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grey areas…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

When I was a kid, some summers I was hired by a neighbor to house sit for them while they ventured out of town, state, or the country, on vacations, charitable missions, etc.

It didn’t matter to me the reason for their leaving; I made sure their place and property were safe and secure. They were neighbors, practically family, and worthy of my best attention and intentions.

I have a family of my own now, and a home. With the same intentions of looking out for my neighbors and community on a larger scale, I joined The Guard. To be sure, there were both civic pride and some perks involved.

Then came the call, the leave from my job, from my family, my home, my neighborhood,my community…eventually my entire country. I am not complaining about serving and the general duty I signed up for. We gotta stop them where they are, so they won’t come where my family lives and assert their less than ideal ideals on me and mine. I’m all for preserving liberties at home.

We live in a modest house, drive a modest car, and live a modest life back at home. I ain’t asking for anything extra. But the pay from my hard earned career ended the day I was called up, and that little stipend from Uncle Sam is, well, little.

I remember when the Apollo 13 astronauts were stranded in space, they were granted a grace period in which to file their income taxes. They were looked out for while in peril during their service to our country. I too am far from home, and in peril, in service for my country. And I’m not alone here in my situation. I’m surrounded by thousands that are willing to take a bullet to protect me. And they all left family back home too.

But back in the world, there’s trouble at my home. While I’m here doing whatever it takes to preserve life there for the masses, my wife has an empty pantry, an empty bank account, no insurance on a barely running car, and an empty feeling inside.

She doesn’t want to distract me here, to make me less attentive and cost me lost sleep, lost attention to the dangers around me. She’s gotten food stamps, bus passes, and calls from creditors over the basic necessities. Last week they shut off her power in the middle of a cold snap and she and the kids got to “camp out” in sleeping bags till she was able to use the neighbor’s phone to call and beg for help from the PUD.

I’m in the middle of a hostile desert serving my country, while some in my country show their appreciation and patriotism by seeing to it my family stands to starve and freeze in their own home.

Although our little fixer-upper house is yet to be fixed up like we planned, she’s being told that may be the least of our worries, as the numbers are becoming a little more than we can handle. She may have to move in with her folks so some banker can see to it that some opportunistic soul will pick up the note on our home (after that same banker takes it out from under us).

This, while I serve to protect that banker’s right to drive a car worth about as much as the home he’s taking away. So much for returning the favor and house sitting for this soldier’s family while he’s away.

I have no doubt the sons and daughters of bankers aren’t likely to be serving in this war, nor would their families ever be put out in the street so daddy could foreclose on their bungalow in the Hamptons. No other way to put it, my life back in the world is being looted while I protect strangers, a world away, from being looted by their neighbors and their own flimsy government.

While I struggle to preserve my life in a war zone, my life at home is being allowed to be taken away from me and mine…

And I hear an echo from 1969, Woodstock, another war, and another anthem of the time…Country Joe and the Fish…”and its 1, 2, 3…what are we fightin’ for? Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn. The next stop is ‘IraqistNam’…”

I’m not stranded half way to the moon, but I may as well be. At least those boys could see home from where they were perched. I feel as if I, and mine, have been left hung out to dry, and that my home might not be there when, and if, I do get back.

I know my neighbors at home are busy covering their own asses, but hey, we’re hanging ours out here in a big way… and promises are evaporating like a puddle of water in the desert wind. Far as I know, one of my ‘neighbors’ there may very well be the one taking away my home while I serve to protect his rights and his home.

What the hell is wrong with this picture?

MLL Summer 2008

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September 10th, 2001

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

Oh to step back, past that moment in time, when freedom was much freer…and those mighty towers still cast shadows and defined the profile of that city…when tomorrows were just the days after this one, and not just so many days or weeks; some measure of time since 9/11/2001.

wtc

On September tenth, there was merely the anticipation of autumn…simply the fading of summer’s embers, but the shadows were still long.

It was about looking forward to ‘’The Series”, debating who would go the yard…and who might fall victim to a slider going 98 and dropping like a rock.

September tenth was the day before my father was born…at least 68 years earlier
something wonderful had happened on 9-11.  They were hard times to be sure, but simpler and more innocent times as well.

