Month: August 2015

Semper Fi, Fair Winds & Following Seas

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: This was the closing entry for my blog during the time I was in Iraq (2006). I’d grown to dread writing anything at all by this time, so I’ll let it speak for itself.

MSR Mobile sunrise

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As my first, but perhaps not my last, tour in Iraq is drawing to a close, I’ve decided that in the next few weeks or so, I’ll shut down this blog. There is really only one good explanation, and it’s something that’s been troubling me for some time.

I’ve had difficulty overcoming the feeling that posting anything on the internet about myself during this tour has come across as self-serving BS. I can’t really post much about my day-to-day job, as it involves the deaths of servicemen, and to use their sacrifice as fodder for my self-indulgent purposes would be the height of disrespect.

I’m no hero. I don’t have any grand tales of combat exploits to share with the world. I’m just an average Marine that happened to volunteer for a job that brings the reality of war home to a multitude of families across America. Every time I do my job, one of those families is only minutes or hours away from receiving that dreaded knock on the door. There’s nothing glamorous about that.

I suppose it all came home for me once and for all when U.S. Navy SEAL Marc Lee was brought to our facility by his fellow SEALs, who were escorting him on his final journey home. You can read more about him here, at Blackfive. War for those guys, and those like them, is not what’s written on the internet. It’s heat, sweat, exhaustion, gunshots, explosions, flesh, blood, life, and finally death. I couldn’t look them in the eye, knowing that my war and my sacrifices are something so much less. The credit lies with those men. As Teddy Roosevelt said in his famous speech, “The Man in the Arena,”

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”

And so, the time is past due that I should bow out, and leave the credit to those who rightfully deserve it.

To all of the warriors, I wish you Fair Winds & Following Seas.

Semper Fidelis

Green… again

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s Note: This piece was originally written in 2005 for Red State Rant, an online mostly political blog that my friend Lance McMurray was running at the time. He would occasionally allow me to post something non-political, I think to break up the monotony more than anything else. It was quickly picked up by Matthew Currier Burden and published on his very popular military blog, BlackFive. The following year he published it in his book, The Blog of War, a collection of blog entries by various authors.

Swearing in_____________________________

At Lance’s request, I’m proud to announce on Red State Rant that after an extended effort, I’ve finally been accepted back into Uncle Sam’s Big Green Gun Club. A little background:

My efforts began on September 11, 2001, when the news about the terrorist attacks in New York City came over the radio. I immediately drove to the recruiter’s office to inquire about reenlistment options. My advance was rebuked, however, due to an ankle injury that I’d sustained two months previous, one which eventually landed me on the surgeon’s slab six months later. Running, and therefore staying in shape, was a painful proposition for nearly a year thereafter. Then my wife and I decided to start our family, a decision that I in no way second-guess, but one which further altered my plans.

As I watched the kick-off of Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom from the sidelines, I couldn’t stand the fact that Marines were out there doing what Marines do, and here I was, a man of eligible age, riding the bench. The final straw came on the day that my brother, a career Marine until a back injury put him out of active duty after 15 years, emailed me a photo of himself being sworn back into the Corps as a reservist. That was simply more than I could stand.

I got off my ass, got back in shape, and got on the phone with the prior service recruiter. Skipping all the sordid details of a paperwork nightmare, a little more than a year later, on July 10, 2005, I stood before a Captain with the 4th FSSG, raised my right hand, and took the oath of enlistment for the second time in my life, sworn-in as a 35 year-old Corporal of Marines (reserve) as my wife and son looked on.

I’d been off of active duty for almost 10 years, but as we walked out of the HQ building at the Navy/Marine Corps Reserve Center and passed a Colonel, the salute that I snapped felt just as natural as it ever had, and the uniform I wore felt like an old friend. I straightened my back, poked out my chest just a little, and stepped more smartly. God, it felt great to be green again!

I give the reader all of that to answer a question many people have asked, including Red State Rant blogmaster and my life-long friend, Lance: Why? After all, I’ve already served my country, “paid my dues,” or “done my time,” as some say.

To that, I have this to say: Serving my country is not a 4 year contract. It is a life-long commitment. Nor is it a “due” to be paid like some cheap membership fee. It is a deeply personal obligation. And it is certainly not “time” that has to be “done” like some felony prison sentence. It is nothing short of an honor that I hold in the highest regard, an honor that I must prove worthy of, an honor that must be earned every single day.

Many people have shaken their heads in disbelief, sometimes I think in disdain, when they learned of my plans. I’m a family man now, after all. Why would I volunteer, when there is a very real possibility of a combat deployment? Don’t I care about my family?

Without question, my family is the single most important part of my life on earth. But just exactly what sort of husband and father do I want for my family? What kind of man do I want my wife to devote her life to? When my children are grown, what is the picture of their father going to look like in their minds? I’ll tell you: I want my beloved wife, to whom I am utterly devoted, to go through her days without a shadow of a doubt that the man she married is a man of honor and commitment, a man that knows there are things in life worth giving one’s own life for, if necessary. I want her, as she looks out upon all of the world’s deception, falseness, infidelity, and evil, to know that her husband is on the right side of things.

