Your Pre-Veterans Day Weekend Safety Brief

Listen up, veterans! You don't like listening to them, and I don't like giving them. But we've got a long weekend coming up, and you know the drill. Besides, it's not like it's supposed to a big party like St. Patrick's Day or Carnival, for criminey's sake! It's Veterans Day: Keep your pants on and your $#@! together!

Here's a packing-list of some suggested tips, tools, and techniques. As always, take what you need, leave the rest:

1. Don't be an "angry vet." If someone randomly thanks you for your service, or welcomes you home, say "thank you"—even if you don't feel like it, even if you're "not a hero," even if you were just doing your job and happy to take the paycheck. If nothing else, say "thank you" on behalf of your buddies—particularly the ones who aren't there to take the praise themselves. You know who they are. You know where they are. Be humbled that someone in this allegedly grateful nation still gives a @#$!.

2. Avoid initiating unnecessary friendly-fire missions. If you see some rag-bag who's wearing a uniform that looks like soup—so that he can get a free sandwich or cookie, no doubt—use good judgment before you engage him. In fact, maybe you don't need to confront him at all. He might just be legit. He might be homeless. He might be mentally ill. Everybody has their own war. Don't make others' any worse.

3. Don't assume that women aren't veterans, too. You know better.

4. Dine responsibly. You don't have to take every deal and discount. Think hard about accepting gratitude, particularly when it comes from faceless corporations. Don't reward people who pencil-whip their patriotism. Freedom isn't free, and neither is lunch. Bonus tip: Remember to tip your waitstaff, regardless of how much money you didn't pay for a meal. After all, they're working on your holiday. Thank them for their service.

5. Don't get into any bad-humored urination competitions. That includes jags and jihads such as "pogues vs grunts," "geeks vs. jocks," and "whose deployment sucked more." You know better.

6. Look for teachable targets of opportunity. If someone asks you about your service, have a short and courteous answer prepared. If a child asks you why you're wearing a poppy, stop and talk with them. If someone doesn't know the difference between Veterans Day and Memorial Day, don't make them feel bad when they ask for clarification. Tolerate unnecessary apostrophes. Be polite, be professional: You still represent the tribe, even if you no longer wear the uniform.

7. Check in with a buddy. Back in my day, we didn't have "battle buddies." We had "bunk buddies," until people figured out how stupid that sounded. Having a "battle" or "Boot Camp Friends Forever" or whatever doesn't sound much better. Now, I don't care what you call them, but it's time we start a new tradition: That guy or gal with whom you spent the worst and best days of your life downrange? Call them this weekend. Do a radio-check. See how they're doing. Compare notes. Count your mutual blessings, wounds, or remaining ammunition. Ask if they need anything, and if you can help. Most of all, however, tell them thanks. Because, coming from you, that still means something.

'Yee-haw, Jester's NOT Dead!'

In an Aug. 14, 2012 Military Times article, reporter Gina Hawkins wrote that the military-humor website called The Duffel Blog "is doing such a good job of lampooning the service, it’s already duped some officials into thinking their breaking news is real."

Apparently, things are so slow in Afghanistan, Iraq, and the rest of the world that the media can spend time and newsprint on covering all the news that isn't.

Launched earlier this year, The Duffel Blog isn't everyone's bag of tea, including mine. Some of the fake news site gets a little rough, both in execution and allegedly humorous delivery. (Remember Sherpatude No. 26? "Humor is a combat multiplier. Except when it isn't.")

Sometimes, it seems as if the website's editors are more interested in being mistaken for delivering real news than recognized for delivering effective satire. (Imagine someone copying and reprinting spoofy headlines from The Onion or The Daily Show as truth? Oh, the hilarity!) But there is humor there, and there is always truth in humor. After all, you can't make omelettes without breaking a few hand grenades.

When The Duffel Bloggers are on target, however, it's either time to laugh, follow, or get out of the way. For example, the comments from irate mil-spouses regarding a modest proposal to issue them rank were often as as telling as the satire itself. (In a particularly nice touch, the website followed up with an infographic depicting what the spousal rank insignia would look like.)

There are no sacred cows, nor should there be. Once, The Duffel Blog even reported that the Minnesota National Guard's beloved 1st Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division had mistakenly re-invaded Iraq. (In our defense, the division motto is: "Attack! Attack! Attack!")

That just goes to show, you can't believe everything you read on the Internet.

Speaking of which, here are few random quotes in support of The Duffel Blog and its take-no-prisoners approach to provoking outrage, thought, and (hopefully) change:

• Evelyn Beatrice Hall: "I may disapprove of your punchline, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."

• Former U.S. Sen. Barry Goldwater, R-Ariz. once said: "I would remind you that extremism in the pursuit of humor is no vice! And let me remind you also that moderation in the pursuit of humor is no virtue!"

• Also, Thomas Jefferson: "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of tyrants. And maybe a little fake vomit. It is its natural manure."

Stick with me. I'm going somewhere will all this.

Alongside his reporting on July 2012's all-time monthly peak in U.S. military suicides, Time magazine defense reporter Mark Thompson posted a judgmental nugget titled "This Isn't Funny," in which he pointed to a scathing satire on Army suicides published by The Onion, titled "It Would Be An Honor To Serve My Country, Return With PTSD, Sit On A Mental Health Care Waitlist, Then Kill Myself".

In the two-paragraph post, he first clucks that "[t]he Army’s failure to cut down on its suicide rate makes it a target for people without taste." [Emphasis added.]

Then, he offers this bromide to anti-suicide campaigners:

As someone who has covered military suicides, and the folks waging the battle against it, for years, it hurts when your best efforts aren’t turning the tide. But they will, eventually. That should be enough to keep the Army’s suicide-fighters fighting the good fight. [Emphasis added.]

Either Thompson can't understand satire and gallows humor—hard to believe, given his familiarity with military culture—or sopping the feelings of the Army's anti-suicide squad was somehow more important than expressing a little righteous heat toward the suicide problem itself. Is The Onion's take on Army suicide funny? Not in a canned laugh-track or prime-time vanilla sort of way. But it is funny. Morbidly funny. And outrageous.

We could use a little more constructive outrage around here, rather than telling ourselves that our best efforts will eventually turn the tide. We should be doubling down on seeking solutions, rather than wringing our hands over hurt feelings of a few policy-wonks.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Whatever we're doing? It ain't working. The court jesters say we're not wearing clothes, regardless of the uniforms we wear.

How's that for a punchline?

Good Soldiers Never Bad-mouth the Boss

When U.S. Army Cpl. Jesse Thorsen, West Des Moines, Iowa, a drilling member of the U.S. Army Reserve, put on his combat uniform and took a Des Moines, Iowa stage with Republican presidential candidate Ron Paul, the not-so-strategic corporal officially crossed the phase line between "dumb" and "stupid." In doing so, he helped illuminate the potential consequences of a warrior class at odds with the society it protects, and the need for both citizens and soldiers to recommit to their respective roles within the republic.

Bottom line up front: Army regulations do not allow allow you to wear the U.S. flag on your shoulder while also waving the banner of a political candidate. Particularly if your mere presence is an implied criticism of your commander-in-chief.

(Side note: Unless you're currently in the military, you don't have a "commander-in-chief." See this nicely observed essay inspired by another presidential candidate's recent remarks in Iowa here. And another homegrown military-and-politics-don't-mix article from 2011 here.)

Every Joe knows this. Particularly in Iowa, which becomes a political no-man's-land every four years. Other states have primary elections, but Iowa has its first-in-the-nation caucuses. A caucus is an inherently partisan event, run by party volunteers, at which participants can be expected to publicly advocate on behalf of politicians and platform planks.

If you're headed to your precinct caucus immediately following your duty day, you take off the uniform and put on civvies. With apologies to George Washington: "When you assume the citizen, you leave behind the soldier."