Since 1992, the World Trade Center was but a wondrous place that I had visited, and I had stood on the roof of one of the twin icons. Movies based in modern New York City always featured the towers in that distinctive skyline. After that September 10th, any movies that included the towers were instantly dated as “pre 9-11.”

sept11lights

On September tenth, a line in time had yet to be drawn. Like the sixth of December in 1941, the tenth was but a prelude to another day that would change our world forever and redefine our entire existence. But in 1941, our enemies were more clearly defined and not too hard to find. Indeed, I long for the simplicity that prevailed still on September the tenth of 2001…

Then, we still slept soundly at night, not yet needing to know who had stolen away our naïve sense of trust and security…our knowing that tomorrow will be just another day. Memories of scud missiles, Desert Storm, the unbreakable coalition, stealth fighters and the last “just war” with ‘Stormin’ Norman’ at the helm, were nearly fading from our immediate memories.

On September tenth, we were oblivious to upcoming new buzzwords, like Flights 11, 77, 175, and 93…There was no ground zero, no mention of a north and south tower. Al Qaida and Osama bin Laden were minor players; irritants at best…but still in the wings, not yet the epitome of evil reincarnated.  The armor worn by our existing heroes showed a little patina; their deeds were a little dusty and the tales of those heroics had not recently been retold.

It was good… to be complacent and free of drama, fresh news footage, of a running total of sorties flown, of the billions approved by congress, of bunker busting behemoth bombs, of cadaver dogs, of no more survivors…images we could never have fathomed…of a loss of certainty in the world around us.  It was a simpler time…

On September the tenth, we were bored; we were anticipating the turning of the leaves, the last good days for boating, the return of Monday night football, and of kids returning to the halls.

And perhaps we took for granted the knowing we all would be coming home at the end of the day, maybe neglecting a parting hug, the obligatory peck on the cheek. And the uttering of a simple “I love you” might have been a little hollow, a little bit routine.

We weren’t as close to our neighbors on the tenth, as quick to notice a passing stranger and to smile at one another, eager to embrace the day.  We weren’t as apt to fight back tears when the flag was unfurled and a voice bathed the crowd in the beauty of the words of Francis Scott Key.

I still loved you on the tenth, but I might not have felt compelled to say so. It just never occurred to me that once I laid my head on the pillow, it would be the last night I would close my eyes without the possibility of visions of events of that day, and those that followed, filling my weary mind…of those stark surreal images that will mark this generation from that day forward.
On the tenth, our villains were whoever had taken our parking spot… the cop who cited you for going ten over while you hurried, nearly late to work… the team that’d last defeated yours. Our villains could still be easily found among us, as petty bickering and dissent among the ranks prevailed. On that tenth of September, we weren’t as united, not
as much in need and appreciation of one another as we soon would be.

And on that morning I didn’t wake you when I’d slipped out quietly on my way to work. While you lay there sleeping, I neglected to touch your cheek, to kiss your hair and went off not knowing that I would already be missing you five minutes down the road. The day that followed gave that gift back to us, and to me.

I had never uttered the words “nine-eleven” nor imagined the sight of tear-streaked ashen faces…or the “confetti of the anti-Christ,” as countless reams of paper took leave of the stricken buildings through shattered window panes, marking the end to peaceful sleep as it came fluttering down ultimately to street level in an agonizing confusing descent, dragging our hearts down with it…a metaphor of biblical proportions left to linger in mid-air, along with the accompanying dust and smoke, long after the sight of those blazing towers had become a part of the horror there on the ground…then a part
of the ground itself…a would-be grave in wait of the coming fill.

paper
On the tenth, I was a little euphoric and foolishly feeling secure. I didn’t love as deeply or unconditionally as I soon would. Nor did I notice as readily the good in the world that still prevailed. I was more at ease, but not as good a person, friend, neighbor, brother, or son, as I soon would be. I never wanted what happened next, but I am a more complete and worthy soul because of, and more importantly, in spite of the cumulative effects of the next days of events.
You might actually say, the day after the tenth found us scattered and nearly shattered by the work of the devil himself, but we were quickly gathered once more by the need for one another as we huddled together in disbelief…bound together again by the grace of God…mercifully lifted up as one in our hour of dire need.
I miss the bliss that came along with the tenth of that September, but I like camaraderie and oneness that found the collective lot of us in the days that followed.

