Author: Stephen Wilbanks

A Study in Contrast

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Orange Beach

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A few days ago I sat poolside at a family resort on the Gulf of Mexico, soaking up way too much sun and not a little alcohol. The ladies had ventured out to sort through the commercial flotsam of the local shopping district, and the rest of the guys had ventured onto the high seas in search of scaly quarry. I, having become very susceptible to motion sickness in recent years, opted for a day of poolside respite.

It occurred to me, as I stared from beneath my Oakleys and ball cap, that I’d not had such an opportunity in more years than I could recall. No immediate obligations. Just time to sit, observe, and think.

It had been nine years since I returned from Iraq. Another lifetime ago, it seemed. I’m a veteran now, not someone still in the mix. I don’t run around with “OIF veteran” and USMC stickers on my truck, and I don’t wear the tee shirts or the ball cap. I like being invisible. I don’t talk about it unless asked, but it doesn’t bother me or define who I am. It’s just something I did.

But every once in a while, in rare moments like the one by the pool, the sobering reality comes back. A reality like none other. The sickening boom of an IED in the distance, immediately followed by machine gun fire. Artillery firing overhead. The “crumpf” sound of incoming mortars. The endless drone of diesel generators. Dead Marines. Live Marines. Tears of those who loved them. Photos in their pockets. Names. Faces. Sounds and smells. My God, the smells.

I’m not a nosey person, but I found myself eavesdropping on a couple of young guys hitting on the cute girl a couple of chairs down from me. They were just starting college, and she was just finishing. They were all participating in the dance, but none would admit it. Then for some reason I got a little pissed off. It was amusing really, the falseness of it all. It was all such bullshit. Just a handful of years prior to that, my fellow Marines and I numbly and mechanically processed and prepared dead Marines about the same age as these knuckleheads for their final journey home. Kids who joined the Marine Corps, perhaps with visions of wartime grandeur or maybe a genuine sense of duty, but who all met the same end: going home beneath the colors of their country in a flag-draped transfer case, leaving behind heart-broken friends and family. For what? That shithole of a country that has since reverted back to the same shithole it always was and will be? And here these kids were, absolutely oblivious to the savage reality and brutal end that other Americans their age faced just a few years prior. Damn that made me mad.

But as I sat and listened to the silly, shallow banter being exchanged between these youngsters just entering adulthood, I quietly let those feelings process, brew, and then sterilize themselves. I realized that this is exactly the way it’s supposed to be. Young Americans go off to war to do our country’s bidding, for whatever stated reason, ultimately so that other young Americans can lounge in the beachfront pool and try to get a date with other young Americans, completely oblivious to how awful a large part of the rest of the world might be.

And I was finally okay with that. Because all of us who have done it, or will do it, sign up of our own volition. We may or may not fully understand the things that drive us to do so, or what the eventual rewards will be, if any. But we do it anyway. For those of us that live to tell the tale, we lounge by the Gulf of Mexico while we watch America happen right before our eyes, and we know that it was indeed worth it. And it always will be.

Things Have Changed

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ 1 Comment

When I left law enforcement in December of 2014, there’s just no other way to say it: I’d had enough. Enough drama, enough interrupted sleep, enough politics, enough stress. I knew that life would be different once I left, but I wasn’t real sure what that would look like.

Now, less than a  year later, I find myself contrasting little things about daily life before vs. daily life after. Nothing earth-shattering here, but worth noting in my world, if for no other reason than to help me realize how far I’d become removed from some of them.

I’d really not given any of this much thought until a few weeks ago while I was driving to work and a great, hard-rocking song came on the radio: “The Confessor,” by Joe Walsh. I cranked up the volume to a truly obnoxious level, and it occurred to me that I haven’t been comfortable doing that in years. As a patrolman, I never listened to the FM in the car, because I was always paying attention to the high-band radio, waiting for the dispatcher to send me to the next “go arrest so-and-so for doing something stupid again” call or listening out for my buddies in case they needed help. I’d allowed that habit to bleed over into my civilian life, often driving my personal vehicle for miles before realizing that I didn’t have the radio on at all (I found out later that my children secretly told their mother that they didn’t like riding with me because of this). So now I crank up the radio or a playlist as loud as I like. Sometimes I even sing along (I have tinted windows to hide my shame).