Caucus meetings can involve a lot of raucous political prodding and poking, jibing and joking. Some of it may even be good-natured. If you want the essential flavor of the thing, consider a few of Iowa writer Trevor Meers' notes from his rural precinct caucus:

GOP Neighbor opened the session with the Pledge of Allegiance, even though there was no flag in the room. “Well,” he said, “just look, um, somewhere.” We sat down to start the caucus, and the old guy in the flag cap said, “This feels a lot like the Possum Lodge.” [...]

Mitt’s man went right to Romney’s status as a family man. “He’s been married almost as many years as I have. I, uh, don’t know how many that is.” Laughter rolled through the community hall. “43 years! That’s it! 43 years.” [...]

No one volunteered to speak for Newt, then GOP Neighbor asked, “Is there anyone who wishes to speak on behalf of Jon Huntsman? No? I didn’t think so.”

Bottom line: The Iowa Caucuses are not private, closed-curtain and secret-ballot kinds of affairs. They're more like neighborhood block-parties.

Unlike the U.S. Army Reserve, the U.S. National Guard falls under the peacetime commands of the 54 state and territorial governors. Because of this, the National Guard is more likely to be called to help civil authorities respond to natural and manmade disasters. When the National Guard shows up to help sandbag against the flood or clean up from the tornado, every Joe knows that—while the uniform conveys a certain amount of knowledge, capability, and authority—the civilians are decisively in charge. The citizen-soldier, the oft-heard saying goes, is only "there to help."

(Side note to U.S. Army Reserve: The more appropriate term is "citizen-soldiers." That's "citizens" first, "soldiers" when necessary. Your repeated attempts to substitute "warrior-citizen" seems a dangerous play to militarize the populace. This is not Sparta. Not yet, anyway.)

I remember sitting in a stateside Tactical Operations Center in 2010, prior to Iowa's 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division (2-34th BCT) deployment to Afghanstan. News of Michael Hasting's Rolling Stone reports regarding the snarky culture of U.S. Army Gen. Stanley McChrystal's Afghan command had just hit the airwaves, and we were watching cable news programming in-between drone flights. One go-to sergeant observed that any of the "jokes" described would be unacceptable in the Iowa National Guard, if they were directed by a soldier toward a governor or other elected official. I have never forgotten Sully's sage advice:

"You don't bad-mouth the boss, even if you didn't vote for him."

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POLITICAL SLINGS AND RED ARROWS

Here's how the Wisconsin National Guard (home to the 32nd Infantry "Red Arrow" Brigade Combat Team, a unit affiliated with 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division) put out the post-Thorsen word in typically plain-spoken Midwestern-speak:

The Dairy State gained national attention in 2011 for the large political demonstrations at the state capitol, and this year’s presidential election promises further political carbonation in a swing state.

So what can a Wisconsin National Guard member say or do in this politically charged environment?

The short answer? The Department of Defense does not endorse any political candidate or party. As a service member—whether active Guard and Reserve (AGR), federal technician or traditional drilling status—you cannot give the impression that any part of the military endorses a political candidate, party or movement.

Questions? Ask your JAG.

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'THANKS FOR YOUR SERVICE; I WILL HAVE FRIES WITH THAT.'

Blogger and reporter Carl Prine—himself a former Marine and National Guard soldier—offered a take-no-prisoners analysis of Thorsen's political actions. In it, he takes to task would-be activists such as Thorsen, should-know-better candidates, the dangerous military mindset that places soldiers above citizens, and even the support-your-troops culture at large. A couple of favorite Prine lines:

[To the military:] Thorsen is the monster you helped to create. It’s what happens when the speeches of your officers turn every REMF into a “warrior” and your press releases raise even lowly men like me into capital-s “Soldiers” standing typographically taller than all those mere little-c civilians.

[To the public:] You’ve trapped those who did their duty in the boneyards of Ramadi and Kandahar by slamming shut the iron gate of stoploss. And when our veterans returned home from battle, you refused to hire them.

“Thank you for your service,” you say. “And yes, I would like fries with that.”

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'A UNIFORM DOESN'T MEAN YOU NEED TO GENUFLECT'

Writer Michael Hastings, vilified in some mil-circles after his McChrystal profile resulted in the general's resignation, recently published a book. A couple of paragraphs from a recent Wired interview stand out as relevant to the Thorsen incident:

[T]he burdens of this war have fallen on so few. So, so few. Goddamn right the people who did serve should feel like their opinion matters, maybe even should matter more. But then you get into a Starship Troopers scenario [where citizenship is measured by military service]. I think the only way to combat against that is for everyone to do their best to understand what’s really going on. And to do their best to understand that just because someone has a uniform on doesn’t mean you need to genuflect. You can be respectful and thank them. But one has to be able to be as critical of four-star general as of Newt Gingrich. You have to treat these people like they’re flawed human beings like you.

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'THE ONLY THING TO WEAR ON OUR SLEEVES ...'

Time magazine's Mark Thompsen, in describing Thorsen's mistake of wearing a uniform while rallying for Ron Paul, also noted:

Admiral Mike Mullen, who served as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff until last fall, made a special point of telling U.S. troops to remain apolitical. “Keeping our politics private is a good first step,” he said in an oft-quoted 2008 article he wrote for Joint Forces Quarterly, a Pentagon publication. “The only things we should be wearing on our sleeves are our military insignia.”

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'DEFINING SERVICE ON OUR OWN TERMS'

Afghan war veteran Rajiv Srinivasan, a spokesperson for the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans Association (I.A.V.A.), chose to write about Thorsen's political performance in the best possible light:

We must recognize that, in each of our returning veterans, there is an internal struggle to reconcile the utility of their life’s work over the past decade with the hardships they’ve endured. Our society’s ambivalence gives veterans the prerogative to define their worth of service—and thus the American uniform—on their own terms.

If the American service uniform truly means something to our nation, then we must start taking better care of those who wear it, have worn it and who continue to bear its responsibilities. It’s more than a simple “Thank you for your service.” It means asking, “How can I help you get a job, care for your family, build a life back home?”

Peace on Earth? Listen Through the Static

"What? They are still having WARS?!" asks my backseat conscience. Seven-year-old Lena sounds exasperated.

Mentally, I quickly tune in to the car radio. A Medal of Honor recipient is describing his actions in World War II: "My commanding officer asked me, as the last flamethrower operator that he had in his company, because the others had either been killed or wounded, if I thought I could do something about some of the pillboxes ..."

War can be a heck of a way to start the day. Especially if you're only in elementary school.

So far, it is a snowless winter in Iowa. Starting in darkness, my pre-writing routine involves troop transport: First daycare, then first-grade. During a short suburban commute to school, our days unwrap themselves in purple-gray light, then quickly warm to cornflower blue. Trees and houses on the horizon silhouette themselves like paper cutouts, back-lit in pink and apricot.

I have never been a morning person, but this is my favorite time of day. It is calm and peaceful, even with the radio on.

I remember dashing to weekend drills in the National Guard, waking up at oh-dark-thirty to speed along zippers of interstate highway, the sun rising to reveal the snow-dusted corn stubble rolling and rippling alongside my car. I'd have a stainless-steel bullet of scalding coffee in one hand, steering wheel in the other. Life was good.

Happiness is a 0700 first formation and a couple of hours to get there. Better still, an AM radio spouting sad tales and news of the world, country music stations bleeding into BBC World Service.

Bonus Sherpa tip: Bursts of static mean there's a thunderstorm on the way.

Army communications training taught me to mentally push past the white noise, and to sort and separate snippets of simultaneous conversation. Stations are always talking over and on top of each other, like it's a cocktail party. Or a Twitter feed. Get into the zone, and you can regulate the radio mentally into the background, until you hear something of interest. Like your callsign. Or your daughter.

As part of a family budget-cutting move, I recently cancelled the subscription for my car's satellite radio. That means no more commercial-free, kid-friendly tunes at the punch of a pre-set. Usually, I remember to turn off the radio while shuttling the kids around. That way, I can avoid topical potholes such as roadside bombs and robot planes, and people getting killed.

When I forget to turn the radio off, morning drive-time can become an exercise in addressing Lena's hard questions.