Matthew Lyle Landsman

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In regard to 9-11-2001

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

Matthew L Landsman

10/02/2001 0`dark:30
In regard to 9-11-2001

Empty chairs at the tables of

one thousand homes — times six.

Pillows lie on beds,

forever to be cold.

Hearts that wait for a calming word,

souls longing for someone to hold.
I have been there.

To the summit of that pair of pillars

reaching so amazingly high.

I stood in wide-eyed wonder

at the city’s towering gems.

Now I stare in disbelief

at an empty space in the Apple’s sky.
I find solace in knowing that the scores of those lost souls

were lifted straight to a better place –

by the collective prayers of the witnessing world.

It’s true that tears have yet to subside…

true there are more that will be cried.

It’s true that so much we knew

will never be the same.

But I also know that with turning of the leaves

comes the day of Thanksgiving –

for the memories of our newest angels…

for the knowing that, while for so many,

there’d be no going home,

still God sent to them his most special…

in uniforms of blue,

and fighters of fires…

from outside the bounds of harm,

from the masses left behind…

Sent in…

so they would know

they weren’t to perish abandoned, unescorted or forgotten

I believe too, that beneath the fallen structures

opened a crevasse of fire and discontent,

vows to immediately deliver the doers of evil,

the terminators of meant-to-be-peaceful flights,

straight into the bowels of hell.
And too, the souls of unintended fate

were raised as quickly to a celestial journey’s end,

accompanied and tended to by those

we were taught as children were our protectors, our heroes…our friends.
Those of us that remain will long struggle to find the meaning of it all.

The vision of what will balance, then overcome and

topple the self elevated mongers of hate

to their deserved fate – still eludes me.
I cannot know the specifics,

except that the believers of what is good and closer to Godliness will

in the end prevail.

By the rising up of spirit, faith and oneness

of our unseen friends – I feel a surge of awareness,

of determination and strength,
born of sorrow, shock, anger, fear, love and compassion.

There has begun a healing,

both of the scars left on the land and the division of good people,

for reasons that now seem petty and self-absorbed.

Already, good has risen from the ashes;

new vows of reparation have

emerged from amid the smoldered flames.

I hope the world will never be the same

as it was before that day.

I hope we can love one another more deeply,

be sincere in our greetings and farewells.

I pray that Christmas and other faith-filled days

can see a return to their roots – and linger past the designated days.
The souls departed need to know that beyond our efforts to

deny the tormentors satisfaction from their deeds –

that true good can be derived from the

sadness and the

madness of it all.

Mostly, what we need is hope.

We can only find it in each other,

no matter who or where we are.

Like the man said, “Come together”…

I don’t want this generation to lose its own version of what was our “Camelot”.

Hey God…We could use a little help down here…okay?

Matthew Lyle Landsman

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Time…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

autumn leaves in wind

Where did this year go? Time for that matter? It’s been collecting in
the leaves of summer. Now its been captured in the autumn breeze…the
leaves and time have served their duty, now they will be captured in
the throes of a chilly fall, carried off on the breezes of evening and
passing hours while we sleep… Time isn’t lost at all…it just rests
in slumber at our feet, spent of livelihood, returning to the earth, to
the banks of tomorrows…recycled, replenished. Time can be a leaf
pressed between pages of a book, or a photograph in an album…

leaves bible

With the summer freshly behind us, the green leaves of spring are a
distant thing…but I still recall their rustling in balmy evening
breezes…as memories were being made…My barefooted trips thru the
grass…songbirds in the predawn hours…Now they lay at rest in the corner
by my porch…along the wall of my home…Like a pile of clippings and
memories waiting to be scrapbooked and catalogued…

Autumn leaf pile

While I rake…I shall recall the days…the moments that are freshly
etched even while the shade is laying in decay around my feet. If I
could leave them to meet the soil that nourished them to initial life,
they would replenish and richen the mother earth at the very place they
were given life…cradling one another…returning from whence they
came…reunited in an eternal embrace…in wait of spring after winter’s
slumber…Time in search of a taker, a user, a memory maker…

trunk

Autumn…its early autumn in my life too…after half a century, I’m
ready for longer nights and cooler days. The rings on the tree tell the
truth, the cumulative collection of yearly fallen leaves have richened
the soil where my shade trees dwell, made my knowing and memories grow
in kind…richer, deeper more meaningful. Where did time go? It lives
inside of me…life is more precious, hugs are more valued.

