Exception to the Rule

The chaos occurring currently in Egypt and the Near-East reminds me of how grateful I am to live in this United States of America.  I cannot comprehend how difficult it must be to live in a land where one despot is traded for another.  It's disconcerting when of all the parties vying for the power seat, the Muslim Brotherhood, with its ties to Hamas and other Jihadist organizations is seen as what would possibly be the closest thing to a "democracy".

While I'm definitely still young, I have been to quite a few countries over the years (Afghanistan, Kuwait, Korea, Qatar, Russia to name a few).  While people do experience varying level of personal freedom is some of these countries, they all pale in comparison to the freedom experienced here.  Americans truly are blessed to live where we do.

I sometimes wonder why it is that America's fate has turned out so differently from that of other countries.  Is it the American dream?  Is it democracy?  Is it capitalism?  There are many elements in this grand equation, but I think there is one overriding factor:

A well-known Russian author named Mikhail Bulgakov explained the American phenomenon, though unintentionally and indirectly, in his book Heart of a Dog.  The book is actually a satire of communist Russia.  In the story, a dog undergoes an operation that leads to its development of human-like characteristics.  It eventually becomes so humanoid that it is even able to obtain registration (a national ID) and a name.  Eventually, though, the man-dog turns back into a dog.  The surgeon remarks that this occurred because the subject, despite its humanoid appearance, always had the heart of a dog.

Social change cannot be forced.  The shedding of one social structure or government and the donning of another doesn't simply happen overnight and is always in danger of reverting to its original state.  The transformation from despotism to a free society is obviously even more difficult.  Those in power of course are unwilling to sacrifice it without a fight.

This, I believe, is why nation-building is so ineffective.  Sure, an outside force can come into an area and create some semblance of a new government and social structure, but once that outside support is gone, the house of cards will likely come crashing down.  There are some exceptions to the rule.  America is no doubt the shining example of this.

So why did freedom take hold here?  Simple.  America as we know it is not the result of an exclusive transformation from one society to another.  It was founded on principles of freedom and liberty.  As Thomas Paine eluded in common sense, America is the closest instance in known history where a natural society was able to take place.  The founders of America were fleeing despotism and dictatorships in search of religious and economic freedom.  While there was in fact considerable resistance among the early Americans to fight for the revolution for freedom, the social obstacles were overcome because the residents of this new world were largely those who rejected despotism on principle and had freedom and liberty in their hearts.

In the simplest of terms, America is a fluke.  An exception to the rule always in danger of succumbing to nature and reverting to the norm a statist society with a more oppressive government and less personal freedom.  We have, as Franklin said, a republic, if we can keep it.
    

Blame Game

"We don’t have proof yet that this was political, but the odds are that it was. She's been the target of violence before. And for those wondering why [Gabrielle Giffords] might be a target, the answer is that she’s a Democrat who survived what was otherwise a GOP sweep in Arizona..." - Paul Krugman

"It's not the right,but the left that glorifies criminal behavior and violent imagery." - Rush Limbaugh

"Because I think it's the vitriolic rhetoric that we hear day in and day out from people in the radio business and some people in the TV business..." - Sheriff Clarence Dupnik

"You could see, just by watching the crowds at McCain-Palin rallies, that it was ready to happen..." - Paul Krugman

"The left is coming and will hit us hard on this. We need to push back harder with the simple truth. The shooter was a liberal lunatic." - Judson Phillips

Is it just me, or did we have a list of people and organizations responsible for the tragic shooting in Tucson before we even had a list of names of Jared Laughner's victims?  The left says the right is responsible, the right says it's the left's fault.  I can't help but wonder if any of these people have based their accusation in fact.  Are we to assume that a list of pundits and public speakers are responsible for Laughner's actions?

Wouldn't it be safer to say that the people responsible for what Laughner did are the people who he lists as influential?  After some digging, one will find that Laughner had published a list of favorite books on his YouTube channel.  On the list - Wizard of Oz, Fahrenheit 451, The Communist Manifesto, Mein Kampf, and The Republic.  So, if we follow the facts, then, the real offenders here are not talk radio, but L. Frank Baum, Ray Bradbury, Karl Marx, Hitler, and Plato, right?

Obviously, it's absurd to assume that Plato is responsible for this tragedy.  Equally as absurd as it is to assume that Sarah Palin is responsible.