I try to answer honestly and simply. Lena knows that I used to be a soldier. And her classmates have friends and family who are still in uniform. Even though most every Red Bull soldier we know personally is back from Afghanistan (but not from Iraq), she's still quick to pick up on war-related news.

Like my Mama Sherpa would say, back when Sherpa was still in short pants: "Little cornstalks have big ears."

She wasn't kidding.

Recently, for example, Lena zeroed in on a report about burn-out rates of U.S. Air Force drone pilots. While such pilots are sitting safe in cockpits here in the states, they're also omnipresent witnesses to events downrange: Watch a guy for days or weeks. Establish his habits and routines. Then, if and when necessary, pull the trigger.

Imagine how jarring it would be to then be able to drive home as if nothing happened.

Physical distance can create emotional dissonance. Ask any radio operator who's been located the safe end of the conversation, while his buddies are in contact with the enemy. It can feel pretty impotent to be armed only with words.

"Why are they hurting?" Lena asks about the drone pilots.

"Because pilots are like soldiers. They don't like to hurt people. But, sometimes, they have to shoot their weapons."

"Why do they have to shoot people?"

"Sometimes, they have to shoot people--bad guys--in order to keep other people safe."

"How does shooting someone make us safer?"

Good question, kid. One that more of us probably need to ask, given the state of the world, and the sentiments of the Christmas season.

I'm conflicted. While I'd like Daddy's little warrior-princess to keep believing in Santa Claus and pixie dust, I'd also like her to keep asking the tough and critical questions. If Lena has to grow up--and Household-6 says that she will, regardless of my efforts--I'd like it to be in a world in which war is considered the exception, and not the rule.

Peace on Earth? Put your ears on. Listen through the static. Watch for the dawn. And consider the tough questions.

Especially if they come from your kids.

The Sucking Sound in Hooverville

Sgt. Schlitz is back from Bagram, and looking for work. The Eastern Iowa toy company for which he'd previously worked has been limping along in the bad economy. He re-joined the U.S. Army after a 21-year break in service, and deployed to Afghanistan with the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.) 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division. He's got management and marketing experience, a hearty Midwestern work ethic, and a dogged sense of humor.

"Al Jazeera is hiring a graphic designer," he joked recently on his Facebook page. "Would that be a conflict of interest?"

According to Iowa National Guard officials, approximately 25 percent of the Red Bull soldiers who deployed to Afghanistan didn't have civilian jobs to which to return. By comparison, as of August 2011, the overall unemployment rate in Iowa is 6.1 percent.

The quick math? In round numbers, out of a 3,000-member brigade combat team, approximately 750 are without civilian employment. In the military, that's larger than the size of a battalion. In the civilian world--at least by the Small Business Administration's (SBA) definition--that's "large business" territory.

If a 25-percent unemployment bomb were to explode in the vicinity of a single Iowa town, you'd be looking at some significant economic damage. Because Iowa's citizen-soldiers are spread across the state, however, adding 750 more job-seekers to the state's pool of 101,900 unemployed workers doesn't exactly seem like a flood.

In other words, it's easy for people to say "thank you for your service." It's harder for people to see that there may be a systemic problem when it comes to keeping citizen-soldiers gainfully employed when they're not being deployed.

"I've never met someone who didn't want to help," says Saber2th, who is engaged in his own post-deployment job search. For 24 months prior to his own deployment to Afghanistan, he was on temporary full-time active-duty--while helping the 2-34th BCT prepare for deployment. Now, that mission is over, and the budget money that went with it is gone. "Everybody says civilian employers understand how military skills and attitudes benefit them. Everybody says employers will follow the law, and won't discriminate based on membership in the National Guard. Beyond that, no one seems to know what to do. Job fairs and resume-writing classes can only get soldiers so far."

The funny thing is, Saber2th is pretty sure he could market his specialized military skills elsewhere in the states. Arizona, say--or maybe Virginia. But that would most likely be military-contract work, and the wars can't go on forever. Besides, like Schlitz, he'd like to keep his young family in Iowa.

As a hardworking, capable taxpayer who has repeatedly answered the call of country (two overseas deployments) and community (during the floods of 2008), his fellow Iowans should want to keep him there, too.

Of course, unemployment in the ranks isn't just an Iowa problem: Consider that, in 2010, 20 percent of Vermont's 86th BCT returned to unemployment after the Iowa's Red Bull soldiers took over the mission in Eastern Afghanistan. At the time, Vermont's overall unemployment rate was 7 percent.

According to a recent Army news release, Florida's 53rd BCT returned from a 2010 deployment with 39 percent unemployment.

Following an August presidential announcement on veterans-employment initiatives, a White House press release noted:

• As of June, one million veterans were unemployed and the jobless rate for post-9/11 veterans was 13.3 percent. [National unemployment rate at the time was around 9.1 percent.]

• These veterans tend to be young and many worked in sectors that were among the hardest hit by the recession. Post-9/11 veterans were more likely to be employed in mining, construction, manufacturing, transportation and utilities—all industries that experienced significant drops in employment during 2008-2009.

• And as we end the war in Iraq and wind down the war in Afghanistan, over one million service members are projected to leave the military between 2011 and 2016.

Some cranks and wags will argue that there is nothing new here, that the poor are always with us, and so are jobless veterans. (Forget the Alamo and forget the Maine--anyone remember Hooverville?) According to a Pew Research Center report published this week:

More than eight-in-ten (84 percent) of these modern-era veterans say the American public has little or no understanding of the problems that those in the military face. Most of the public (71 percent) agrees. Many Americans also acknowledge that since the 9/11 attacks, the military and their families have made more sacrifices than the public at large. But even among this group, only 26 percent say this gap is "unfair," while 70 percent say that it's "just part of being in the military."

Seventy percent of America to veterans: "Welcome home. Embrace the suck."

*****

IOWA CITY VETS JOB FAIR IS TODAY, OCT. 6
A Veteran’s Job and Resource Fair will be held today, Thursday, Oct. 6, 2011, from 4 to 7 p.m. at the Iowa National Guard Armory Complex in Iowa City. Sponsored by Iowa City Area Development, more than 50 employers and veterans resource providers will be present. A pre-event workshop, "How to Work a Job Fair," will be conducted 3:30 p.m. at the some location. For more information, click here. For a PDF brochure, click here.

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IOWA WORKFORCE COMPUTERS INSTALLED IN ARMORIES
As part of a wider reorganization of the state's employment offices, 42 computer-based "access points" to Iowa Workforce Development services have been installed in Iowa National Guard armories.

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PROPOSED EMPLOYER TAX CREDITS FOR HIRING VETS
As part of a comprehensive veterans employment speech in August 2011, President Barack Obama recently proposed employer tax credits ranging from $2,400 to $$4,800 for each unemployed veteran hired. (An earlier credit of up to $2,400 expired in 2010.) He also proposed similar tax credits for hiring veterans with service-connected disabilities, in amounts ranging from $4,800 to $9,600.

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RED BULLS RETURNING TO CAMPUS, RATHER THAN WORK?
Many returning Red Bull soldiers may be using their G.I. Bill benefits, rather than look for work. Reported in a Cedar Rapids Gazette/KCRG-TV9 article earlier this week, approximately one-third of those returning from Afghanistan planned to go to college rather than seek employment.

*****

STATEWIDE JOB FAIR FOR VETERANS, MIL-SPOUSES IS NOV. 8
A statewide "Hiring Our Heroes" job fair for veterans and military spouses will be held 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Nov. 8, at Hall "C" of Hy-Vee Hall, Des Moines, Iowa. The event is free. Registration is not required, but registrants will receive advance notice of exhibitors. Click here for a registration page. For more information, contact Iowa Workforce Development's Jeff Johnson; jeffrey_johnson AT iwd.iowa.gov; 515.281.9708; Gloria Cano; gloria_cano AT iwd.iowa.gov; 515.281.9649.

