Retirement does not end the fire to continue to help Soldiers

I am often asked two questions the first being do I miss the Army. Do I miss the Army? The answer is “Yes” every day. It is not the institutional or organizational part of the Army that I miss what I miss is the Soldiers. I miss helping Soldiers resolve everyday problems, develop and grow personally and professionally, make a better life for themselves and their families. What many people don’t know about me is that I grew up in a single family home my mother would often work a day job and a night job, so our family time together was limited. We wore clothes from thrift stores and when school would start we would often see many kids getting new shoes and new clothes unfortunately we did not have many of these privileges. I saw the military as a way out of this life and as a way to better myself and learn those trades that would someday make me successful. I knew that in the military the only way to go was up and my potential was only limited to what I could and couldn’t do. So in 1989 I joined the Marine Corps and on June 5, 1989 I arrived at Marine Recruit Depot San Diego. For the next 13 weeks I learned teamwork, responsibility and how hard work would help me graduate and earn the honor to be called a Marine. I graduated and left to go to the School of Infantry where I was awarded the Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) 0311 Infantryman. My eight year career in the Marine Corps would take from serving in A Company 3^rd Reconnaissance Battalion in Hawaii to Sea Duty aboard the USS Enterprise (CVN-65).

PVT Eugene Hicks MCRD, San Diego Sept 1989

In 1997 I joined the Army after a one hour break in service (long enough for me to drive from Camp Pendleton to the Army Recruiting office in Oceanside, Ca) and enlisted in the Army as an 11B. I would lose a rank going from a Sergeant (E-5) to Specialist (E-4). My first duty station Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. I had a great time and quickly went from Specialist to Staff Sergeant and served as a light infantry squad leader spending entirely too much time on the big island wearing out more boots than I care to remember. Over the years my service would take from Korea to Fort Lewis, WA serving with 1st Battalion, 24th Infantry "Deuce Four" as a Platoon Sergeant and ending my caeer as an Infantry First Sergeant (E-8) on March 31, 2011 with 1st Battlion, 17th Infantry Regiment.

Platoon Sergeant A Company 1st Battalion, 24th infantry Regiment Mosul, Iraq 2004-2005
The Soldier to my left Sgt. Robert T. Ayres III, 23, of Los Angeles, died Sept. 29 2007 in Baghdad, Iraq

A Company 1st Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, FOB Frontenac, Afghanistan 2009 - 2010

So the second question I had told you about, how do you go from being an Infantry First Sergeant to being a social worker? This is a little easier to answer if you can believe that. I have begun to understand that there are many Veteran’s, Soldiers and family members that do not know how to ask for help. The stigma that is involved with seeking help because one does not want to appear weak is powerful still in today Army and as hard as the Army tries to change the perception the underlying current in the river is still prevalent with service members past and present. This has to be changed but how? It is Soldiers, Marines, Airmen and Sailors getting out there and when they see a member in crisis stepping and helping them find the help they need. It is directing them to people like me who can understand the things they saw in combat and how those feelings can be talked about in a manner that is therapeutic and helps in the recovery process.

I did one thing that I can only stress and did stress to all the Soldiers I came into contact with “GO TO SCHOOL”. No matter what you are doing make the time to attend a class here and there even if it is just one class twice a week make the time to attended. When I retired I had obtained my Bachelor of Arts in Psychology Degree from Saint Martin’s University in Lacey, WA and I was named a joint recipient of the Linda Fletcher Memorial Scholarship, a scholarship that is awarded to acknowledge and reward students who exhibit the special characteristics that are a part of the Saint Martin’s mission as well as help cultivate a strong community of learners among the University’s extension program students. I am now going through the admissions process at the University of Southern California for my Masters in Social Work where I will concentrate on learning how to deliver services such as mental health counseling, family therapy, crisis intervention, program development, and organizational consulting. My sub- concentration will be Military Social Work and Veteran Services which will prepare me to provide a full range of human services to the nation’s armed forces personnel, military veterans and their families. Had I not started and continued my education I can guarantee that my situation would be entirely different, especially in today’s economy. My success started when I went to the education office on post and asked for advice.