So who is really responsible?  JARED LAUGHNER of course!!!  Not Sarah Palin, not Rush Limbaugh, not Plato.

It amazes me how so many media-ites and pundits jump at the chance to politicize a tragedy like this.  This should be a time of national solidarity as we band together to condemn this atrocity instead of a time to point fingers.  It shouldn't be used as an opportunity to blame each other or a map of the US with "cross-hairs" on it, or the voice on the radio.  Finger-pointing only further intensifies an already electric situation.  I am so happy to see that at least President Obama has taken the high road and asked us all to come together and pray for the victims of this tragedy instead of pointing fingers.  I hope that more high profile figures can follow suit.

Is there an underlying theme to all of this that only a few will notice?  The fact that many people seem to point to a gamut of causes for this tragedy instead of squarely blaming the actual perpetrator (at least in my eyes) poses a question.  We all know who pulled the trigger, but why are so many eager to search for the "man behind the curtain" that made him do it?  I know the primary reason for the blame game is that many view this as a chance to advance a political cause, but could it be possible that the search for a puppeteer also indicates a growing lack of emphasis on personal responsibility?
  

Chapter One

I'll continue to share bits of my "memoirs" here.  I won't share everything before I'm done, but some entries will slip onto my blog.

I hope you enjoy it.

1.

Paradise Lost

Things were great.  Life was great.  Everything was great.  Heck, being in Tampa had made me so agreeable that I was close to thinking that babysitting this bunch of ex-Soviet prima donnas was great.  Almost.  A shattering glass snapped me out of my Zen-trance.  Rustam was throwing a drunken temper tantrum.  Apparently his waitress wasn’t being “friendly” enough.  He was certainly a pig when he was drunk.

I was stationed in Tampa for the whole month of August.  It was my National Guard annual training (AT) for 2007.  And I must admit it was about the best AT anybody could ask for.  My friends in the artillery or engineers often told me about the weeks they’d spend carting around some base just wasting time.  Well, I certainly had a story for them when I got back. 

Here I sat, at Hooters, with a bunch of diplomats from former soviet states like Kyrgizstan and Kazakhstan.  It might have been odd, but it was interesting, and I was enjoying myself, generally.  I’d take an AT of chauffeuring around a bunch of spoiled officers and politicians over sleeping in a tent with a bunch of guys who haven’t showered for two weeks any day, and I even like to camp.

After explaining to Rustam that Hooters was not a strip club and that the nice waitress didn’t understand Russian and would not take her clothes off for him, I convinced my inebriated group to allow me to escort them back to their hotel.  This was really a selfish effort on my part as my shift was about to end.  Once I got the guys back to the hotel, Sergeant Saunders would take over.

Over the last few weeks I had fallen into a daily routine.  I got up at 6 am, had breakfast by 7, attended briefings from 8 until 4 pm with a break for lunch, then took the group out to dinner somewhere at 5 pm.  Once dinner was over I’d rush the guys back to the hotel and swap keys with Saunders, who had elected to take the night shift.  I gave him the van key in exchange for the keys to our rented Chevrolet Cobalt.  Once I had the keys, I was free.  Like every other evening, I was off to the beach.  

The beach time helped me relax away the stress caused by pulling Rustam off of random women.  I’d swim for an hour or so then lie on the beach until the sun went down.  Nothing melts the stress away like watching a Gulf sunset.  Once I was chillaxed, I’d head back to the hotel.  Like I said, life was great.  The taxpayers treated me well.

I almost felt guilty about this cushy assignment.  Almost.  You see, I’d gone on two terrible ATs the previous year.  The first was to Korea where I nearly froze to death while playing war games and running fake sources as practice for gathering intel on the enemy.  My second AT the last year was in Tampa as well.  Only last year I worked my tail off.  I rigged A/V equipment, babysat diplomats 24/7 and transcribed the previous days briefing notes from Russian into English and English into Russian for half the night.  Each day I tried not to nod off while I ran the power point presentations and served as backup translator when the full time State Department translator decided he needed a break.  I didn’t get to see Tampa last year.  Instead I was in a daze for two weeks then flew home.