Emergency lights and sirens no longer concern me, beyond the obvious, “Oh crap, I gotta get out of the way,” response when they come barreling down the road. Previously, if I was off duty and saw a unit speeding along, I would invariably think, “I wonder what he’s going to.” Now, I just get out of the way, let the car pass, and go on about my business. Likewise, if I was out in my back yard and heard multiple sirens out on the highway, possibly indicating a big incident, I dreaded the next few minutes, waiting for my cell phone to ring with a notification or request for me to respond. Now, it’s just no big deal. It’s a liberating feeling, really.

I’ve also stopped examining car tags while stopped at traffic lights, looking for the obvious violations; another habit that my wife delicately pointed out had bled over into my personal life. Now, I simply don’t care about car tags. Don’t care if you’ve got one, don’t care if it’s expired. Mine’s all good, and that’s all I’m worried about.

Same goes for minor traffic infractions. Let me qualify that by saying that I was never much of a traffic Nazi. Sure, I’d stop the blatantly stupid or unsafe ones, or I might use a minor infraction to stop a genuine bad guy, but when it came to average Joe going a little too fast on the way home from work, my heart just wasn’t in writing a ticket that was going to cost him a grocery bill. Some Chiefs and Sheriffs might not like that mindset, but I’m of the belief that there were people out there who were genuinely deserving of my law enforcement efforts, and then there was everyone else.

Which brings me to people in general. Saying that cops become jaded is far too cliché. I always thought this was true to a degree, but I mostly thought it was just another over-used crutch for some of the guys wearing badges to be assholes. But guess what? After I had a few months to decompress a little bit, I realized that I’d become the asshole. I held some people in extraordinary disdain. This wasn’t built along race, gender, or any other kind of lines; it was what I referred to as “trash” in general, and trash comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I’d largely lost sight of the fact that there are a lot of good people in this world; I just didn’t get to interact with them under positive circumstances enough for it to sink in. Sure there are still bad guys out there, but there are also a ton of good guys. And now I get to meet them and talk to them all the time. And that makes me smile.

Sleep. I haven’t slept this well in years. I never realized what a horrible effect law enforcement has on the quality of one’s rest, until I got out. Between the early years on night shift (telling myself I loved it because it sounded cool), the pagers for the SWAT team and dive team, and then later the constant phone calls throughout the night once I’d been promoted up through the ranks, I rarely got a night of unbroken sleep. Consequently, neither did my wife. Even on nights when the phone didn’t go off, it was always a thought floating in my subconscious that prevented my mind from fully committing to sleep. I think I’d simply resigned myself to a semi-zombie type of existence and accepted it as the new normal. Now, if the phone goes off in the middle of the night it’s probably a true personal emergency. Or a wrong number. Or a drunken friend needing a ride.

Speaking of telephones, I don’t hate them nearly as much now. I used to cringe every time it rang, because it was either an intrusion on my personal time, or it was a complaint, or it was yet another demand on an already unmanageable schedule. I actually fantasized about pitching the thing off the Longstreet Bridge into the depths of Lake Lanier. Now, I kinda like it when the phone rings or a text comes through. It’s almost always someone I want to talk to, regarding something I want to talk about. Fascinating concept.

Lastly, there’s freedom of time. I’m no longer bound by subpoenas, on-call rotations, special events, after-hours public meetings, ad nauseam. Now, when I get off work, I’m off. No more, “Oh, I can’t have a beer because I might get called out,” or “I can’t take the kids to this or that because I’m covering the on-call this weekend.” Now, if I get home and don’t have anywhere else that I want to go, I have a beer and enjoy it. If the kids ask if we can go somewhere this weekend, odds are that I can say, “Sure, why not!”