snow leaves2

My time gone by and memories are captured in those autumn
leaves…Outside my house, they lie in wait…teasing me, taunting
me…conspiring along with a breeze from the south…each stroke of the
rake is laughed at as both simply carry the stack right back to the
spot I moved it from…Holding on for another day or two…the
metaphoric gathering of moments passed are reminding me to appreciate
the life I’ve lived, before I toss it away like so much fill and
refuse…

Its early morning…I just stepped out on a chilly porch with a hot cup
of coffee.

coffee cup

The winds that tormented us yesterday have moved on…the
leaves are at rest in places they were deposited during the hours they
frolicked in that very wind…Now, exhausted and finally having given
in, they simply lie in fragrant piles, saying one final good bye to
yesterdays, to hours spent under summer’s sun…to duty shading my
home, being a part of the symphony that plays while breezes fill the
air. And though the passing of time will dull the vividness of
individual memories, I will have a few scattered leaves to keep…in
the form of photographs, of theater tickets, gas receipts from several
states over…a faded rose, a shirt that smells still of her perfume
when she hugged me good bye.

theatre_ticket

I will think of these things, of the music, the extra cups of
coffee…the sunsets of May…and I will embrace them all, while I tend
to bagging and hauling those leaves to the place where so many leaves
convene…at the fill just a few miles down the road…

leaf bag

Then I’ll move mostly indoors for the duration of the cold season, in
wait of spring buds, of the return of songbirds and the first green
leaves on the branches and boughs…But I won’t simply wait till time
has passed, I’ll meet it at the door…and frolic in those breezes, as
did the leaves…once more…

Matthew Lyle Landsman…autumn 2009

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stolen by the sea…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

A note for my honorary daughter…Love, Daddy Matty

It wasn’t the surf with its salty foam, nor was it the sunset, the likes of which I’d ever known…

It wasn’t the end of a sleepy afternoon or a drive to the shore…

But still my heart was stolen by the sea.

It was about hearts abandoned, about feelings stranded. It was about lingered disappointment and roles denied.

It was a theft of the kindest sort, a smile, a sigh, a request, a
plea…and there was that smile, a head on my shoulder, that truth, the
chorus of the Pacific’s roar. And there and then my heart was stolen by
that shore…

And of some of life’s failures, I cannot understand. For some of
life’s mercies, I can only feel eternal gratitude. In soft
conversations where joy ought to have lived, I heard of the need for my
heart to give a little of what I am, a friend, a shoulder, a pool of
knowledge, of kindness, of honesty…all those things a daddy should give
naturally.
So arm in arm at the end of the day, a prayer answered, a plea
fulfilled…an overdue longing to be accepted, appreciated, and just
loved. I for the lack of my son, she for the absence of a proverbial
dad…A quiet theft carried off by her misty hazel eyes, by the honesty
shared, by a soul’s muffled cries. While winter lingered, and spring
teasingly debuted, I was caught off guard by the approaching dusk,
mugged by the ocean, there and then my heart was stolen by the sea.
I will do my best to slip away to that town by the shore, to hope for a
smile when I’m greeted at their door. I will return when I can to the
scene of the crime…to the reaches and beaches, the salt and the trees,
the rutted road that leads to my honorary daughter, the one who stole
my heart by the sea…to that coastal town where I long to be.

Matthew Lyle Landsman

Spring 2008

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Animal Cookies and Salsa…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

Written for the daughters of my friends, Kaila, 7…and Amber, 5.
Based on an actual incident…

Amber and Kaila got to stay up late. It was way past their bedtime. Kaila and Amber thought it was great.

Kaila and Amber…Amber and Kaila…Which one comes first? Which one will blink first? Which one is worst?

Their Mom and Dad were having a party that night…people would be here…everything was just right.

Cheyenne the black dog was behaving her best. She was practicing her shake-a-paw and wearing a polka dot dress.

The turtles were floating on lime green miniature boats, singing Jack Sparrow songs and wearing pirate coats.

The birds were dancing back and forth in their cage, singing cockatiel squeal songs and were convinced they were all the rage.