Nine Tea Cups of Wisdom

Bloggers and pundits are buzzing following investigative reports alleging that many events described in Greg Mortenson's best-selling "Three Cups of Tea" books never happened, and that the Central Asia Institute (C.A.I.), a related a non-profit organization, has failed to build, maintain, or staff many of the schools it promised to build in Afghanistan and Pakistan. One of the CAI best-known fund-raising efforts is "Pennies for Peace," which encourages school-age children to collect and donate spare change toward building schools overseas.

Mortenson was the subject of a CBS "60 Minutes" report on Sun., April 17. Jon Krakauer, best-selling author of such books as "Into Thin Air" and "Where Men Win Glory," subsequently released a 77-page featurette titled "Three Cups of Deceit." The product is available electronically as a free download here. Mortenson, a perennial Nobel Peace Prize nominee, did not participate in the "60 Minutes" report, although he has responded through Outside magazine and the hometown newspaper in Bozeman, Mont.

For years, the book "Three Cups of Tea" and its related products have served as a much-cited supporting narrative for U.S. Army counterinsurgency doctrine (often abbreviated and pronounced "COIN" in military circles). The phrase, which alludes to the gradual relationship-building that takes place during social interactions, is commonly used by U.S. soldiers when talking of meetings with Afghan governmental, tribal, police and military personnel. "Gotta go drink our three cups of tea" is to the Afghan generation what "winning hearts and minds" was to Vietnam's.

Writing for Wired Magazine's "Danger Room" blog, Spencer Ackerman kicks off an analysis this week's news with by revisiting a grassroots technology effort led by Army Capt. Cristian Balan, a Vermont Army National Guard officer, in summer 2010. (Iowa's 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division replaced Vermont's 86th Infantry Brigade Combat Team in November 2010.)

His impulse was straight out of Mortenson’s Three Cups of Tea, an account of cross-cultural understanding in Central Asia that’s become faddish in counterinsurgency circles. The core lesson: treat the Afghans with respect; address their concerns; and they’ll scratch your back, too. If you don’t, don’t be surprised when you don’t get their cooperation against the Taliban.

After I accompanied the sunny Balan on his tech support mission, he asked if I’d read Mortenson’s book. When I told him I hadn’t, he fetched his dog-eared copy from his trailer and gave it to me to keep.

Regardless of how the accusations and potential lawsuits sort out, the latest chapter in Mortenson's life story casts unwelcome doubt on counterinsurgency doctrine and methods, and, more generally, philanthropic efforts in a tight economy.

Ackerman writes: "[S]hould [the allegations against Mortenson] discredit the message that the military’s embraced? '60 Minutes‘ main allegations don’t suggest as much. They’re about Mortenson’s integrity, not his thesis."

In the Red Bull Rising blog alone, "Three Cups of Tea" has been reviewed and discussed numerous times (see here and here for examples). Many of Mortenson's lessons are still valid, regardless any failings and frailties on his part. Other lessons can be derived from Mortenson's fall from popular grace.

For example, Gen. David Petraeus distilled these three core lessons from Mortenson's "Three Cups of Tea."

1. "We need to listen more."

2. "We need to have respect."

3. "We have to build relationships."

That's all good advice for do-gooders of all types, in uniform, in media, and in the non-profit sector!

Extending upon these was a March 31, 2010 Red Bull Rising post:

4. "Counterinsurgency is a long-term commitment."

5. "Beware the laptop Army." You can't instill change by managing spreadsheets in the Tactical Operations Center ("TOC").

There was also a PBS interview with Mortenson cited in January 2010, from which was derived these observations:

6. "Half of diplomacy is just showing up." You're halfway there if you meet with people, look them in the eyes, and talk to them.

7. "You cannot plug in democracy. You have to build democracy." Whether you live in Washington or Waziristan, you can't be part of the change unless you're engaged on the ground.

Finally, here are two lessons potentially gleaned from this week's news:

8. "Trust, but verify. Only then, should you donate." A Minnesota teacher is using Mortenson's difficulties as a teachable moment in her classroom. Her students had raised $862.02 to help build a school in Pakistan. Next time, she hopes they'll be more successful, in part by investigating their giving options more diligently. Look for ratings, audits, and certifications, before you sign a check--or send in your hard-won pennies.

9. "People of all types must be held accountable." Investigative journalism is about keeping people accountable, whether in government, business, the military, or non-profit. It's not mean-spirited to hold people accountable, but it is mean-spirited to take pleasure in other people's difficulties. It's notable that so many commenters have rushed to judge Mortenson, citing Krakauer's just-the-facts gumshoe reporting, when many of those same commenters have delighted in the supposed rehabilitation of U.S. commander in Afghanistan Gen. Stanley McChrystal, a central character in the alleged high-level cover-up and mis-appropriation of U.S. soldier Pat Tillman's 2004 death by friendly-fire. Krakauer wrote a whole book on Tillman and his death.

In other words: If Krakauer is right about Mortenson, isn't he also right about McChrystal?

Cooking Up Some Red Bull Love

Sometimes, particularly during the holidays, it's too easy to focus on sending deployed troops stuff they really don't need, and too hard to focus on the daily challenges their families face here at home.

"I don't think you understand," Household-6 says to me one night. "When you were away, I felt like I never had any time. It was always onto the next thing. I'd get dinner made, and then it was time to get the kids ready for bed. I'd get the kids to bed, and then it was time to get the kids clothes ready for the next day ..."

Yeah, I know--"food isn't love." Sometimes, however, it can come in a close second. For a couple of years, off and on, Household-6 has leveraged her love of cooking into her way of helping others. She got the idea a couple of years back, when we were a member a church that had a "Ministry through Meals" committee. If there was a birth, death, or sickness in a family, for example--whenever people didn't have time to take care of themselves because they were focused on bigger, more important things--this group would help out by preparing and delivering meals.

With the deployment of my buddies in the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division, Household-6 decided to again pick up the spatula. She's cooking one meal a week for one or two other Red Bull families.

The way she sees it, she's not providing food to these families--she's providing time. Time they don't have to worry about grocery shopping. Time they don't have to cook. Time to think. Time they can spend focused on their kids.

It's good food, but not nothing too gourmet. Household-6 works it into her busy schedule by preparing extra servings of whatever is on the Sherpa family menu that day. The menu rotates, but it's usually the same day every week. "It's what I'd want someone to offer to do for me, if you had been deployed," she tells me.

People often struggle to find ways to help National Guard families. They even struggle to find ways to inquire if and how and when to help--nobody wants to be nosy or invasive, after all, particularly at the holidays.

I want to ask you to give into your better impulses. Take a chance, and ask someone if you can help.

Before you tell yourself you have nothing to bring to the proverbial table, however, consider these words from Natalie, a self-described "homefront warrior," Red Bull spouse and occasional blogger, and mother of two small children:

It’s [...] not my nature to ask for help, even when I should, and I suspect that is a quality shared by many of my fellow homefront warriors.

That said, please do something for me--if you know any military families (besides me, obviously) with a deployed service member, please find out how you can help, and then follow through. Just saying, “Call me if you need anything,” doesn’t usually cut it, because that leaves the ball in her (or his) court, and she’s already juggling too many of them in the first place. Find out what needs are there and do something, even something small, to help meet them.

In general, there is too little of this type of service to neighbors in the world right now, and sometimes those who are doing their best to seem together on the outside are the ones that need help the most.

(Be sure to read all of her thoughts on the subject here.)

Sherpa says: Be persistent, be insistent, be consistent. Ask what you can do. Commit to it. And make sure you deliver.

Have fun with it, too!

Consider this wonderfully funny story from Red Bull spouse and blogger Emily, who describes how two friends recently helped prepare her house for the holidays:

At a few minutes after 10 AM, just out of the shower, towel wrapped around my head and in my bathrobe, I came downstairs to check on Asher ... and there is a knock at my door ...

My dear friend Erin was standing on my front porch ... and as I opened the door, it was too late.

I had been ambushed.

Erin & Jodi were standing on my porch. With cleaning buckets and supplies. And boxes of decorations and ornaments. And wine. And Velveeta Magic dip.