Saint Martin's University BA in Psychology

This is not why I write this post or do this blog to brag about what I have done but instead I write my story so that you know I am a true advocate for our warriors and my life was like many of yours but we have the power to shape our destiny and we have the power to help our fellow veterans. Thank you all for your dedication and care for our Soldiers. Remember the first step is yours!!!!

I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.

Mosul, Iraq 2004 -2005

Busa and I on FOB Marez 2004-2005

The "Deuce" in the many news publications

I found this in Esquire and the sentiment he talks about are grounded in truth. The feelings of exhilaration when creeping through the streets at night prior to a raid can't be explained. I too miss it......

By Brian Mockenhaupt
A few months ago, I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news. I watched insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not meant to be seen, no longer whole. The images sickened me, but their familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my stomach ached, hollow. I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this house, in America, my life felt very foreign.
I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could continue, with futures not so uncertain. But in quiet moments, their relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.
I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I wish they weren't. Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it. I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us. At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.
I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had made their lives better, a redemption of sorts. But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned. And as an American soldier, you have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and helpless.
That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and explosions and manliness and courage. When my neighbors and I played war as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary, usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game. We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons. In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really no freedom at all, but a lonely burden. Yet even at its lowest points, war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear them all the same. Something's going down.
For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.
On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed, or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in the street, creeping. We stop at intersections, peek around corners, training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter. Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where it's safe. Safer. The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out, cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.


Read more: http://www.esquire.com/features/essay/ESQ0307ESSAY#ixzz1l3Hj7D2C

Refections on hating Christmas

This is a piece shared by my great friend Raub Nash whom I served with in "Deuce Four" 1st Battalion, 24th Infantry in Mosul, Iraq.
He makes a great point when he speaks about reflecting "I see it as a cathartic view into how people need, and should, reflect on everything that happens to them that they did not control." I encourage people to think back about some times when you served write it down and send it to me. Respond and tell us what you think;

Reflections on hating Christmas

By Raub Nash

Last year in Graduate School I was inundated with the idea of reflection and how it is the key to successful development. For 30 years I pretty much took every day for what it was worth and I rarely looked back on what I did or, more importantly, what events happened to me that I could not control. As I prepared to take over my new job as a leader developer at West Point, I felt as though I should at least try out what I would be preaching – it was scary.

A lot of things have happened in my short career, as I no doubt know is the same for all Soldiers in this time of a two-front war. What scared me was how little I knew how these events have changed me –both for good and bad.

As we come out of the traditional Christmas leave period, I was forced into a realization that, I hope, will make future Decembers better for me and those I spend the time with. For the longest time, or since about 2004, I have never really been in the uplifting mood that a father and husband should be in around this time. The old me would say that it was because I was raised on little extravagance, especially with respect to Christmas and gifts in general. After one evening of some rather disturbing and violent actions on my part – no one was hurt, just a sliding glass door, a scotch glass, cooler, and a shirt – I had to look in the mirror and try to understand why and where that person came from.

I was forced to think about several things on the journey to the realization of what caused my actions and what consistently causes my less than uplifting spirit over this time every year. The first event that came to mind was December 21^st, 2004. It was a pristine day in Mosul, Iraq. Clear skies and mild temperatures made it quite bearable. I was a young 2^ndLieutenant Platoon Leader in 1/24 IN. We had been in Mosul for only about 2 months. I finally had some sort of routine, without which I am a mess, and normalcy was setting in – normalcy does not mean complacency. Our platoon had already had our share of the“baptism-by-fire” incidents and we were operating as a cohesive unit for the first time. A routine patrol day started out with the usual events; drive up to our platoon area, search houses/garages/offices, chase some people that ran from our patrol and drive back.

By the time we returned to the FOB it was time for lunch. So, we dropped our gear and headed on the long walk to our chow hall. Before we headed out, our commander and a few other officers asked my Platoon Sergeant and me to go with them to get lunch. We declined so we could help close up our vehicles and let our Soldiers get to chow before us. The routine was almost always the same: clear your weapon and wash your hands outside, get a tray and choose main or short order line, get some salad and dessert in the middle of the chow hall, sit down to eat and talk about whatever, and finally clean up and leave. This day however would deviate drastically from the routine.