Kailer and Amba were jacked up on sugar…bouncing off all four walls, one after another.

Aleesha and Krystle were there preparing the snacks, pouring the putrid
punch into little sunglasses…It had rained cats and dogs earlier that
day, and they had filled the punch bowl full from water poodles
outside.

Good thing they got there in time, before the sun came back
out and the poodles were dried.

Amber Wamber and Kaila the Shmaila were very upset about this and both nearly cried.

It would all be happening soon, the cards would get dealt, and cars
would be stacked up high on the lawn. Jason would arrange them in
alphabetical order just like the DVD’s and games on the shelf…Only
the cars would be stacked according to the drivers’ first names.

One might say things were really on a roll…I saw that Amber Rose and
Kaila Nicole were swinging from the chandeliers, way out of control.

And then it happened. Nothing could have been worse…Mr. Matt dipped an
animal cookie in salsa! AND THEN HE ATE IT! AND HE DIDN’T EVEN SMELL IT
FIRST!

Well…that’s when the madness really began…

Amber Wamber turned three shades of green and gagged. Kaila the Shmaila
got mad and turned red…little puffs of anger steam came out of her ears
and out of the horns on top of her head.

Kailer screamed, “You can’t do that!”

And Amba cried at the top of her voice “You can’t eat animal cookies and salsa!, That’s just not right…!”

Mr. Matt just shrugged his shoulders and had another.

Amber Wamber and Kaila the Shmaila went out to the chicken coop and told their mother.

The parking attendant rhino out in the yard started blowing his horn…

The elephant in the basement had seen enough and was packing her trunk.

Cheyenne had been digging at the tree in the yard and was drunk from
the root beer. She was howling the “OH NO!” song…very loud and long.

Clevie and Amber were saying their prayers, while the crazy adults ate
animal cookies and salsa and bungee jumped off the top of the stairs.

The cockatiels just gave up, pulled their feathers out, and then lay
down in a pan. The turtles just kinda milled around, but if they could
have they’d have left their shells there and ran.

Mr. Matt was glad the girls didn’t want any of that great snack. That
just meant there was more for him, and he ate all he could. The girls
would never know this treat tasted so good.

Amber Wamber and Kaila the Shmaila had to go off to bed, but they had
terrible nightmares as visions of this crazy night and big people
eating animal cookies and salsa danced in their heads.

This might just be the greatest story I have ever read…Mr. Matt

Matthew Lyle Landsman
Summer 2008

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wounds unseen…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

I was barely shaving when I left home, had barely been kissed before I
shipped out. I missed that whole part where one has fun growing up. I
sorta skipped over it and learned how to be a part of the team, the
solution, the big stick some fellas back in Washington like to use to
get their point across.
God, I’m tired…I’m way too young to have grown so old. And I wonder; can I ever really go home?

What am I to do when I get home? I haven’t been anywhere without my
pack, flak jacket, desert fatigues; rifle and sidearm, bandoleer and
ammo, for over a year. Gone anywhere without a hyperactive awareness of
looming death. I haven’t walked a block without a possibility that I
may have to take a life to survive walking another, for far too long.

What am I gonna do with all that quiet keeping me awake at night. I
fear the thunder of a kid’s 4000 watt stereo in his tuner car will be
reminiscent of artillery and the battle raging.

What am I to do on the fourth of July when the flags are raised,
burgers are grilling, and fireworks are exploding? Will I go back to a
place where death was abound? Will I be lost in the moments that might
never pass, in a state of confusion you won’t understand?

Who will I turn to when my squad is no longer at my side? Who will have
my back when the nightmares find me back in the midst of the fight, the
smoking charred HumVees, melted roadways and broken souls? Will I ever
feel at home again after living in this impossible hell? Will I hear
the sounds of the departing, the prayers and confessions that were
desperately offered up while the shit was going down?

And will people sense and resent the places I’ve been, the things duty
had me do, the horror I’ve witnessed and been a part of? Will they
sense the disregard for life I had to adopt for extended periods, the
instinct to survive and protect my fellow compatriots first? It was
just my mission…Will they sense what I’ve gleaned and will it be
misunderstood?