SERIOUSLY. Ambushed.

The dog was barking, the kid was running around screaming, and I was not wearing any underwear. WHAT were my friends thinking?

I was certain we were still shopping. "I'm not ready to go shopping! You said 10:30!" I protested.

"We're not shopping. YOU can go shopping. We're putting up your Christmas tree & cleaning your house," they said.

(Read the full story--with pictures--here.)

It doesn't have to be food, but it does have to be love. Done right, it might take only a little effort, and result in a whole lot of fun. Do the Red Bull a favor this holiday season--and throughout the coming new year--and see what you can cook up.

*****

What are some ways in which you've helped Red Bull families, or had others help you? Share your ideas in the comments section below!

Afghan Trainer: Values More Important than Tactics

Editor’s note: In 2007, Army Sgt. 1st Class Jeff Courter and 15 other Illinois National Guard soldiers deployed to an Embedded Training Team (E.T.T.) mission in the Wor Mamay district, Paktika Province, Afghanistan. Along with three other ETT members, he helped mentor a company of 35 Afghan Border Police (A.B.P.).

Since his deployment, Courter, now an Illinois National Guard recruiter and part-time seminary student, Courter has continued to wrestle with questions and insights he gathered in Afghanistan.

In 2008, he self-published his “Afghan Journal” notes as a book (available as paperback and in Amazon Kindle format), and continues to blog at: www.lifeloveandtruth.com.

Red Bull Rising invited Courter to share his thoughts with the recently deployed soldiers of 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry “Red Bull” Division. Some Red Bull soldiers will directly mentor Afghan police and army units. Others will fight alongside and support them.

*****

By Jeff Courter
To be effective at “how” we fight, we should begin with “why.” Some warriors emphasize tactics, and ignore the reasons we’re on the battlefield in the first place--as if they’re independent variables. They’re not. The right values can be the greatest tactical advantage of all, especially in Afghanistan. That’s because soldiers--whether U.S. or Afghan--will fight harder and longer when motivated for the right reasons.

Young soldiers may roll their eyes when old warhorse NCOs trot out the seven Army Values--“Loyalty. Duty. Respect. Selfless Service. Honor. Integrity. Personal Courage.” But face it: Values work. They work for individuals, as well as entire armies.

Sharing these principles with our Afghan colleagues is mission-critical.

Granted, progress may not be swift. It may even span generations. Whether you frame this conflict as multiple small wars--or a single very long one--the road to constructive, sustainable change won’t be straight, and can’t be hurried. Our enemies are patient, committed and ruthless. We must be patient, committed, and valorous.

Not all of your new Afghan colleagues may share your values or professionalism, but that shouldn’t deter you. Let your actions do the talking, no matter your assignment or situation. To paraphrase General Petraeus:

“Regular training teams can’t be everywhere, so units must help enforce local military standards, enable performance, and monitor for abuses and inefficiencies. Any coalition unit working with local security forces will be studied, emulated and copied--for better or worse. Therefore, we must always set the example. Any coalition unit operating alongside local security forces is performing a mentoring, training, and example-setting role.”

Think of Afghanistan as the Wild West. Think of the Taliban as a bunch of outlaws. And recognize that most Afghans are innocent townspeople, who just want to stay out of the line of fire.

During my tour, our larger mission was to secure the area from Taliban activities. We conducted hundreds of “presence patrols” among local villages. The ABP always joined us, to “put an Afghan face” on our operations. They were also there to learn first-hand how persistent police visibility can disrupt insurgent activities.

When our convoys rolled in and our ABP colleagues offered food, clothing, school supplies and medical assistance, villagers often greeted us warmly. But cautious tribal elders sometimes tempered their response, for fear of Taliban reprisals. Chieftains explained that Taliban fighters would steal into their villages at night and threaten them with violence. Some elders even spoke in hushed tones, fearful of being overheard.

Once, we circled back to a village that we had visited only days before. Surprisingly, we found a ghost town. While there, our unit repelled an ambush from an overlooking hill.
Later, we learned that Taliban fighters had stormed the village after our initial visit, demanding payment from the chieftain. When he refused, they threatened to kill him on the spot--until he placed a Quran on the ground and claimed that their actions violated Islam.

The thugs backed off, but promised to kill him if he and his family remained. That night, he packed his belongings and led his entire village to a distant hamlet. The Taliban simply waited for our return to the village, assuming we would investigate reports of its abandonment.

In many ways, the real enemy in Afghanistan is fear. The Taliban feed on it. But by demonstrating our values, by protecting people, and by “closing with and destroying” the bad guys, we deny our enemies an environment where fear can grow. It all begins with a spirit of trust.

When a seasoned U.S. law enforcement officer visited our Forward Operating Base ("FOB"), he emphasized the importance of gaining trust from the local community. Here’s his two-pronged approach:

• Give local Afghans a reason to believe that, whenever they share intelligence, you’ll respond as quickly and decisively as possible. It’s not about arriving immediately every time you’re called. That’s unrealistic. Rather, it’s about proving, over time, that you’ll strive to do your best when needed.

• Police can’t fight crime everywhere, simultaneously. So, when your resources are assigned to a specific area, stay focused on that area. Take control of territory you hold, and deny the enemy an opportunity to move freely in that space. It’s less about eliminating the Taliban altogether, and more about stopping them from operating in your local environment. Eventually, they’ll move on.

Bottom line: It’s not rocket science. It’s about walking a beat. It’s about making people feel safe, because you’re there when it matters.

Let me tell you about one day when it mattered:

Early one morning at our FOB, there was a commotion at the front gate, as a young man sought medical assistance for his very pregnant wife. Their young son had accidentally shot his mother with an AK-47. The bullet had ripped a hole through her abdomen, and intestines were spilling from her side.

Our medic was in his early 20s. Although he’d been trained to treat combat wounds when emotions are running high, he wasn’t prepared for this. As we waited for a MEDEVAC helicopter to airlift the woman to a hospital, “Doc” did his best to stabilize his patient. Language and cultural norms were a huge problem. Whenever Doc uncovered part of the woman's body, her husband rapidly covered it back up. Eventually, Doc blindly bandaged the wound from beneath a blanket.

The clock was ticking. Time was running out. The woman was nine months pregnant, and both she and her baby were in critical condition. Family members began to argue about whether she should be left to die at home, rather than being evacuated. Our ABP trainees stood-by throughout, ensuring crowd control and helping to maintain calm.

An hour later, the chopper swooped down and left in a cloud of dust, lifting its precious cargo along with our hopes and prayers. Later that afternoon, we received a radio update – mother and child were fine. We rejoiced along with the ABP. Their commander thanked us, insisting that our actions proved to local villagers that “America is good!”

That day, values mattered. That day, we scored a victory, without firing a single shot. We beat the devil at his own game. And we helped a woman and her baby cheat death.

Along the way, we forged a new level of trust.

It was glorious.

Staff Meeting of the Living Dead

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 25. It is the first day of a 14-day operation. The regular crowd shuffles in. It is the first brigade staff meeting in The Box, and soldiers are already talking in monotone--deliberate and slow. One word ... in front ... of the other.

The "embedded historian" concept, along with my repeated now-you-see-him-now-you-don't appearances, has gotten me a figurative seat at the Red Bull table. Actual seats and tables, however, are at a premium. Competing rumors have it that either the unit forgot to request office furniture, or that the contract fell through. Regardless, for the first couple of days, it pays to B.Y.O.C.--"Bring Your Own Chair."

Someone notes that the Combat-Trainers (C.T.), the referees who administer the war games at NTC, seem to travel with their own folding stools. They've obviously seen this kind of thing before.

The mood in the room is a mix of the tiredly upbeat and the beat-down. The executive officer (X.O.) looks around the room, and fails to get a lot of eye contact. "I can see that the commander's guidance about working in a nap cycle is going to be key today," he says.

The staff is struggling for balance and rhythm. The National Training Center (N.T.C.), after all, is designed to distill the experience of deploying into a combat zone into two weeks. Since June or July, the brigade staff has been running at full tilt. You want to get punched in the arm? Quote that old war-chestnut about how "deployment is a marathon, not a sprint."

