SO here I am, this evening of July 29th, 2009. I arrived at Norfolk one year and twenty-seven days ago, determined to serve my country to the best of my ability, or to the extent of which I could through my current command. Unfortunately, the fulfillment of my desire to serve my country has been left sorely wanting: I fel that I have not contributed to defending my nation, or the free world in the "Global War on Terror" (if a more ambiguous name can be given to the thwarting of terrorists and rogue factions within foreign lands is out there, I'm all ears) very much, or at all. I feel that the activities I have been involved in have only served to be band-aids in the eyes of naval and military bureaucratic leadership at best, and at worst, will serve to validate the more totalitarian, omnipresent approach of constant surviellance of government facilities.
Finally, finally, finally I have submitted my Navy OCS application after eight long, tiresome, arduous, patience-breakign months, only to now be sitting here thinking that I have made a mistake in taking the steps to further my stock within the Navy. Personally, I think I am a man of far more physicality and action than what much of this naval service presents. Outside of the SEAL and EOD Teams, I think that young men seeking action and looking for patriotic glory amidst the officer ranks will find it elsewhere outside the Navy.
That being said, I put in for the Navy Supply Corps. That's right, the supply corps. "Supply Corps", you ask? Yeah, the supply corps, I begrudgingly reply. But, in it's own defence, it has history, it has prestige, particularly the Navy supply side of things. Moving supplies and logisitics is fundamental to ALL warfare, because without supplies, their can be no war, no defence. It is indeed the currency of warfare. Throughout history, campaigns have been won and lost on account of the reliability of supplies. If I were to go through with this and become a Navy Supply Corps officer, the "best" of the supply corps within the US Armed Forces, and by far it's most diverse and most widely deployed, I could come out with some kind impressive resume. The page her on wikipedia is impressive enough: **
Even though, what wouldn't be impressive with Army OCS, Ranger school, and leading men in the ultimate acid test of human ability and survival?
Right. Need to re-edit this one at a later time.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Fashioned Steel in Time
So here it is in mine own hand, the 9" of laser-sharp SOG Togershark bowie knife. It is the first combat knife I've ever held, and ranks amongst the most impressive. I was only a little lad, somewhere in my ealry teen years in middle school. (Cue flashback sequence)
One fateful Halloween, Chris Cs, the man of the house next door to my family's, had allowed me to enter into his home to share his prized tactical gear fopr the purpose of turning little Savage D into the most stoked little soldier-man EVER. He piled it on - I was a fully loaded super-secret soldier; black garb head-to-toe, with all manner of high-speed vests and gear hanging off me. I was in heaven.
*I had discovered a friend, and learned quickly that he had the -coolest- new and interesting toys*
Some time later (months? perhaps year?) I was over at the Cs' residence after allowing myself in, and overstaying my welcome. I found my way back to Chris' private lair where he would sharpen his knives with his bandaged, amputated arm. Pushing the blade, the other hand gripping said lethal device by the handle, he would perform this meditative act periodically, and I loved to watch. This time, however, he was not there. It was early evening, with the sun very low and the light outside turning a faded blue hue on the outside world for all the surfaces too low to directly see our star. And there it was - a large, wicked device - powder-coated to divert the prying and revealing rays of light, yet long and svelt and lanky. It's edge was bright and reflective, like the edge of a mirror not spacious enough to show more than a hint of sight; an Edge of dancing light, of living flame...
To a lad of only thirteen or fourteen, this was burning mysticism, a connection between a man and his curious, fascinating devices that performed acts both great and terrible that I could not yet know or understand.
Years later, when I discovered the Navy SEALs and began to educate myself about America's most elite inter-personal killers and snake eaters, Chris brought out the US Army Special Forces (Green Beret) flash, a powerful emblem of an applegate-fairbarn commando knife over crossed arrows, all surrounded by an elegantly laid scroll.
I came over to the Cs' house to talk with Chris, as I would periodically do in some of the many free nights I had in high school. I presented him with Douglas C. Waller's _The Commandos_ and one of Orr Kelly's documentary books on the Navy SEALs, and he retreated back to his room to retrieve and present me with his own Green Beret Flash, which he was immensely proud of...