Apparently, the bigwigs at last year’s conference liked me.  The officer in charge was impressed enough that he awarded me the Joint Service Achievement Medal at the end of the conference.  This year, when my unit got the call to send a guy down again, I found out that he had personally requested that I return.  I was hesitant to agree to that kind of torture again, but was informed that the conference was much more organized this year.  I would not have to translate nor transcribe, nor would I work for 24 hours a day – just 12.  This assignment would last a month, I would have a rental car, and would be off on Sundays.  Once I realized that I might actually see Tampa this time, I agreed. 

Boy, was I glad I had.

Today was Friday, which meant that this week's delegates would fly home tomorrow after going to Busch Gardens.  Did I mention that I went to Busch Gardens every weekend?  Since the theme park didn’t open until 10, I could get up a bit later than usual tomorrow, which to me meant that I could stay up later tonight.  I decided to see a movie.

When I got to the movie theater, I discovered that the only movie playing in the next 20 minutes was Hot Rod.  I’d seen the previews and thought it would be a funny, albeit stupid film.  When I paid for the $14 ticket, I thought that perhaps this movie thing was a bad idea.  It was.  Hot Rod was terrible.  I’m no movie critic, but you don’t have to be one to hate that flick.  I knew I should have just stayed at the beach.  About a half hour in, right after Hot Rod had crashed his Moped for the umpteenth time and right before I was about to walk out on my $14 movie, my phone rang.  I’d forgotten to silence it.  I slipped out of the theater and answered.

“Hello?”

“Specialist Hansen?”  I hated being called Specialist.  I was only a few months away from being eligible for Sergeant.  Couldn’t they just call me that now?

“Yes, sir?”  I had a pretty good idea who was calling.

“This is Captain Hanes.”  I was beginning to really hate this movie.

I’ve just got word that the other MI battalion is deploying to Afghanistan next year.  They need three Human Intelligence Collectors from our unit to go with.” 

Yup, this movie officially sucked.

“There are only five of you HumInt guys in my unit and, frankly, I’m not confident in three of them.”  He never told me who the three were.  “Can you go?” 

I never thought that my commanding officer would ask me nicely to go to Afghanistan. 

He was really just pretending to ask nicely, though.  You see, he was told that he needed volunteers.  This was my chance to volunteer by saying yes to a kind request instead of being volun”told” to go. 

“Absolutely, sir, I’ll do it.  Do you know any specific dates for training and actual deployment yet?”  I realized that my voice was a bit shaky.

“No dates and no details yet, just that it’ll be next year.  I’ll keep you posted.  Out.”  Captain Hanes treated telephones like they were radios.

  

By now I had forgotten about the movie.  Instead my mind was flooded with questions as I wandered out of the theater.  Where, exactly, would I be going? What would I be doing? Who were the other two guys going with me?  Would Sergeant Herman go?  I couldn’t stand that creep.

CRAP!  What’s my wife going to think?  I just volunteered to go to Afghanistan for a year without asking her first.

In my defense, I’d been married for less than a year.  I really hadn’t completely settled into the “gotta ask my wife” routine, yet.  I decided that I’d better wait until I got back to the hotel and settled down before I called and told her.

When I got back, Saunders was in the lobby.  He looked preoccupied.  “You going, too?”  I asked.  He just nodded his reply.  At least Saunders was going.  He was a stud – nothing like Herman.  We sat and talked for the next couple hours.  Turns out that Saunders got the call first. 

I think Saunders had picked Captain Hanes’ brain until he decided to tell me and whoever the next guy was that he had no details.  Saunders got out of Hanes that we would be split up into teams and assigned to different forward operating bases (FOBs).  He said that we would actually be running sources and gathering intel.  We’d be doing our jobs.  It turns out that my time in Korea would turn out to be of some use, after all.

After googling Afghanistan a hundred times, pouring over maps of the region, and picking each other’s brains, we decided to call it a night.  I went up to my room and picked up the phone.  I had no idea what to say to Nikki.  In retrospect, I think I was actually having an anxiety attack.  I couldn’t see straight, I couldn’t think straight, I was shaking, I felt cold, and I kept standing up then sitting back down.  I put down the phone and decided to call her when I had calmed down.  Then I sat and let my mind race until I drifted off to sleep.

I wasn’t in as jovial a mood that Saturday at Busch Gardens.  One of the delegates actually asked me what was wrong.  I told him that I just hadn’t gotten enough sleep.  A half truth.  I was still trying to find out how to tell Nikki.  I resolved to tell her after the delegates had left for home and I had some free time.  Procrastinator.