I want my children to have a father that they can unwaveringly look up to as an example. I want them to grow up, not with an attitude of entitlement, but with a sense of duty, obligation, and reward. I want to teach them that we don’t always say, “Let the other guy do it.” Instead, I want them to learn that there are times that we must ask, “If not me, then who?” I want to be the best father I can be, and I can think of no better lessons to teach them than the value of honor, integrity, dedication, perseverance, and selflessness. I can offer no better example for my family than to strive to live those values every day in my own personal life.

All of that is a way of life for United States Marines.

In addition to all of that, throw in any applicable clichés regarding patriotism, fighting for our country, etc. They’re all no less true for me than anyone else who has said them, but they have become overused to the point that they have begun to lose effect. I will add one: revenge. I make no apology for wanting to kill the bastards that want to kill us.

I harbor no illusions about saving the world, being a hero, or altering the course of events. It’s simply that at no time in my life have I been more proud and satisfied with what I was doing than while serving as an active duty Marine. My decision to leave the Corps, if I had it to do over, likely would have been different. I want to at least partially amend that decision while I am still young enough (barely) to do so. I love being around fellow Marines, doing what Marines do: training, fighting, working, sweating, cussing, bitching, adapting, improvising, overcoming, accomplishing the mission, and taking care of each other.

Lastly, these are historic times for our country and for my Marine Corps. For me, it’s decision time- sit on the sidelines and merely be an observer, or step up and be a participant.

I’m stepping up.

Semper Fidelis

David

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: True story here. The subject of this piece, David, passed away about a year after this was written. I have the newspaper clipping announcing his death in my scrapbook.

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Sometimes we really lose our sense of place in this world. I’ll join the already too long list of people that have said we take for granted the things we enjoy. Wading a cold mountain stream in early spring. Being on top of the ridge when the old boss gobbler sounds off at dawn. Slipping into an unearthly still bass pond and casting that first bug towards the reeds back in the cove. Sitting around a campfire at night having a drink or two, laughing with our buddies, talking about old fishing times. Line up all the cliches. But for the first time in my life, I think I really get it.

Today I met David. He’s very close to my age, a young buck in the woods, relatively speaking. When David spoke of his fishing trip to Alaska with his cousin, his eyes lit up like I wish mine would just one more time in my life. He said they hauled in halibut to beat the band, and he’s already got his next trip planned. But when David plans a trip, it takes a little more than flight plans or packing the truck. It involves special arrangements for wheelchair access and all the little things accompanying the situation; things I’ll probably never have a clue about. A little over a year ago, David was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Prior to that, he was a strapping young firefighter for the city of Austin, Texas. My wife manages the apartment community where he lives, and she had told me about him many times; how he’d walked in and signed his lease for a second floor apartment just like everyone else, not knowing that a year later he wouldn’t even be able to climb the stairs to that apartment. She watched his condition deteriorate at an absolutely astonishing pace, and she would occasionally report his condition over supper. I listened to her recount his predicament with what I ashamedly admit is my usual indifference.

I had a doctor’s appointment to check out a bum knee that was giving me a bit of trouble, and I stopped by her office to visit, get some sympathy, and to see her co-worker’s new puppy. I was down on the floor making a fool of myself with the dog when David wheeled in under power of his electric wheelchair. I immediately knew who he was. His speech was extremely slurred, his handshake was shaky, but still firm, and his muscles defied him to some extent. But he sat up straight, had a proud look about him, wore a smile, and he had a gleam in his eye. I liked him instantly.

To understand his speech required effort, but we talked about his new apartment (he’s had to move a couple times to accommodate his new requirements), the puppy, his Alaska trip, and of course the girls out at the pool. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of this young man a year ago, wearing his uniform trousers and a navy blue fire department tee shirt and ball cap, even though I’d never seen him before today. Now here he sat, to some extent dependent upon the kindness of others, but not showing one trace of self pity. Here he was, smiling and talking about fishing and girls.

I was still holding the puppy, a six week old Cocker Spaniel, and he mentioned that he’d once had a black one. The four of us were chatting, and when I hoped the moment was right, I stood up and excused myself to visit the men’s room. As I did, I put the puppy in David’s lap without asking and walked out of the room. I didn’t really have to go the men’s room, but I took David for a dog man, and as we all know, a puppy has unrestricted access to a dog man’s soul. When I returned, the puppy was climbing his chest, trying to lick his chin. I detected a noticeable grin on David’s face. Puppies are childhood revisited. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I hope that for just a moment the little pup took David back to when things were different.

When the time came to leave, I shook David’s hand again and told him that it was very nice to have finally met him, and I meant it. On the drive home through the country, the radio annoyed me and interrupted my thoughts, so I shut it off. Utter nonsense anyway. I suddenly felt a very real urge for a very strong bourbon and water. I didn’t remember my knee hurting anymore. I forgot whatever it was that had me stressed out that morning on the way to work. I pictured David on the stern of an Alaskan fishing boat, decked out in foul weather gear, wheelchair locked down tight, hooked up to an enormous halibut with his cousin right by his side. I pictured myself easing into a bass pond up to my waist, with the water as warm as a morning bath, casting deer hair poppers to the cattails along the shore, feeling the rod load and the wet line slip through my fingers. Then I tried to picture myself in David’s shoes, hoping someone would stop by and ask me to go fishing, knowing full well that the endeavor would be far more work than fishing for them. That man has more heart and soul than I could ever wish for. It’s not sympathy I have for David, it’s admiration.

