a complete crock of bullshit as well. This film shouldn’t have received a rating at all. No one should have to see this, but everyone must in time shoulder the responsibility to remember.

Go see United 93. Don’t see it alone; go with the person you love the most. Hold that loving hand, put your arm around those shoulders, and think about how precious that individual is to you. Don’t look away or close your eyes, no matter how hard it is. Remember how you felt Then, look at where you’ve gone since Then, and then do something about changing the course of action.

Words and resolutions to get us out of Iraq, to alter the fight, will only do us so much. The killers are still at large, and the administration that is supposed to be pursuing them has completely failed to bring them to justice. Once again, it falls to the common people to charge the up the aisle and make right a situation out of control.