That afternoon, after seeing off the delegates, I finally called her.  Oddly enough, I don’t remember the conversation.  I know I told her.  I know she wasn’t happy about the news but tried to be understanding and supportive all the same.  All I really remember is feeling much better after we had talked.  God bless good wives.

I had one more week to go.  The Uzbeks were coming to town next week.  Once they were gone, it was clean up then home.  But that was next week.  Right now, I was feeling a bit stressed out.  I really wanted to go to the beach.
  

Pension Tension

As the 112th congress began its session this week, several historic events occurred:

Right of the bat, history was made when Nancy Pelosi, America's first Old Navy mannequin to serve as Speaker of the House became the first such house minority leader when she handed over the gavel to John Beohner.  Boehner made history as well, being the first Oompa Loompa to serve as Speaker of the House.  But congress was just getting started.

In an historic display, congress proved to the american people once and for all that (1) it can come to a bi-partisan resolution and (2) congressmen really can read, when it resolved to read the constitution out loud in its entirety.  Let's not forget that many congressmen present had to remove the warning labels off their copies of the constitution in order to read them.

The house got to business when a young house member from Utah, Rep Jason Chaffetz, presented a resolution that congress will not bail out states' unfunded pension liabilities.  Chaffetz believes that states should be responsible for their own employees' pension plans and should not come looking for a handout when the tap runs dry.  A congressman calling for fiscal responsibility, another first.

Anyway, the pension crisis really is a problem.  Nationally, the states are harboring over $1,000,000,000,000 in unfunded pension accounts right now.  That means that the states have to come up with a million dollars a million times in order to meet the obligations they have promised their future retirees.  That's a lot of money, and Jason Chaffetz doesn't want to foot the bill.  How selfish.

Chaffetz feels that his state of Utah, named by the pew research center one of the nation's best managed states in 2005 and 2008, should not be punished for its success by having its taxpayers forced into bailing out states that have proven to be fiscally retarded.  Like I said, selfish.

I'm amazed at how readily our politicians promise things that they simply can't deliver.  Logistics seem to be an afterthought when they're legislating.  If they were thinking about logistics, Pittsburgh might have foreseen the hundreds of millions of dollars it may short its retirees.  So, here's my logistical solution.

States and municipalities need to quit offering extravagant pension plans and put the employee back in the driver's seat.  I was a federal employee for some time, so, though I have bailed out of that runaway train into the private sector, I do have a bit of experience in that arena.  Offering to continue to pay an employee a large percentage of his salary for the rest of his life after he gives you 15 or 20 of years of service is absurd.  By doing so, you create your own little (or big) ponzi scheme.  Eventually, more people are on the government's retirement dole than are paying into the pension system and the system collapses.

While I actually have a hard time believing that government employees deserve a better retirement than everybody else, I can understand the argument.  Firemen rescue, policemen protect, sanitation workers sanitize (unless they're from New York), etc. I understand that our lives would not to be the same if public employees didn't show up to work.  Then again, our lives might change just as drastically if all the nation's Walmart employees decided to stay home for a week or two.

The solution that would benefit all, as I alluded earlier, is to put the employee in the driver's seat.  Rather than offering an elaborate retirement package, governments should offer a great "company match" to its employees 401k accounts.  A "company match" of 5% is nearly unheard of in todays corporate climate.  I would propose a government match closer to 10% just to be nice.  Frankly, I would kill for such a deal.  For example, an entry level police officer in Utah can expect to make about $34,500 / year in base salary initially and over twice that if he works for 20+ years.  If he puts 10% of his salary into his 401k, that would magically become 20% / month.  If he invested that 20% / month at a reasonable 8% rate of return he could expect to have around $500,000 at the end of his 20 years.  Considering that the average retirement savings of a new retiree is under $70,000, I'd say he would be in a considerably better position that the average Joe.  And since we all know that all police officers die at age 59, that $500,000 would let him retire like a king.

I know it sounds harsh.  But reality is harsh.  And, the fact is, by promising pension plans that they simply cannot deliver, many municipalities have put themselves into a position in which, unless they get a bailout, they may not be able to give their retirees anything at all.  I'd much rather be realistic and have something to eat when I retire than rely on a near bankrupt pension plan for my late-life income.  Just sayin'.