And what about the loss of trust in those around me? That luxury was
lost about the time I watched a morning market transformed to a scene
of slaughtered innocents without prejudice or regard. Exploding cars
are indiscriminate and callous. You just can’t imagine, even after
seeing the footage on CNN. There may have been survivors after the
smoke cleared, but even they were victims of what will prove to be
impossible to comprehend. I know I’ll never be the same. Nor will
mornings ever be the same…

I’m gonna need a place to lean, some souls that know the score. I’m so
full of what I hadn’t imagined, what I never really wanted to know. I’m
gonna feel the thump of artillery rounds, when it ravages the air and
assaults the ground. I’m gonna smell the smell of smoking rounds as the
lead takes leave of the barrel and a rainfall of hot brass makes a
spattered puddle of death around my feet. I’m gonna be filled with the
scents of fear that have surrounded me as a sense of fear enveloped me
and those brave souls that have lived, fought, and died all around me.

I’m gonna want to talk about it, gonna need to cry out loud, gonna have
to hold it in, gonna fight to keep it together. I’m a little afraid I
might feel this way forever, but it’s not the way I want to feel again,
ever.

I’m thinking, always thinking. Dreaming, sometimes wake up screaming. I
wonder who’s gonna want to share my room, who’s gonna have enough heart
to help me rediscover my dreams.

And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stand the feel of gritty hot sand.
Sand belongs at the beach, in memories of childhood summers…now it has
become the stuff that stole my childhood, took away the joy I’d kept
inside. I know I’ve been fortunate to have escaped with my life, but in
truth, the life I lived before I deployed escaped the second I stepped
off that plane. The life I’ll live with has been unfolding in front of
me, and in the midst of this bedlam; lives have unraveled and been
shattered. Folks have been robbed of everything that mattered. Oh I
know this is the stuff that war is made of, but I never imagined that
same stuff would become an anchor within my mind and a shard of
lingered hurt in the heart in me.

To be sure, I’ve made some of the tightest friends over here, and I
hope we don’t simply wind up scattered in life’s wind. They’re the only
ones that will truly always understand…so I hope we’ll somehow manage
to keep in touch.

But I’m also gonna need some other special souls to reintroduce me to
the world at home. Some to hold me when I cry. I’m gonna need all of
you to be there when I get back. I need to feel your thanks, your
patience, and your willingness to accept there will always be some
things you won’t understand. And your wisdom to help me deal with parts
I won’t ever understand.

And please, be a good soul and keep in mind that the most painful and
misunderstood injuries can be ones that never break the skin. The most
decimated souls might be the ones with no outward sign of wounds at
all. Don’t forget that in war, we all become casualties, but some of us
aren’t fortunate enough to carry scars you all can see that make the
damage easier to accept and understand.

I only carried the weapon, the pack, the body armor and helmet for four
years, but I’m going to have to carry the residue of service to my
country forever. Discharge papers don’t wipe the slate or the memory
clean, but they might make a lot of folks at home forget to take care
of those who gave and keep giving so much to take care of them. I was
there for you in your hours of need, please be there when mine
arrive…I’ll be back presently, please see to it I find myself a home at
home.

Matthew Lyle Landsman
June 2008.

Posted in life lessons, military tributes, Patriotic, people | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments »

words of encouragement…

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

I heard about a good old boy sheriff named Joe in Maricopa County
Arizona. Got himself an idea to save tax dollars and put some bad guys
to work to save that money. Makes those criminals grow veggies and
hogs, and take care of stray critters till someone takes them home.
These tough guys are living behind barbed wire with just fans to keep
‘em cool in a lot of sun-baked tents. So hot them rugged desperados
gotta strip down to boxers and socks to make it livable. Seems them
misguided souls are getting’ to thinking this is inhumane treatment and
a lot of pity parties are being thrown behind the bar-less crowbar
hotel in the midst of all that cactus.

I got a few thoughts to help the poor incarcerated lot of you out in
your hour of need. SHUT THE HELL UP, CRIMINALS! This is your punishment
for screwing up, so suck it up and be a man. There are folks over here
been doing time in this war zone for years now. Three, four tours in
REAL heat. Not resort heat like you pansies lounge in. They don’t worry
a whole lot about strutting and representing like you sorry little gang
bangers in your summer camp. These folks get to wear full battle gear
day and night, get to worry about a population full of psycho suicide
tendencied jihad driven madmen. My fellow compatriots left spouses at
home, kids, folks, pets, real jobs, and a country full of grateful
citizens. And here’s the best part. These are bullet dodging, do
anything they’re asked without whining or flinching warriors…and a
whole lot of these real tough guys are GALS! And they aren’t being
punished for crimes. They are just volunteers with more balls than you
pathetic repeat offenders. And here’s the clincher…Some of these gals
and guys have no idea when they’ll see home again. Some of them will
only go home after they have given their all and make the last part of
the journey under a flag.