Whether or not he had earned it in truth, I didn't care. I looked up to that man, and I loved world that he seemd to be a part of. Rich with experience and character, stepped in heriosm, courage, and immeasurable fortitude and pride, he was the master of a realm, and a gate-keeper of his own unique, noble manhood.
Only later did things fall apart between he and I. He would loose patience with me; me with my constant curiosity, my prying eyes and eager questions. Sometimes I would ring the door and find that he would not answer, and others he would tell me to go away. Finally, around the age I was sixteen, one day he lost his Green Beret Flash. Unable to find it in his lair, he blamed me for entering into his private sanctuary and stealing it. In disbelief, I was unable to speak, and only later would tell my parents angrily that I didn't take it. Many months later, he emerged. I remember it clearly: I was finishing washing cars with my family when he came over to our house. He apologized to me, in front of my parents, that he had found his coveted metal trinket, and that he was sorry he had blamed me in his anger. I escaped to my room. Followed soon in by my mother, she haughtily chided with me at the silly amputee man who blamed her son for stealing his stupid piece of metal. I agreed, devoid of emotion, and after she departed, I closed the door and wept for the noble man I once knew and adored...
The Knife, is now mine...
One fateful Halloween, Chris Cs, the man of the house next door to my family's, had allowed me to enter into his home to share his prized tactical gear fopr the purpose of turning little Savage D into the most stoked little soldier-man EVER. He piled it on - I was a fully loaded super-secret soldier; black garb head-to-toe, with all manner of high-speed vests and gear hanging off me. I was in heaven.
*I had discovered a friend, and learned quickly that he had the -coolest- new and interesting toys*
Some time later (months? perhaps year?) I was over at the Cs' residence after allowing myself in, and overstaying my welcome. I found my way back to Chris' private lair where he would sharpen his knives with his bandaged, amputated arm. Pushing the blade, the other hand gripping said lethal device by the handle, he would perform this meditative act periodically, and I loved to watch. This time, however, he was not there. It was early evening, with the sun very low and the light outside turning a faded blue hue on the outside world for all the surfaces too low to directly see our star. And there it was - a large, wicked device - powder-coated to divert the prying and revealing rays of light, yet long and svelt and lanky. It's edge was bright and reflective, like the edge of a mirror not spacious enough to show more than a hint of sight; an Edge of dancing light, of living flame...
To a lad of only thirteen or fourteen, this was burning mysticism, a connection between a man and his curious, fascinating devices that performed acts both great and terrible that I could not yet know or understand.Years later, when I discovered the Navy SEALs and began to educate myself about America's most elite inter-personal killers and snake eaters, Chris brought out the US Army Special Forces (Green Beret) flash, a powerful emblem of an applegate-fairbarn commando knife over crossed arrows, all surrounded by an elegantly laid scroll.
I came over to the Cs' house to talk with Chris, as I would periodically do in some of the many free nights I had in high school. I presented him with Douglas C. Waller's _The Commandos_ and one of Orr Kelly's documentary books on the Navy SEALs, and he retreated back to his room to retrieve and present me with his own Green Beret Flash, which he was immensely proud of...Whether or not he had earned it in truth, I didn't care. I looked up to that man, and I loved world that he seemd to be a part of. Rich with experience and character, stepped in heriosm, courage, and immeasurable fortitude and pride, he was the master of a realm, and a gate-keeper of his own unique, noble manhood.
Only later did things fall apart between he and I. He would loose patience with me; me with my constant curiosity, my prying eyes and eager questions. Sometimes I would ring the door and find that he would not answer, and others he would tell me to go away. Finally, around the age I was sixteen, one day he lost his Green Beret Flash. Unable to find it in his lair, he blamed me for entering into his private sanctuary and stealing it. In disbelief, I was unable to speak, and only later would tell my parents angrily that I didn't take it. Many months later, he emerged. I remember it clearly: I was finishing washing cars with my family when he came over to our house. He apologized to me, in front of my parents, that he had found his coveted metal trinket, and that he was sorry he had blamed me in his anger. I escaped to my room. Followed soon in by my mother, she haughtily chided with me at the silly amputee man who blamed her son for stealing his stupid piece of metal. I agreed, devoid of emotion, and after she departed, I closed the door and wept for the noble man I once knew and adored...
The Knife, is now mine...
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