About the time I sat down, I noticed that I was the first one in our group of 4 that would sit together. I took a quick look around and quickly saw the other 3 heading over. I followed this with obligatory wave of the hand to let them see where I sat and for them to join me. No sooner did my Platoon Sergeant sit down in front of me than a flash of light and a loud boom shocked our world. I did what I think, especially regarding the fact that normalcy also included the occasional mortar attack, most everyone did – I jumped up, looked for those by me and we ran to a bunker just outside the door. I won’t write anymore about what happened next. It is an image and an event that I still want to keep buried somewhat. The result of the event was that I had my first experience with the loss of a comrade. My commander, CPT Bill Jacobsen, and our NBC NCO, SSG Robert Johnson, were killed while they ate lunch on the safety of their own FOB. They were not the only ones that died that day, but they were the ones I knew.

8 days later, our Platoon responded to an event that would also change me. A suicide car bomber drove a dump truck full of explosives precariously close to an outpost and detonated the device. PFC Oscar Sanchez was killed in the blast, but what most people don’t know is that he probably saved his entire platoon mates lives. If that truck made it another 100 feet or so, the entire building would have most certainly collapsed. This event I recall not because of the incident in itself, but of my actions during this. I was forced several times to place my Platoon Sergeant and the squad with him in danger. When I say forced, I really mean it. I did not like the orders I was getting, but a leader understands that sometimes orders must be followed and that people can get hurt following them. What scares me about this incident is how happy it made me to see things get destroyed while in this firefight. It was eerie how I could feel great joy as we engaged suspected – yes, suspected – targets with heavy machine guns and strafes from F-16s and, the now retired, F-14. I don’t know why I felt as though I did, but I suspect it was because I was in the young stages of burying my emotional destruction that came from the chow hall bombing.

Fast forward to December 20^th, 2007. I am a young Company Commander in the 101^st and we were finishing up an operation that my Soldiers dubbed “Operation Shitty Christmas”. This was one of those times that, much like the outpost bombing, I really did not agree or understand the intent of what we were trying to accomplish. But, the orders were legal, ethical, and moral and I was given ample time to object and add my spin on the operation – so, we executed it. After about 5 days in the middle of nowhere during an unusual cold spell, we trudged away at the invisible goal trying to find a non-existent enemy. This day was just like the others – except that we had finished our mission and were moving back to our base. One of my platoons was tasked with following a route clearance team on an untraveled route to open it for further use by our sister company. I chose to move with my main effort, getting all of our equipment safely back to our company patrol base, and I chose not go with my boss’ main effort. Well, these choices never end up good.

When I first showed up to Fort Campbell and found out which company I would be afforded the opportunity to command, I was given the green light to go and start poking around. The first person I met was SPC Leon. He was youthful looking but had an air of experience that just emanated from him. I was immediately drawn to Wesley. I can remember always looking for him at formations, during PT, and while out at training. As I got to know the Soldiers in the company, I quickly found out that Wesley was a consummate warrior. I knew I liked this kid and I knew that I could always count on him. He was in the patrol that went with the route clearance team, probably located in the order of march where my vehicle should have been, when his vehicle was hit with an IED. This event took both of his legs and cut me to the core. I was already not very good with empathy, and this event made me separate myself from my feelings more than ever which resulted in the desire to never get close to another Soldier. Terrible decision on my part. Even though Wesley hasn’t slowed down accomplishing more than most people, it doesn’t take away the deep feeling that it should have been my vehicle, an MRAP and not a HMMWV, that got hit.

Three pretty major events in my life that happened close to Christmas. No wonder I am a scrooge. This story is much more to me than a revelation of why I hate the Christmas season. I see it as a cathartic view into how people need, and should, reflect on everything that happens to them that they did not control. I wish that more people would partake in this venture and critically look at their actions and reactions to these types of events. I know now why I feel the way I do and this fact will allow me to accomplish my ultimate goal – being a great dad. There is no greater joy for me than to see my sons smile and see them do new things. It would be shame if my failure to change my attitude based on events I had no control over affected my children in a way that would have them dread the Christmas season as I do. I will let you know how I do next year.