All that requires one thing, though.  Responsibility.  Something, as I said earlier, that our country might just be finding for the first time in its recent history.
 

Sneak Peek

I've been pondering a way to record my experiences in Afghanistan.  I'm terrible at keeping a journal.  I've tried at least a dozen times and never made it for more than a few days or maybe weeks before stopping.  But I feel that I have to write this down before I forget.  While it's a chapter of my life that is personal and dear to my heart, for some reason I don't feel I should keep to myself.

I think it's the writing style that makes it hard for me to keep a journal.  I don't like to record events, and I hate writing letters so the dear diary crap won't work for me.  I do, however, like to write stories or articles.  So I decided to write down my experience as if it were a book.  Each significant event will have its own chapter.  I'll try to keep them chronological, but it has been over 2 years, so I might not do that well.  Maybe I'll publish it when I'm done.  And then again, maybe not.  Maybe I'll show it to a publisher and be told that nobody is dumb enough to publish that crap.  We'll see.

All the same, I just finished writing down my first entry.  I thought I'd share it.  Think of it as a teaser or a movie preview.

I changed people's names, as some might not want to be written about.

Introduction

The way things are

The sun beat down on the dirt streets as Walid stood behind his old rusty gate, staring straight ahead blankly.  He wasn’t looking at anything in particular, really just trying to settle his nerves.  He took a few deep breaths to collect himself, straightened his grey vest and pakol, then pushed the gate open.  As he walked out into the street his gate slammed shut behind him.  Walid couldn’t help but jump at the noise.  He put on some cheap sunglasses and pressed on until he reached the taxi that was waiting for him.

Walid gave the driver a few Afghani and softly told him where he wanted to go.  The driver looked back at him questioningly at first, but after Walid firmly nodded and pointed south, he put the corolla into gear and turned into the busy market street.  In the back seat, Walid tried to relax, but couldn’t help but fidget and look around suspiciously, as if he was being watched.

Walid really was being watched.  Five miles away a few soldiers and I sat in a control room looking at a monitor.  We were watching live video feed taken by a surveillance balloon that was floating hundreds of feet in the air over the Afghan desert.  Walid’s departure signaled the beginning of a complex operation that was the result of several weeks of planning and preparation.

Walid, as nice as he tried to seem, was really the scum of the earth.  He was a low-life pawn in an insurgent cell that had made a habit of blowing up cars and setting roadside bombs in the southern part of the province.  Walid was the second cousin of Abdul Hamsa, the leader of this cell, but seemed to resent his cousin.  Walid had been giving my team information on the cell’s activities for some time now, but hadn’t really managed to give us anything of real value.  It was unclear whether Walid felt guilty about selling his family out for a sum that wasn’t more than a few dollars or if he thought that stringing out the Americans for a bit longer might fetch him some more money.  It was probably both.  Either way, we had told Walid that he had better give us something of consequence or we were cutting the ties.

This was something of consequence.

Walid had informed us that Abdul Hamsa was planning an elaborate attack on the route-clearing patrol that came through his area once or twice a week.  The group had tried some explosives out, but the route-clearing equipment the soldiers had was built to withstand what Abul Hamsa’s group had thrown at them.  So Abdul Hamsa had decided to go big.  He had called a meeting for today to discuss the plan.  And we made sure that Walid invited himself.  He was to identify Abdul Hamsa and then stay at the meeting and report the plans to us.

We had told Walid that we would be watching from a nearby mountainside, but we all knew that Walid knew we were going to use the balloon to watch the meeting.  Afghans may be poor and uneducated, but not dumb.

My little team sat in our control room and watched Walid work his way south on what in America would be considered a lousy farm road.  In Afghanistan, though, this was a highway.  The driver dodged goats, jingle trucks, and crowds of people as it worked is way south to a little complex on the north side of the next village.  Walid stopped the car and spoke to the driver, sending him on his way.  The driver, as if he know what was going on (and he may have), took off to the north hastily.

A small group of men welcomed Walid as he entered the compound.  They all bowed slightly and muttered greetings to each other for a few moments.  As Walid approached one man he removed his pakol then shook his hand.  

“That’s the signal.  That’s him!” exclaimed Jake, a member of my team.

“It looks like it,” I said.