Compounding the stress, there have been precious few days off to fall back, regroup, and rethink the fundamentals.

The calendar for the next two weeks has filled up fast. First, there's a complicated 3-day cycle involving multiple committees and subcommittees, through which the sausage of Counterinsurgency (COIN) is made: "We should work with this guy, not this guy. We should help build a water treatment plant here, to win hearts and minds." That sort of thing.

There are sure to be plenty of pop-up targets, too: Meets-and-greets with local leaders, interviews with roleplaying press, the more-than-occasional simulated mortar attack.

Sleep management is a constant leadership problem. Everyone wants to be important, and to be there when things go down. A couple of die-hards, however, are already working way beyond their 8- or 12-hour shifts. It's a macho thing, good enough for two weeks of Annual Training, but not good for the long haul. In few days, in the middle of few garbled sentences, a couple of near-incoherent briefers will be told to leave and get some sleep. Fuzzy thinking in the TOC will get the wrong people killed.

The group-think this morning, however, is good-naturedly disjointed. In the absence of deliberate enemy actions this early in the "war," the exchange of information devolves into a series of pre-game platitudes. It's the Army equivalent of a football team reminding itself to "move the ball down the field", and "don't let the other guys get any points." Still, it's good to hear--gets the juices flowing. "Let's win this one."

Says the operations officer: "We've got to focus on our battle rhythm and our process."

Says the XO: "We need to make sure that everybody on staff, down to the lowest level, knows what's going on."

Says the communications officer, who has just noted the upcoming real-world visit of a real-world general officer: "Remember when they said that everything was right in front of you? How many times has the actual FORSCOM commander visited a rotation in The Box? I bet that's the day we get the personnel recovery mission!"

Everybody stops. The communications officer has just floated a particularly paranoid theory, that the three-star general in charge the U.S. Army's Forces Command would somehow be kidnapped as part of this field problem. People are tired enough that the wild idea starts to make sense. It's just crazy enough ... to be ... true?

The deputy brigade commander--a full-bird colonel--ducks his head in the door. The XO asks what he needs.

"Nothing," comes the reply. "I was wondering how long this meeting goes. Wrap it up."

Fear and Clothing in the Mojave Desert

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 23--It is my first day on the ground at Fort Irwin, Calif., and, beyond getting picked up at the Las Vegas airport, nothing is going my way. The day had started back in Iowa with a conversationally uncomfortable taxi ride. Then, because I'd gotten caught in government travel-agent funding purgatory for a weeks--happy new federal fiscal year, by the way--my airline tickets were middle-seat all the way. Finally, humping 48 pounds of bulletproof ceramic plates as carry-on luggage also proved ... humbling.

Even though I'm not deploying with them to Afghanistan, I am attempting to accompany my unit--the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division--into the Mojave Desert. After that, I hope to embed with them in Afghanistan as civilian media, sometime in 2011.

There is definitely a National Training Center (N.T.C.) way of doing things, however, and the very idea that someone might volunteer to go "into The Box" is proving a little too out of the box for some. Even some of our own people aren't quite getting it.

My superiors back in Iowa hadn't liked the idea that I'd take a few weeks of vacation from the military in order to embed with the unit as a civilian reporter, so they issued me military orders to do just that.

At the time, we'd thought that there wouldn't any real-world reporters from Iowa visiting Fort Irwin, and the brigade Public Affairs Officer (P.A.O.) wanted to ensure his people had experience in scheduling transportation, meals, and lodging for visiting or embedded media. The solution? Bring your own "reporter," and move him around the battlefield like a chess piece or puppet. It's probably every public affairs professional's dream! Reporters that do what they're told!

(Looking back on it, of course, the unit ended up with plenty of real-world media visiting the Red Bull in The Box, resulting in great coverage such as this, this, this, and this.)

The NTC also supplies notional media--role players from "International News Network" that show up without warning to take pictures and broadcast stories about what U.S. troops are doing. Some of the stories are relatively neutral, and sound like CNN. Others pretty biased, and sound more like Al Jazeera. (One Red Bull example: Over pictures of a U.S. medic providing first-aid to a "villager," an INN reporter voiced-over a comment such as "U.S. troops attempted to cover up evidence of their botched attack.")

Why all the "media" attention? Part of the counterinsurgency (COIN) fight is waged not with bullets, but with information. Commanders and soldiers learn quickly that they not only must defeat the enemy on the battlefield, they also have to defeat media misinterpretation--and enemy propaganda. "Be the first with the truth," is an Army public affairs battle-cry.

So, into this already confusing media mix here at NTC, arrives little old Sherpa. Not quite real-world media, not quite make-believe. A little bit country, a little bit rock'n'roll. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right ...

Stop me if you've heard this before.

I've got some personal reasons for wanting to go into The Box, of course. The Army has a saying: "Train like you fight, fight like you train." There are particular rules one has to follow as an embedded reporter, the first of which seems to be: "Thou shalt not look like a combatant." That means no camouflage. You are supposed to stand out, away and apart from the guys and gals you are covering.

I've never had to "go to war" as a non-combatant. Mother Sam has always provided. What equipment will I need? What clothing will I prefer to wear? I'm planning on testing out some gear in The Box, finding out what works for me and what doesn't. That's one reason why I had my new bullet-proof vest sent to me via overnight delivery, so that I'd have it in time for this trip.

That and, c'mon--how many times does a guy get to call up someone and say, "I'll need that bulletproof vest by Wednesday"? I feel like James Bond.

I'm also interested in breaking down some potential walls of perception. Even my close Army buddies usually forget that I work as a freelance magazine writer and editor. I think it would be good to remind them, visually, that I might be more of an outsider the next time they see me. Ditching the uniform would be a start. I'd also like to observe how soldiers of all ranks react to my presence when I'm not wearing rank myself, the Red Bull patch, or the American flag. In short, I'm hoping to play "Sherpa" than "soldier." My deal with the government-paid travel devil (gnome?) still allows for that, but only as long as my military mission takes priority.

After hitting the ground, however, I'm picking up on a vibe that the whole deal is in danger of going south. That, if I say the wrong thing or trip over the wrong lines, somebody at NTC might decide that my accompanying the unit into The Box is a supremely wrong idea.

That includes this butterscotch-skinned warrant officer, who is technically wearing the same "Red Bull" patch as I am, but is actually a recent transfer from another state. She's an Army automation specialist and data analyst--very logical. She's also going to be one of the special few staying outside of The Box, helping out with the Distinguished Visitors Bureau (D.V.B.)--a brigade "Welcome Wagon" for visiting full-bird colonels and above. In theory, she's also going assist the brigade public affairs section in getting the corn-fed media in and out of Fort Irwin.

As she drives a colonel and me around the Army post, I witness first-hand the calming, soothing effects her dark eyes, butterfly lashes, and silky laugh have on field-grade officers. But me? The upstart irritation in the minivan's backseat, the one stupid enough to volunteer to grunt it out in the wilderness? I'm not getting a lot of love. Heck, I'm not even getting peace or understanding.

"You'll need to come with me to check out a flak-vest and Army cot," she tells me.

"Roger on the cot, but I've got my own vest. Civilian type, coyote brown, with SAPI plates," I tell her. "OK if I use that?"

"Why would you want to wear plates if you don't have to?" The older-style Individual Ballistics Vest (I.B.V.) is Universal Camouflage Pattern (U.C.P.), and will be issued to visiting media at NTC, without ceramic plates. Generally, a Kevlar lining in the vest will stop bullets shot from a handgun, while plates will stop bullets shot from an assault rifle. For the record, I've got the equivalent of a newer design, the "Improved Outer Tactical Vest."

I have just shepherded 48-pounds of bullet-proof plates through airport security and airline bureaucracy. That, in itself, was an education. "Because I wanted to validate how to travel with my equipment, and to test it out in the field? 'Train like you fight, fight like you train' and all that?"