I realize this is all a bunch of small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, and probably means less than nothing to most people. But to say that my quality of life has improved is a gross understatement. More importantly, I think it illuminates some of the sacrifices and restrictions on the lives of my friends still working in public safety- sacrifices and restrictions that they gladly accept every single day because they love the job. God bless them.

Veteran’s Day Speech, 2014

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: This was a speech that I delivered on Veterans’ Day, 2014 for a ceremony held at Lakewood Baptist Church in Gainesville, GA. If I’d known ahead of time how much emotional difficulty I would have in delivering it, I may have backed out of the whole thing. A flood of emotion came over me, most unexpectedly, and I had to pause more than once to get through it. It brought to my attention the possibility that I may have some unreconciled issues from my tour. I’m not broken, I sleep just fine, and I don’t need sympathy; it might just be something to address. Please forgive the broken format of the writing, I’ve published it here just like I wrote the speech notes.

Veterans' Day 2014

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Good morning ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for the opportunity to speak here today.

Before I begin, I must confess that I’m here due in large part to the fact that I’m simply trying to be a good Marine.

A few months ago I was approached by a good friend of mine, LtCol Scott Ballard, USMC retired.

LtCol Ballard called me up and said he wanted to stop by my office for a friendly visit… he’s never done that before.

Now, I’ve been out of the Marine Corps for a few years, but I’ll confess that I experienced a little trepidation about the Colonel’s visit. Maybe it was just left over from the days of speaking only when spoken to by a field grade officer, I don’t know, but I was a little nervous.

So LtCol Ballard stopped in and we had a friendly chat and visited for 10 or 15 minutes before the other shoe- or combat boot, as it may be- dropped.

“Stephen,” he said, “I don’t know if you’d be interested or not, but as you know I spoke at last year’s Veteran’s Day event at Lakewood Baptist Church, and they’re wanting me to help identify someone to be this year’s speaker…”

That was the Colonel’s way of saying, “Tag- you’re it Marine!”

So like any good enlisted Marine, I said, “aye-aye sir” and marched with my orders. And here I am.

But I’m kidding, of course. I’m more than humbled and honored that the Colonel and the staff of the American Legion Post would consider me for the occasion, and I would like to thank them all for this opportunity.

In talking with the Colonel about speaking today, I explained how I wasn’t sure I’m the right person for the job. I have no grand combat exploits to tell. I didn’t suffer any tragic war wounds or have a chest full of medals for valor. I’m no hero… I’m just a regular Marine.

“Just tell a story,” he said.

So I gave that some thought, and I came to the conclusion that I’m not really comfortable telling my own lackluster story, when there are so many men and women out there that have truly extraordinary ones.

I guess I feel a little embarrassed to stand here today drawing attention to myself, because there truly are heroes among us, despite that term being somewhat over-used in recent years, and they are the ones deserving of the credit.

But back to my purpose today… “just tell a story,” the Colonel said.

So I thought about it, and the only way to say it is this: my story is not mine at all. It’s the story of veterans- all of us.

And after all that’s what today all about – Veteran’s Day.

Webster’s defines a veteran as “an old soldier of long service or a former member of the armed forces.”

While I don’t disagree with that definition, it’s a bit mechanical, and I say that because it leaves so many things unmentioned.

It does an adequate job of telling us what a veteran is… but it fails miserably in telling us who our veterans are.

So that’s what I’d like to do… talk about who our veterans are.

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The definition doesn’t allude to the turmoil experienced by all Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines when they find themselves saddled with the task of informing their loved ones that they would soon be shipping out for war- either by choice or mandate.

For me, that was a night not unlike many others. It was 2005 and I had just recently re-joined the Marine Corps Reserve after being out for several years. My wife- who was very pregnant at the time with our second son- sat with me in our living room watching TV, after we’d put our three year-old son to bed.

My stomach was in a knot, but somehow I finally got up the gumption to tell her that her that a deployment opportunity was on the horizon and they were calling for volunteers.