You punks cry for your mothers when the nights get long while you’re
doin’ time. I can tell you some of my fellow volunteers were calling
for their daddies and moms when the blood was flowing and their hope
was fading. But these gallant men and women in arms weren’t going to
lose their dignity even in the face of death.

You could learn a great deal from even the slightest of these brave
souls. All of you. Trust me, 120 degrees might as well be 200 when the
flack jacket is filled with sweat, boots are baked feet in hot sand
ovens. Then throw in firefights, incoming mortars, suicide bombers,
roadside bombs and a culture that looks down on our women. That is
heat.

So grow a set, convicts. ALL of us over here already had ours long
before we stepped off the planes, and some of us are better known as
‘mommy’ back home.

Give ‘em hell, Joe in Arizona, and tell the campers we’re over here
fighting ‘cause they are otherwise unavailable to step up and lend us a
hand.

Signed, the true tough guys and gals here in Afghanistan and Iraq.

A tribute to our armed forces…by Matthew Landsman

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Marine Scout Sniper

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

This essay was written about my nephew and his craft. He served in Iraq starting in ’03 when this war started.

I’m a Marine scout sniper…I am the best of the best, the mightiest wielder of unseen decisive actions known. I am a physical specimen. I can out-run you, out-think you, out-wait you, and out-gun you. I am a chosen one without peer, except among my own kind serving under the stars and stripes.

I will sacrifice sleep, comfort, weight, my youth, my innocence…And I will also gladly sacrifice you, without hesitation, remorse, or regret. When you leave the bounds of this good earth, a lot of my brothers in arms will be given a little breathing room and maybe live to see another day. It’s my job to see you don’t get to do your job.

There is a song by The Police called “I’ll Be Watching You”…it includes the lines:

Every move you make…
Every step you take…
I’ll be watching you…

And while I do, I will be in plain sight, but you won’t see me. I will remain motionless for as long as need be, for days, literally. I will rest when you are over. I know your patterns, your role, and your reason for being where you are, for what you do there. I won’t think about your home, your family, your past, your dreams, aspirations or plans for the future. I hold you in contempt and do so with a strong degree of malice. When I do what I do best, you will cease to have a future, and your past won’t matter a whole lot either. While I seal your fate, I’m protecting the fate of my brothers.

In silent wait, I know your intentions and your potential to reduce the ranks of my compadres. In quiet vigil I will think only of my brothers you won’t get the chance to harm. I can do this in my sleep now as months of training guide my fingers, my eyes, still my hands, steady my ragged breath. I have been awake here for fifty six hours. I’ll catch up on my sleep after I canoe your head…For now, I’m pissed off, but completely objective. I scarcely have to think as I exchange words with the brass, get readings of wind headings and speeds, of distances and all things relevant to the success of your demise. I will load one very convincing round into the chamber of my rifle. I will adjust five clicks clockwise to fight the wind, six for elevation…compensation for variables between my deciding hand, and your impending doom. I will do it all very deliberately and carefully, for the love of my brothers relying on me here, for my dedication to The Corp, to duty and honor. I will impose my will on you, before you do the same upon me and mine. Day or night, I will peer at you through a long eye of glass. There are other names for your death here at my end; The M-40A1 rifle, my unerring hand, impeccable aim, and undeniable will.

Whether you like it or not, the hand of the angel Gabriel is encompassing my trigger finger. We will have the final say and you will soon have taken your final breath, watched your last sunset, smelled your last smell, had your last thought, and fulfilled your last bad intention. In a few moments, it will be good to be me, and, well…it will have been bad to be you.