So you think you had a bad day?

The 1st Platoon "Punishers" Squad Leaders SSG Diaz (1st Squad), SSG Johnson (3rd Squad), SGT Kreilaus (Stryker and my Vehicle Commander), and SSG Collier (Weapons)

Here is another piece I wrote from Iraq 2004 - 2005.

The day had started off as usual. Wake up and get ready for a 0900 patrol. But it is funny how things can change so fast. We drove into “old town” the section of Mosul that runs parallel to the Tigris River. A dilapidated section of closely sectioned houses, I don’t think you can fart without the rest of the neighborhood hearing you. We had been their conducting dismounted patrols. Patrolling the streets and talking to various people the usual things, “How is the neighborhood?” “Are there any bad people around?” The usual. About an hour into the patrol I heard an explosion relatively close to where we were but far enough away that the residents did not seemed to be alarmed. Much like the responses they give when you ask them questions, if it does not directly affect them they don’t care about it.

I called my Platoon Leader and told him about the explosion, told him we were pretty close and were going to try and move to check it out. Not even two minuets later I got the call to mount up. “We are going to assist a platoon that that has just been hit by an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). Was the reply I got to my message. I quickly moved back to my Stryker and loaded up the weapons squad and myself.

We moved to the site, as we arrived I could see six cars on an off ramp stopped and black smoke rising from them. “I am dismounting with the medic.” I told the PL and quickly got off my vehicle with three of my soldiers. We were on a four-lane highway with guardrails running through the center as a medium. As I jump the guardrails I saw the platoon that had been hit scrambling to evacuate their casualties and immediately met up with the Platoon Sergeant on the ground.

 “Hey man I have my platoon here and my medic we are here to help casevac.” I told him. He looked at me.” Okay man but I can’t hear shit, because the fucking thing blew up right next to me, we are getting out of here. My casualties are gone and we are all that is left.”

“Ok get your guy’s and we will lock it down and I will take care of the civilian casualties.” I told him as his Stryker pulled up and dropped the ramp for him to load up and leave.

I looked around it was now only us four were on the ground. SPC Farmer, SPC Manley (my medic), SGT Feliciano, and myself. The rest of the platoon still on Strykers were moving into blocking positions to prevent us from being attacked again. The AIF are known for attacking the initial responders by direct fire, mortars, or subsequent IED’s. I honestly didn’t think about this. But now that I do it scares the crap out of me. I had injured people and had to help and they had priority over my safety.

A woman runs up to me with her daughter and crying she said something in Arabic that I could not understand. “Calm down.” I told her.” Sit down over there.” I tried to get her away from the cars that were leaking gas and the various other injured people and body parts laying all over the road. My medic was running around treating people with injuries ranging from blown off hands to shrapnel imbedded in there legs, arms, face, and chest. “SFC Hicks, this guy has no hand come here quick.” SGT Feliciano yelled at me I ran over and saw the nub of his right hand blood gushing from it. There was only a piece of a shirt wrapped around his wrist that was very badly trying to stop the constant flow of blood. “Oh shit, Doc get over and help this guy.” I yelled as my medic ran up with a tourniquet. Blood ran everywhere and body parts lay strewn over the road. My squads were now dismounting so I pushed them into security positions to over watch the scene. I saw a man crying and I walked up to him to make sure he was okay. He was again he was yelling in Arabic and I could not understand what he was trying to say. “Red 6 this is Red 7, I need the interpreter now.” I said into my handset. “Roger he is enroute, now.” I grabbed the interpreter and led him too the lady and man. I later found out that she was trying to tell me a man had ran up to her car grabbed her 3 year old and ran off. The PL told her to check the hospital, because the guy may have been trying to help. We found out later that that was in fact what had happened and the child had died on the way to the hospital. I moved to assess the rest of the casualties and see if I had missed anyone. The IED had been place on the side of the road in a medium, in the attempt to kill or at least blow up a convoy. Unfortunately I found the car that took the brunt of the blast was a civilian family. I looked in the back and the slumped down in the back seat lay a nine or ten-year-old boy he had been totally decapitated. I knew he was dead so I went ahead and left him there for now and concentrated on the wounded still alive. I saw a SUV parked on the opposite side of the road, the side we had just come from and saw an old lady bleeding and stumbling over to the SUV, which turned out to be a taxi. I ran over there to see if she was all right. I grabbed the medic and he fixed shrapnel wound in her thigh. I told the driver (through my interpreter, who was also running around with me) to cross over the highway and help take the rest of the wounded to the hospital. I ran back to the other side of the street. The taxi pulled up and we loaded the rest of the wounded up in it.