I didn’t really know how to advance the conversation beyond that point, but she was obviously reading my mind.

“Are you thinking you want to go?” she asked.

My response was to say- almost apologetically- “I’d kinda like to.”

And with tears welling up in her eyes, knowing full well that I had a choice in the matter, my wife’s only reply was, “well I don’t guess you really have any choice, do you?”

How many times has that same scenario played out in living rooms across America?

Those men and women- the ones that have had to look their wives and husbands in the eye and say it’s time to go- they are your veterans.

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But I should probably back up just a bit.

When I rejoined the reserve, I really did it with one intention- to deploy to either Iraq or Afghanistan at the earliest opportunity.

I didn’t have to wait long. The Marine Corps soon announced that it need volunteers for a deployment cycle, and it didn’t matter what your military occupational specialty was because they were filling billets for a unit called “PRP.”

Well, in the lingo that I knew, the acronym “PRP” stood for Provisional Rifle Platoon, otherwise known as combat replacements.

“This is it!” I thought. I’m going to get my chance at an assignment with an infantry unit and fulfill the age-old axiom that the Marine Corps lives by: “Every Marine is first and foremost a rifleman.”

Well… not exactly. In this instance, PRP was short for Personnel Retrieval and Processing- formerly known as mortuary affairs, or in wars past as graves registration. The primary mission of the unit is the timely and proper evacuation of our battlefield casualties back to the United States for burial.

I gave it some thought, and in the end I decided that as unpleasant a business as that may be, it was a very important one.

“No one left behind” is a common phrase in the military. It was time to put my money where my mouth was. So I signed up.

Which brings me back to that conversation with my wife that night.

A short time after that, I hugged and kissed my wife, my newborn son, and my 3 year-old before heading out the door with my sea bags packed.

And that scenario too, has been repeated all across the country, far too many times to count.

All the men and women who packed their gear and kissed their babies goodbye- some for the last time- they are your veterans.

———————————————–

Shortly after I arrived in Fallujah, we were sent out on our first recovery mission. A Humvee had been hit by an improvised explosive device. Several Marines had been wounded, and one had been killed.

Our team arrived at the attack site in the pre-dawn hours and we were met by a young, solemn-faced Staff Sergeant who explained the security situation, the attack, and then pointed us to the vehicle.

He left us to the grim task of recovering the fallen Marine from the vehicle, and once completed, prepared us all for extraction from the area. But before we all mounted up in our vehicles, he paused and thanked us.

The SSgt told us that the Marine that had been killed was only on the mission that night because he wanted to be. His unit’s tour was at its end, but he’d tagged along just to make sure- one last time- that the crew that was replacing him was locked-on. He didn’t even have to be there. Had he not gone, the SSgt I was speaking to would probably have been in that seat.

That sobering reality was visible all over the SSgt’s face.

How many of our servicemen and women have lived through it- right next to others that didn’t- and been tormented by the question, “Why them and not me?” Those men and women are your veterans.

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One afternoon in Fallujah our team was at the command post with nothing much going on. In our business, boredom was a good thing.

We were situated right next door to the battalion surgical center, so you can probably imagine some of the activity that went on around there.

Suddenly we heard the sound of vehicles rapidly approaching, with horns blaring and someone shouting.

The vehicles roared up to surgical and a frenzy of Marines and Navy Corpsmen swarmed over one particular Humvee, off-loading casualties and rushing them inside.

One Marine- the one that we’d heard doing all the shouting- was obviously distraught.

He dismounted from the turret of his vehicle, slammed his helmet on the ground and turned loose a blistering string of profanity as he kicked the helmet and slung the rest of his gear onto the ground before collapsing to his knees and weeping uncontrollably.

A Navy Chaplain was soon at his side.

His buddy was one of those casualties and had been killed by a sniper.

That Marine, and countless others that lose their buddies in hostile foreign lands- they are your veterans.