In a strange way, I am the answer to your prayers. You look forward to meeting your God, and I am about to see to it that can happen real soon. You ought to be thanking me really. I am your deliverer. Personally, I don’t care whether you have a soul or not, or where it’s going if you do. I care so much that I care not. I am about to deliver 168 grains of uncaring and very prejudicial finality, put in motion by 46 grains of quick burning furious commotion, to a place better known as ‘center mass’. Don’t worry though; lightening will strike long before the report is heard by anyone.

It’s me or it’s you. I think you’ll soon know who I decided will be going home at the end of the day. “One shot, one kill”. You aren’t worth wasting a second round on…and hey, I got my pride…

I’m taking your life to save the lives of others. It ain’t personal. I’m a Marine scout sniper, and in just a second…and about six hundred yards…ah hell, it took less time than that and it’s already over. You’ve stopped being whatever you may have been. To hell with you…I gotta get on with my job. I have more lives to ‘save’…Semper Fi.

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My son is a Marine

November 15, 2009 by mlandsman

(In honor of my Tia Terry…and her son the Marine veteran)

My son is a Marine; retired now from active duty, but he’ll always be a Marine. I sent my boy off to boot camp shortly after he hung up his cap and gown and put away his childhood. The day he shipped out, my life changed too. I was proud and flew flags above my home to let the world know those in my household were proud of the US of A, and that our boy was a US Marine.

Going along with that territory, is the innate fear that war will happen, and that my prayers will have to be answered across an ocean, and a world away. There’s no other experience to match that which comes with the call that he’s shipping out and off to war. I grew a week older with each day, knowing only that it would soon begin…regardless of whose fight was about to be fought, this was to become “our war”, both his and mine.

When I dusted off his photos of high school wrestling, of grade school innocence, of any day from any age that has passed…I knew THAT boy wouldn’t be coming home. In his place I would receive a veteran combat Marine…but then, I, his mother will also have changed. Some things would be similar, but not much will be as it was. A lot will be better; less will be taken for granted.

While the front line was wherever he happened to be, as he and the rest of the Corp would bring the fight with them, I had only CNN and the internet, as the letters slowly dwindled and left me to just the news, my imagination, and simple faith in his training. In knowing the Good Lord would look out for those who look out for what is good and nearer to Godliness.

Perhaps your son may have been off to do battle on a local paintball range at the edge of town, to dive and duck, scheme and scam. He may have come home with a spattered shirt, a bruise on an arm, rib, and ego. His paint gun may have run out of air or balls of paint ammo. But there was no chance he’d ever run out of time…of blood, hope, of life. There is no similarity to those foolish games, not even for an instance. Some wounds can’t heal, and when it’s real, it won’t come out in the wash.

When things go wrong in that desert so far from home, some like me get a knock on their door, and only a folded flag to hold for ever more. I did get my Marine son home safely, but he was now a veteran of combat, a Marine who had been to a place only he and others with him there could know.

I don’t know what he saw, what he heard, what he smelled, what he felt. I don’t know what he carries on his shoulders now that he put away his backpack, his weapons, his duty, and his craft away. He doesn’t really talk about it. It was war. I know what happens…some boys don’t get to live on, so the rest will be able to. Regardless of which side you are on, there are mothers fearing for the worst, staying close to the phone, feeling a twinge even when the television emits the sound of a knock on a door.

And while my vocabulary grew with the terms of war, my list of prayers did too, as did my knowledge of chapters of scripture. I got to know of community support and gratitude for our sacrifices. I was far too far from my son, but closer to God and those who joined me in support and prayer.

While he was gone for so many months, I became a combat veteran too. But while only he witnessed the brutality and faced the challenges of mortality first hand, I faced the horror through not knowing, through the deafening silence when a phone doesn’t ring, when the mailbox fails to bring a letter with that familiar half mile long return address of military alphabet soup.

When I see footage of a unit shipping out, a family on a tarmac or in an airport with flags and banners in hand…I will fight off that lump in the throat, that knowledge that only a military mother can know, the pride, the waiting, the jubilation, the certainty of uncertainty…and I’ll go back, and look on knowingly…

 

It’s what I DON’T know that will find me knowing, that even though he is home again, for me, the war will never really end. I fear what those hours between midnight and dawn might bring…when he’s alone with his thoughts, his memories, the metaphoric gear he’ll always carry on those shoulders, the duffel bag and boots filled with hot sand, sleepless nights…things he’ll not likely share. I only know how much it changed me…

 

 

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