 I now knew that I had to get the boy out of the vehicle. I attempted to open the door, but the blast had pushed the door out so it would not budge. I grabbed a hooligan tool my squad leader brought over with a body bag and we both attempted to pry the door open, nothing. I grabbed the window railing and in a feat I did not know I was capable of I bent the window frame almost all the way down to the door. Still nothing, I can not explain why I felt the need to get this child out of there I knew he was dead, I was staring at his headless corpse. But I had to get him out of there. I opened the passenger side door and pushed the seat forward and reached in and grabbed the child’s knee. Why? Again I cannot explain, maybe I was wanting him to be alive or awake, maybe to even hearing him cry, would have relieved me. But again I knew he was dead. I reached in and grabbed the boy by the leg and pulled him out a little his shoe came off. Then grabbed under his arms and picked him up. I was holding this child in my hands his lower jaw and ear hung there inches from my face as my soldiers laid out the body bag for me to put him in. I put him in and zipped up the bag. An ambulance had arrived while I was getting the boy out of the vehicle and I told one of my soldiers to help pick up the body bag and we headed to the ambulance and placed him inside. I walked over to take a knee beside the highway and a foot away from me lay a part of a hand, just the index and the middle finger, I got up and linked up the PL to brief him on what was going on.

We stayed there for about 45 minuets to talk to the people in the neighborhood. “Did you see anything?” “Have you seen anyone suspicious?” But the same answers from everyone. No. We loaded up and headed back to the Forward Operating Base. The day was not starting out good.

At 1500 we headed out for our second patrol, nothing hard go talk to some people coordinate a community meeting. Show our presence through the neighborhoods in our company area of operation (AO). We had just started when the patrol passed a suspicious vehicle with about 7 men standing around it talking to the driver I could see three other males in the vehicle. This is the way AIF meetings are held. Quick on the side of the road, meet and take off. As we drove by the PL called back “Red 7 check out that car, that is really suspicious.” I agreed and we slowed down. As we did everyone took off in different directions, and the vehicle drove down the street. We began to follow the car. It took an immediate right, we followed, and then it slowed down. I stood as high as I could in my hatch and yelled, “STOP.” The driver looked at me slowed down and then again attempted to take off. I called the PL “he is evading us”. I fired a warning shot. The driver gunned it. My next shot would hit the driver, shattering the back window immediately the car stopped. The passenger got out and then I saw the driver get out a bloodstain steadily spreading over his right shoulder. I had hit him. We dismounted and my medic began to work on him. He had three wounds where the bullet had broken up and entered his right shoulder and his left trapezoid. Blood poured from the wounds and we loaded him up and took him to the hospital. I learned later that he died later the next day. I looked down to see my uniform and kit covered in blood. I wanted to change so badly. We left and continued our patrol.

Later that evening I attended a memorial service for three soldiers who died from our battalion. They would add to the already growing number (which now total 14) we have taken in the 8 months we have been here.

I write this as a way of letting it go, a way that helps me sleep, and a way to not remember. If you can understand that. I have been shot at so many times that the sound does not really affect me anymore. I have learned that you cannot control fate, accept it and what happens will happen. My men do outstanding work everyday; they can make decisions in a split second. Weighing numerous options and in the fraction of a second and then act. So when you have a bad day or think that things are cannot get any worse, I can one up you.

SGT Feliciano on the C-130