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As part of our job, we always dealt with a representative from the unit of a fallen Marine, usually the most senior enlisted men and officers. There were business matters that had to be tended to: positive identification, inventory of gear and personal affects, etc.

As a result, senior leadership visited us often, and they were familiar with our processes, procedures, and some of the challenges we faced.

One of those challenges was that we weren’t always able to get a fallen service member immediately en route for evacuation. Sometimes aircraft weren’t readily available, sometimes weather prohibited flight, sometimes hostile fire delayed them.

For any number of reasons, sometimes we just couldn’t start them on their final journey home right away, and our senior leaders understood this.

As such, a grim reality is that our unit had to maintain a walk-in refrigeration unit for such occasions. It was around in the back of our building, behind camouflage netting, out of sight from everyone. Those senior leaders knew about it though.

On more than one occasion, long after a casualty was brought in, processed, and awaiting a transport helicopter, we would get a knock on the door in the darkness.

We would open it to be greeted solemnly by one or two of those senior leaders, sometimes with a Navy Chaplain in tow, with a simple request: “can I step out back to spend a few minutes with my Marine?”

It was against our policy to do this once the refrigeration unit was closed, but I don’t have to tell you what our reply was. We violated that policy every single time.

I would unlock the unit and stand by, cover in hand and head bowed while those leaders attempted to make their peace with what had happened to one of those in their charge.

It wasn’t until I saw a Captain of Marines lift his head from prayer one night at the doorway of that refrigeration unit with tears in his eyes that I fully appreciated the burden of command.

That Captain, and all those that lead us into battle, willingly bearing that burden and living with the consequences- they are your veterans.

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And while there are many more instances that I could relate that are no less poignant than these, I’ll relate just one more.

While serving at AL Taqaddum we received word that a unit was bringing in a casualty, but this one was going to be handled a little bit differently. Members of his unit would be present while we conducted our business, which was expressly forbidden under normal circumstances.

Prior to their arrival we learned that the casualty was the first Navy SEAL to be killed in Iraq, and his teammates were accompanying him all the way home.

There was much trepidation prior to their arrival, but once they were at our facility it became clear that these men were in fact the consummate professionals that they were reputed to be.

What we saw was not a down-trodden crew, hanging their heads and moping about in sorrow.

They were solemn, yes. But there was an indescribable air about them. They had a grim task at hand, and they were mourning their friend and comrade, but it was very clear that this too would pass.

And when it did, they would be right back in the fray, doing what they train to do.

Absolute professionals.

And that is the final point that I’ll leave you with- the men and women who we task with our nation’s most daunting tasks, the most dangerous missions in the most hostile lands, to go abroad and do our country’s bidding despite all the sacrifices and personal loss- those are your veterans.

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In closing ladies and gentlemen, I would like to simply say thank you.

I thank those of you who have served… for your service.

I thank those of you who have loved and supported those who have served.

And I thank this great nation of ours for the opportunity to serve. For that I owe a debt of gratitude.

May God bless our veterans, and may God bless the United States of America.

Memorial Day in Iraq

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: Another piece from my blog during Operation Iraqi Freedom. It struck me at the time that I was spending Memorial Day living and seeing exactly what that day is all about in our country, and probably changed forever the seriousness and reverence with which I observe the holiday.

Sunrise, somewhere along MSR Michigan, Anbar Province, Iraq.
Sunrise, somewhere along MSR Michigan, Anbar Province, Iraq.

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Somewhere in America, a family sleeps late in comfortable beds in their air-conditioned home, because it’s a national holiday and there is no school or work.

Somewhere in Iraq, a Marine rises before dawn after sleeping for a few hours on a hard, concrete floor or on the dusty ground. He doesn’t even know it’s a holiday as he preps himself and his gear for another day in a hostile land.

The family sits at their kitchen table and has a late breakfast of eggs, omelets, or pancakes, with fresh milk and coffee while they leaf through the newspaper and talk about what they’ll do for the day.