Sometimes I think things aren’t so good. This or that is getting in the way of my hunting or fishing, bills have to be paid, how can I afford than new fly rod or shotgun, the grass needs mowing, my knee hurts, my vision is going, I’m thirty years old, blah, blah, blah.

Bullshit.

My next fish is for David. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because if it were him, he’d be catching the hell out of them.

A Measure of Kindness

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: This was one of, if not the first, pieces I ever had published anywhere. I’d submitted it to the Gainesville (GA) Times in response to their general request for stories relating to Lake Lanier to fill a special edition they were running. Much to my surprise, they picked it up. It’s a true story, although it occurred so long ago that the intimate details have become blurry. I hope I stayed true to the happenings that day, in spirit at least, if not in exact words.

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My little thumb presses and holds in the button on the back of the Zebco 202. I slowly extend my arm rearward and carefully lob the bait in the general vicinity of the water, releasing the button with my thumb as I do so. The cork bobber splashes down with a plop into Lake Lanier’s mirror surface beside the boat dock.

For once the minnow didn’t end up tangled around the steel cable anchoring the dock to the bank, and might actually stand a chance at luring a crappie. Not a bad cast for a 9 year-old. From his seat atop a five gallon bucket on the shore, my grandfather, Papa John, watches patiently out of the corner of his eye. I imagine he’s probably just thankful that he won’t be required to come over and untangle my line… again.

The morning hasn’t been very profitable for us crappie fishermen. Amid my clumsy antics, I managed to hook a very small one, and Papa John landed a nice 2 I /2 pound bass – a pleasant surprise as he sat in the shade expecting a modest pan fish to take his minnow. He’s spent an inordinate amount of time untangling my line and retying hooks for me. But I’ve had a ball exploring the shoreline around the mouth of Little River and generally just being a kid fishing with his grandpa.

A little ways along the shore sits an old, gray-haired, black gentleman wearing a work shirt, tattered overalls, and well-worn, leather boots. He too, is perched atop a five-gallon bucket and waits with the patience of a practiced fisherman. His eyes seem tired, and his back is a bit stooped. Judging from the condition of his attire and equipment, not to mention the old station wagon parked along the right of way that could only be his, I have a feeling he’s not out here primarily for fun. He seems content enough, but something tells me he’s here mainly for supper. We note that throughout the morning, he hasn’t had any luck at all.

Finally, Papa John reels in his line, discards his worn out minnow, and hooks the Eagle Claw on the first line guide. He announces that we’re finished.

“Aww, Papa John, I think they’re about to start biting. Can’t we stay just a little longer?” I plead.

“Go ahead and reel in. Let’s go,” is his only reply.

“Just one more cast,” I say, and turn to cast my line one last time. Out of the corner of my eye I see Papa John place a hand on his hip. I’d better make it fast.

After a mild threat involving the judicious use of a hickory switch, I submit to Papa John’s wishes and we get ready to leave. We pack up our modest tackle, and Papa John pauses by the old black gentleman momentarily. The old fellow looks up with eyes that have seen a share of unkind words and deeds by white folks looking a lot like us.

Papa John holds out the bass on his stringer, the only keeper fish of the day. “Care to have that?” he asks the old fellow.

“Why, yessuh,” the old fellow replies in a low, kind voice that reflects something almost like relief.

And with that, Papa John unsnaps the fish from his stringer and hands it to the man, who promptly drops it into his bucket. He simply smiles and waves at us as we walk along the shoreline back to the road and the waiting pickup. When we reach the truck and stow our gear in the bed, I climb into the passenger seat and ask the inevitable question that any 9-year-old fishing fanatic will.

“Papa John, why did you give that man our only fish?”

Always a man of very few words, his reply is simple and straightforward. “Because he needs it a lot worse than we do.”

And that was that. It would be a long, longtime before I really appreciated that simple act.

That was quite a few years ago, when I was just a boy and fishing was life. In my mind, there would be love for nothing else thereafter. Now, better than two decades later, I find that I’ve lost sight of the enjoyment derived from the utter simplicity of a five-gallon bucket and a Zebco 202. And I’ve lost sight of some important lessons in life. Papa John went on to fish in a better place more than 13 years ago.

On a recent morning, I passed over my fancy fly rods and high tech bait casters, and I didn’t hook up my boat. Instead I dug out my old Zebco and dusted it off. I’m going down to Trotter’s at Bell’s Mill to buy a bucket full of minnows, then I’m going to toss out a line just to watch the rings dissipate and hope that a crappie will sink the cork. Tomorrow I’ll return to the everyday troubles of life, the breakneck pace of the world, and the no-win politics of a public service job. But today for just a while I’ll fish with Papa John, and maybe relearn a lesson or two.