"But that's not what you would use in Afghanistan!"

"I will if I embed as a civilian ..."

"But you're not civilian, you're military," she says.

Sherpa. Does. Not. Compute.

We go round and round. Either because she can't get her head around it, or because she's never worked with me before, my usual Sherpa-mojo ain't cutting it. She's just not that into me--or my special brand of Why Not.

I get a similar reception when the brigade PAO introduces me to the "combat-trainer" (C.T.) who coordinates with the simulated media. Coincidentally, the three of us figure out that we all went to the same school of journalism, back in the day. But, after we sing the alma mater, the idea that I would wear civilian clothes, and do a media-like job, is causing some pained and hard-thinking looks.

"You're going need to be in-play," the trainer says. That means wearing MILES gear--Army laser-tag system--to detect if I've been notionally wounded or killed. Gotta play the game.

"Not a problem--I was expecting to do so," I say.

"AND you'll need to be in uniform," he continues. It is then that I realize that I am wearing the only uniform I have--everything else is civilian gear--for two weeks in The Box.

I am not happy. I am discouraged and disgruntled. I have spent all day dragging my duffel bags halfway across the country, to a desert filled with hostiles who do not speak Iowan. My largest bag is now an olive-drab albatross. The sun is low in the sky, but still set on "simmer." The desert is so close, I can taste it. It tastes sour and dusty.

The Red Bull is moving into The Box tomorrow, and I want nothing more than to be on that convoy. I need to figure out my next move, pull another trick out of those bags over there. I'm running out of time, humor, and luck.

Have You Ever Killed Somebody?

EARLY MORNING THURSDAY, SEPT. 23, 2010:

"So, you in the Army? You ever kill somebody?"

While I was walking across a college campus back in the late 1980s, a passerby casually tossed a Vietnam-era war-surplus epithet at me, and called me a "baby-killer." Granted, I was in my battle-dress uniform, but the incident was so completely out of context--historical and otherwise--that I was stunned into inaction.

Whether willful or accidental, such ignorance is thankfully rare. But today, in the dark early hours, it is driving me to the Des Moines International Airport. My taxi driver, a young Vietnamese immigrant, has just asked me whether I've ever killed someone. I'm wearing camouflage today, too, on my way to Fort Irwin, Calif.

If I were more awake, I'd try to judo-throw the conversation into a teaching moment. Instead, I give him both barrels of shotgun Sherpa.

"That's not an appropriate question," I bark, and am immediately sorry for it. Rather than recalculate the tip, I attempt to recalibrate the conversation. We mutually steer the topic quickly to the driver's recent vehicular brushes with urbanized deer, and the morning's prospects of dashboard venison.

Here's are two quick rules of thumb about talking to soldiers:

1. Anyone who wants to talk a lot about killing doesn't know what they're talking about.

2. Anyone who should talk about it probably isn't, unless there's beer involved, or years of trust.

No, I have not killed. But I know people who have.

Sometimes, they tell me their stories. I do not repeat them. My place is to listen.

The stories are often offered up spontaneously. Sometimes it's late at night. Sometimes, it's over coffee. Sometimes, it's shucking and jiving in the barracks. We've all had our bad days. We just don't talk about them much. I understand that, whenever such a story is told, it is both a gift and a curse. It is a gift of trust, because the teller has somehow determined that I will listen and not pass judgment.

It is a curse, because the listener himself takes on some of the burden of the story. I was not there, at this place or that, when death came to a child. Or to a fellow soldier. Or to a nameless adversary. I was not there, but that doesn't always matter.

I have not killed. But I know people who have. I have only been given shards of their stories--fragments and echoes--but some are the kinds that stay with you, that wake you up at night.

It is way too early in the morning for this.

Have Vest, Will Travel

"Are you a U.S citizen?" (Yes.)

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" (No.)

"Do you treat your mother right?" (WHAT?!)

Steve at BulletProofME.com of Austin, Texas, gives me a second hanging on the phone before letting me off the hook. "Believe it or not," he says, "I once asked that of a customer, and he not only answered 'yes,' but put his mother on the line, just to prove it."

After giving Steve more-humbling body measurements than I'd have needed to rent a tuxedo, I have just spent a substantial portion of this year's contribution to the Sherpa kids' college fund. I have purchased a bulletproof vest. A decidedly non-camouflaged, coyote-brown vest. One featuring a Kevlar lining that will stop small-caliber rounds and shrapnel, and capable of carrying thick ceramic plates that will stop a 7.62mm rifle round.

These are, of course, features I hope only to read about, and never to test myself.

It's less of an investment, and more of a statement. It's a commitment, a financial declaration that I'm about to try something that is either the most inspired thing I've ever done, or the most insipid: I'm about to try to follow my Red Bull buddies to Afghanistan, not as a citizen-soldier, but as a 100-percent citizen.

My kid brother doesn't understand this impulse, and asks whether I'm doing it for my buddies, or doing it for myself. The honest answer, I have to tell him, is both.

I'm a Journalism-school-trained reporter, but I left the newsprint grind years ago. For many years, I've been more at home with cushier magazine jobs, discussing trendy house-paint colors, how to remodel your kitchen on a budget, and landscape lighting techniques. A J-school professor of mine once punned that such "service" journalism was more like "surface journalism," but hey--it's helped keep a well-maintained roof over my family's head.

Besides, not all journalists can write about bringing the heat and light of democracy to the world--or can we?

I started the Red Bull Rising blog to help my kids understand, in later years, why Daddy had to leave them for a year of their young lives.

But, after more than 20 years wearing a U.S. Army uniform, I also know the National Guard deserves a little service journalism of its own. After all, I also started the blog to help tell the National Guard story, to explain and illuminate how much we, as a nation, have asked of our friends and neighbors in uniform.

We have asked these citizen-soldiers to drop their plows and their play-dates, to pick up their muskets, and to run toward the sounds of distant guns. We have asked them to re-make a foreign nation in our own image, to train and support a national government where none exists. And, given the number of right-sleeve combat patches seen in the ranks of the Red Bull, we have asked them to do this repeatedly.

So ponying up a few bucks for some personal protection seems like the least I could do.

If not for my peace of mind, at least for my mother's.

Red Bull on a Stick

"You know, Camp Shelby is an awful lot like the Iowa State Fair," says one Red Bull soldier. Back home, the Iowa State Fair is going on, and we're talking over a lunch of greasy food here in Mississippi. "We've got the food trailers, the stifling heat coming off the pavement, and," he sniffs at himself, "we certainly have the smell of livestock about us."

"Yeah," says Saber2th, "and we've got the 'freak show' thing down, too."

You want Midway rides? There's even a vehicle-rollover simulator that spins you around.

It's another 100-plus-degree-heat-index day, and the Mississippi sun feels hot enough to strip paint off a barn. We're hanging out under the tin roof the "tactical food court," where a collection of food-vendor trailers sits in a gravel parking lot alongside a 100-foot-long temporary picnic shelter. You can take the Red Bull out of Iowa, but not the Iowa out or the Red Bull.

"We could really use some of those cattle-misters they use at the fair," says Hamster, referring to a piece of farm equipment that sprays a fine mist of water. Agricultural-equipment vendors sell them at the state fair, and they're also used to cool crowds of people. "If we had one of those, we could make a fortune here."

Many troops seem to avoid eating the "Meals Read to Eat" (M.R.E.) rations that are provided them for lunchtime chow, in favor of eating at their own expenses. There's a trailer that sells Domino's Pizza--"delivered to you in 30 minutes or more," quips one soldier. "Lucky for me, food can never get cold here," says another. "The whole state of Mississippi is one big heat lamp."

Another vendor sells burritos. There's a trailer that offers catfish (the Army should really come up with a "dehydrated fried-catfish patty MRE," says one soldier), and another barbecue sandwiches and pork fritters.

In Iowa, we'd call a fritter a "pork tenderloin."