The Marine sits cross-legged on the ground, cuts open his MRE with his knife, and eats it cold. It’s not even a breakfast meal, and he washes it down with the first swallows of what will turn out to be gallons of water that he’ll drink during the course of the day. He’ll chat with another Marine or two about the day’s operation.

The family will take leisurely showers under steaming hot water, with soap and shampoo. They’ll dry off using fresh, plush towels and put on comfortable slippers.

The Marine might get a chance to take a field bath using baby-wipes. He’ll knock the edge off of the whiskers protruding from his face with something resembling a razor. There will be a vain attempt to mask his prominent odor with deodorant and perhaps a fresh t-shirt, but he hasn’t had fresh cammies to put on in a week, making it all an effort in futility. He puts on the same boots he’s worn for months, the ones that have caused his feet to be covered in calluses.

The family is off to the lake for the day. They’ve loaded their boat with coolers, picnic supplies, water skis and fishing poles.

The Marine is off on yet another patrol. He’s loaded his Humvee with water, medical supplies, a heavy machine gun, and extra ammunition.

The family cruises across the glistening water, bouncing on the boat wakes and waving to the other boaters.

The Marine rides along dry, dusty roads behind bulletproof glass and armor. Lots of people watch him pass. Nobody waves.

The family stops at lunchtime on an island in the lake. Pulling up to the beach, they unload their supplies and set out a comfortable spread. The children run about and explore the area.

The Marine stops about lunchtime, too. But his purpose is to set up a vehicle checkpoint to search for insurgents transporting bomb-making material. He unloads concertina wire, signs, and temporary barriers. He doesn’t eat lunch. No one ventures far from the vehicles.

On the lake, the family enjoys the sunshine wearing their swimsuits and flip-flops. They slather themselves in suntan oil to develop a nice, golden tan.

Out on the patrol, the Marine detests the sun because the temperature is already well over 100 degrees. He labors under the weight of his protective gear and sweats clear through his cammies. He smears the strongest sunblock he can find on what little skin is exposed because it’s been red with sunburn for days on end.

In the afternoon, the family heads back to the shore and loads up for the trip home. The kids fall asleep in the back seat during the ride, and the local radio station plays the latest hits.

After wrapping up the checkpoint, the Marine mounts back up and moves out toward their final destination for the day. Everyone is tired, but they struggle to stay awake and stay alert. The only radio they have is the one that links them with the rest of the patrol and the command post.

On their drive home, the family hits a pothole in the roadway and complains about what a lousy job of road maintenance the county is doing.

On his drive back to the operating base, the Marine is hit by an IED.

At the end of the day, the family arrives back home a little tired, but safe and sound, and happy to have spent the day together.

In Iraq, the Marine is mourned by his comrades and commanders. He’s laid in a flag-draped casket for the journey home.

In America, as the family settles in for the evening, there is a knock at the door. Standing at the threshold are two solemn faced Marines in dress blues…

Pardon my Sensationalism

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: I originally published this piece on Red State Rant, for a lack of a better place, while I was still a slick-sleeved patrolman. It struck a chord with some of the online blogs and got picked up and passed around a bit. Still hurts to remember this one. I did okay handling incidents involving most anything, but when it came to kids as victims I didn’t do so well.

_________________________

A couple of days ago I had the unfortunate task of taking part in a search for a 4 year old boy that went missing from his home. My role in the search was that of a minor player on the periphery of events, canvassing a nearby neighborhood.  Even though I’d been instructed to remain in service for other calls, I just couldn’t stay away.

Here is the story from our local paper, the Gainesville (Ga) Times.

While the newspaper story is factual and adequately relates the tragedy, for me it fails to convey the overwhelming feeling of desperation that continued to grow as the minutes ticked by. Radio channels were cleared, alerts were made by phone, media, and in person. Numerous agencies responded. Officers were called off of other duties and training to assist. Helicopters, fixed-wing planes, boats, and K9 trackers all raced to the scene. The sense of urgency was palpable.

But the telling moment came when a fellow deputy radioed that he had located the boy’s Cocker Spaniel on a boat dock. The dog had not left that dock until someone arrived. You can choose to believe it or not believe it, but I’m a dog man, and I’m telling you- dogs know. That little dog knew.

We continued the area search, but I had a terrible, sinking feeling. As quickly as the dive team could assemble, they entered the water at the dock, where they found the boy in 12 feet of water. EMT’s immediately began attempts to revive him, and a massive effort to block intersections through town resulted in a parting of traffic like that of the Red Sea, allowing the ambulance and its escort units to race to the waiting emergency room at unprecedented speed. But all efforts failed. He’d simply been in the water too long. Alex Taylor, dressed in his gray shorts, green t-shirt, and Thomas the Train sneakers was dead at 4 years old.

Folks, I’m not gonna lie, and I’m not ashamed of it. When that went out over the radio, I parked the patrol car behind a church and cried. I suddenly had an almost uncontrollable desire to rush to the daycare center where my own 2½ year old son was probably out on the playground enjoying the beautiful spring weather, just to make sure he was okay. I couldn’t imagine losing him that way. I’m sure what that family is going through is incomprehensible to someone who hasn’t experienced it. But there wasn’t much time for sorrow. Soon the radio crackled to life and I was back to work.

That night I went home and hugged my son like it might just be the last chance I ever had to do so. I told him that I love him, and we played on the floor together until bedtime. After he was safe in his bed asleep, I sat on the floor in the hallway outside of his room and wept shamelessly. God keep our children.

Standing in the Gap

~ Stephen Wilbanks ~ Leave a comment

Author’s note: I wrote this piece for an internally published, quarterly newsletter for the Hall County (GA) Sheriff’s Office, a department of about 450 personnel. I was a Sergeant serving as the Public Information Officer at the time, so I was in charge of the rag and ended up being the primary writer. Getting cops to write much of anything other than an incident report was quite the chore.

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Standing in the Gap

“To expose oneself for the protection of something; to make defense against any assailing danger; to take the place of a fallen defender or supporter.”

Question: Do these words strike a chord with you? Should they? More directly, how seriously do you take your job? Taken at face value, that’s an easy question. But how serious do you really take it? Is it just a paycheck, a means to retirement, or a source of job security in a tough economy? Taken as a meaningful question, it’s not one to be answered lightly.

I think a great number of us probably entered this profession with a starry-eyed vision of greatness. And that’s okay; there’s no shame in thinking that we could make the world a better place by putting bad guys in jail. That’s why little boys (and girls) grow up playing cops and robbers, and we should all take pride in wanting to be the good guys.

But as the shine has worn off our badges, the reality is evident. We can’t save everyone– some don’t want to be saved. We won’t change a lot of neighborhoods– some don’t even want us around. The public won’t always hail us as heroes and praise our actions– sometimes they will hate us and condemn our actions. Then there’s the bad politics and disappointments in the justice system to drag us all down.

Does it wear on you? Do you sometimes wonder why you continue to do it? I don’t mind admitting that I sometimes grow weary of it. I think it comes with the territory, and that it’s merely human nature. But it’s what we do with that fatigue and those doubts that define us. How do we acknowledge all of these things and continue to carry out our sworn duties?

Any number of people will have their own individual answers. For me, I sleep soundly at night knowing that in a world that’s far from black and white, I don’t operate in the gray area. At the end of the day, I can say unequivocally that I’m on the right side of things. As I raise my two young sons and try my best to teach them right from wrong, I can look them squarely in the eyes and tell them that their Dad is one of the good guys. I never want the shame of knowing that they might question that.

Life is easy. Go get a job, earn a living, pay your bills, live honorably, and look out for you and yours. Nothing wrong with any of that. But for some of us, at some point, we decided that we would be the ones to stand in the gap. We knew that someone had to do the job, and we asked ourselves a very simple question: If not me, then who? And we stepped up.

Take pride in that, and never forget why we do what we do.

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.