In the spirit of Iowa State Fair experimental food-fads (aka "foods that should probably be eaten only on a dare"), that last place also sells what they call "horseshoes" and "ponyshoes." Here's how a menu sign describes a horseshoe: "Take a hamburger, chicken or pork fritter. Put it on Texas Toast, put fries on top and smother it with a rich white delicious cheese sauce."

And the "ponyshoe"? That's the same thing, but half the size. You know, in case you're watching your diet.

There's a rumor that some congressman from Iowa is going to bring down some Iowa sweet corn down to Camp Shelby sometime before the unit moves out to the California desert. If the troops are lucky, maybe some Iowa pork producers or cattlemen's association will jump on that wagon, too, and throw some corn-fed protein on that menu, too.

At the very least, maybe somebody could FedEx the troops a bunch of freeze-dried corn dogs--because nothing says "home" to a Red Bull like meat on a stick.

Breathing Easier

I'm traveling today, so I only have a moment to tell this recent story on myself:

I broke my nose in high school. I took a knee to the face in gym class. My knee to my face. I was tucking and rolling after diving after a ball in what I can only describe now as the most beautiful, slow-motion maneuver I have ever executed--before or since--on the court of volleyball.

The acrobatics ended with a crunching pain and me sitting there, nose in my hands, trying very hard not to bleed on my new white gym shoes.

The gym teacher was of little help--she said that if I'd broken my nose, I'd be screaming in pain. Later that day, I convinced my parents to take me to the doctor. Didn't seem right that I could shift my nose back and forth, I told them. Later, the doctor agreed with me.

Not that there was anything to do about it, of course. My nose had shifted to a stable position--the doc called it a "green-stick fracture"--and only I could see the difference.

Fast-forward 28 years or so to last weekend. I was playing with 3-year-old Rain in his room. We haven't moved a lot of furniture into his room, so there's lots of floor to roll around on. We were playing "airplane," which involves me supporting his torso with my arms, and his legs between my knees. I swing him up over my head by rolling backward, using his weight to counter my backward motion.

Sometimes, he shouts "Mayday! Mayday!" like Orville or Wilbur from one of the Disney "Rescuers" animated movies. Bonus points if you know what I'm talking about.

On this particular day, Rain begged for just one more airplane ride. We'd done about nine such moves, and I must've been a little tired. Because, on the next go, I dropped 35 pounds of 3-year-old onto my nose.

Crunch and blood.

Mostly, I was worried about getting blood on the carpet. Then I was worried that Rain would think he'd done something wrong. Finally, I was struck by this thought: Here I am. I've gone through months of pre-mobilization--to include Army hand-to-hand "combatives" training. And I end up getting my face rearranged by a 3-year-old. A 3-year-old pretending to be a cartoon albatross.

I've had a headache ever since. I wince and get teary if I put my glasses on wrong. I can shift my nose slightly, back and forth. I've obviously broken it again. But the strange thing?

I can breathe more easily than I have in years.

The Second-hand Minuteman

Yesterday, I told you that I wasn't going to deploy to Afghanistan. Today, as I am writing this, I am on a plane headed toward Camp Shelby, Miss. I'm calling this boomerang turn-of-events "Operation Bad Penny."

Confused? Imagine how I feel!

National Guard life can be fast-changing and full of surprises. The latin motto of the Army National Guard should be "Semper Gumby," for "always green, always flexible."

I received less-than-24-hour notice that I'd be headed to Shelby, where I'll help out in getting my buddies in the 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry Division (2-34 B.C.T.) get from Mississippi, to California, back to Mississippi, and on to Afghanistan.

While packing my bags, I considered my Minuteman ancestors: Citizen-soldiers who kept a musket at the ready, who could run toward the sound of the guns, at moment's notice.

Me? I can be spontaneous--I just have to plan ahead to get that way. Apparently, so does today's National Guard: It took me about 12 hours, getting travel orders published and airline tickets purchased. It was like a red tape scavenger hunt, with me doing laps around the state headquarters building.

But here I am. In Mississippi. Where I'll see friends and colleagues to whom I said good-bye just last week. (I imagine plenty of double-takes and handshakes in the TOC.) We'll catch up on current operations, and wait a few weeks say our good-byes again. Meanwhile, I can help get them a little further down the road to Afghanistan.

Another day, another change, another mission.

"Attack!"

Getting Off the Bus

It's time I tell you something ...

After months of mental, physical, emotional, spiritual, and fiscal preparation for deployment to Afghanistan, I didn't get on the bus.

I will not be deploying to Afghanistan with 2-34th Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry Division. Today marks the last unit send-off from Iowa, and I'm not going with them.

A rule regarding my pending 20-year-mark and subsequent retirement was reinterpreted by Big Army, and I'll most likely be leaving uniformed service in December. I will continue to be a member of the Iowa Army National Guard until then.

Yes, I was surprised by this turn of events. So was my family. And we're all a little conflicted about it. It quite literally came down to the hour I was to throw my duffel bags on the truck. "Everybody get your bags on the truck--hold on there, Sherpa, not so fast!"

It's hard to change family focus and plans so quickly. Hard to see one's buddies go off to war. Hard not to feel left behind.

At the same time, it's hard not to feel like I've suddenly have been given my life back. I can re-focus on my civilian career. I can witness my daughter's first days of kindergarten. I can watch my 3-year-old son grow inch by inch, day by day, and word by word. My wife says that my not leaving is blessing to our family, but she is kind enough not to say it around me.

This deployment has been an emotional bungie jump for me and my family. We have fallen and bounced and twisted with a hundred unexpected jolts. A number of you have asked how I ended up telling my kids that I would be leaving them for a year. The truth is, my procrastination now seems like genius--my children need not know that Daddy was once going away, until they are old enough to read and understand this blog.

I plan to continue writing the Red Bull Rising blog, partly to help collect and capture this latest chapter in 34th Infantry Division history. It is a wonderfully storied unit, and my friends and colleagues will be writing history. I can only hope to help them write it all down.

In the coming months, I should also have expanded opportunities to share ideas on how we can all help "remember, support, and celebrate" our citizen-soldiers, veterans, and their families. I'll also continue to explain and illuminate how our National Guard soldiers are pursuing their Afghan missions.

Thank you for reading Red Bull Rising. I hope you'll continue this journey with me. I hope that you will continue to think good thoughts, and pray for the safe return of the Red Bull.

In the meantime, tomorrow is another day, and, well ...

Let's just say I haven't told you everything yet.

The Waiting Games

It's hard enough for soldiers to understand the old "hurry up and wait." From Basic Training on, soldiers develop a tolerance for administrative bull-pucky and standing in lines and generally not knowing what's going on. Friends and family, however, grow impatient with a lack of easy and quick answers. Hurry up and wait doesn't translate very well to the civilian world.

Here's a little perspective:

As late as this week--in some cases, after months or years of preparation--I have friends who still don't know whether or not they're going to deploy. Some of them do know they're going to deploy, they just don't know what day they're supposed to get on the bus.

"Uh, Honey? I could be leaving next week. Or maybe tomorrow. They're still trying to figure out which bus I'm on ..."

It goes the other way, too: A couple of our soldiers were recently pulled off the deployment list, casualties of last-minute paperwork requirements and medical checks. One of them even found out that, instead of fighting the Taliban for the next year, he's going to be fighting cancer.

Other friends have just been transferred within the brigade, and don't know exactly when their "new" units' send-off ceremonies are scheduled. Even when dates and times are known, there can be worried questions. One wife asked mine whether she would be able to give her husband "one last hug" at the send-off, or whether the troops just all march off to the buses. She just wanted to know, so that she could prepare herself and her kids.

Those aren't complaints, mind you. That's just life in the military.

Thing is, our families aren't IN the military. Or, at least, they don't feel that they are, and they haven't had much opportunity to build up the jaded, sarcastic "all this has happened before" mental defenses of the common soldier.

It's a heck of a world when you have to tell your kindergartner to "man up."

Or your mom to "embrace the suck."

Clocks are ticking. Buses are on the way. Families? Families are doing the best they can. It's Mobilization Day, for some of us. The waiting is almost over--and it's about to begin.