Captain Hoffer, the lead in this operation, told his radioman to call the Kiowa team and let them know that the operation was a go.  There was some excited radio chatter as the coordinates and description of the meeting site were relayed and confirmed then confirmed again.

“Do you think they have any idea of what is about to happen?” asked Sam.

“No way,” Jake replied defiantly. “Riley told him he had to stay at the meeting so he could report back to us on how it went.  The douchebag doesn’t have a clue.  Hey, out of curiosity, how much did you say you’d pay him for this anyway, Riley?”

“I gave him twenty bucks and told him that if all went well and if he had some good info for us, I’d give him fifty when we met next,” I replied.

“Douchebag doesn’t have a clue.”

We sat in anticipation and stared at our little screen as the meeting began.  Abdul Hamsa sat directly across from Walid.  They and a couple of other guys who were sitting in the circle were staring at another man who seemed to be explaining something to the group.  The man was wearing a long, black turban that nearly touched the ground.  He seemed upset and was shouting at the rest of the group.

“Riley, I think that’s Abdul Hamsa, not the other guy,” commented Sam.

“I think you’re right.  Captain Hoffer, do you see this?”

“I do, but it really doesn’t matter does it?  He’s there all the same.”

“Scumbag didn’t even give us his cousin!” Jake shouted.  “He thinks he can string us along some more while we chase the wrong guy.  I told you he was a douchebag!”

“I know,” I replied.  “Like Hoffer said, it really doesn’t matter anyway.”

Jake shook his head as if he was surprised.  We both knew better, though.  This kind of crap happened all the time.

The next minute felt like an eternity.  The men on the screen continued talking to each other and the new Abdul Hamsa continued to occasionally shout at the other men.  Suddenly, one of the men stood up.  He pointed to the east and shouted something.  The rest of the group bolted up and ran to different sides of the compound.

“It’s on!” whispered Captain Hoffer.

Kiowas are amazing machines.  They are unbelievably fast helicopters capable of flying very low at high speeds.  Funny thing is, when they fly low in a canyon, they’re really hard to hear unless you’re in the canyon as well.  And the guns they’re equipped with can reach out and touch a guy from over a mile away as if they were right in front of you.  If you’re not in their canyon but do manage to hear them, you’re too close.

I sat back and let the radioman and Hoffer take it from here.  There was a continual stream of surprisingly calm commands given as the Kiowa team made short work of the group in the compound.  Captain Hoffer and his guys were good at their job.  One guy got off an RPG round, but at that range, the grenade air-bursted far short of the helicopters.  I don’t know if he saw the grenade go off, though.  It looked like one of the kiowas got him first.  Both Abdul Hamsas were taken out on the east side of the compound.  Another of the insurgents managed to run almost a hundred feet away to the north before he was shot.  Walid dove for cover into a side building.

Captain Hoffer looked at me for a moment.  It was if he meant to ask if he should pursue Walid.  “He’s no good to me now,” I said to him.  One of the kiowa pilots responded as if I had spoken directly to him instead of Hoffer.  He used his hellfires on the building in which Walid was cowering.  Then he showered it with .50 caliber bullets for good measure.  All in all, the business end of the operation lasted less than a minute.

A strange silence came over the control room as we looked at the rubble.  I imagined Walid in there, covered in blood and debris.  He might have been the biggest scumbag on the earth, but I still knew him.  I was glad that I didn’t actually see him die.  It felt less personal that way.

Jake clapped me on the back.  “Well done, bro!” he shouted.  “We cleaned shop this time.  That many less IEDs for us to hit when we’re out on patrol.”

“Absolutely,” I replied, mustering a smile.  Inside I wanted to puke.

“All right,” said Hoffer.  “Be back here in ten so we can go over everything that just happened.”

After the guys went outside for a minute Captain Hoffer leaned over to me.  “I hate it too.  But it’s our job.  You can’t get emotionally involved in this stuff.  He might have been selling out his cousin this morning, but he would have killed you in a heartbeat if it paid better.  It’s the way things are.”

I nodded in agreement.

When I first heard that I was going to Afghanistan, I thought that my deployment would have several days like this.  My team and I would spend weeks developing sources, gathering intel and planning operations; setting things up so that when the time came, we could do our part to take out some bad guys.  I don’t know if Hollywood had implanted that into my head, or if I had heard too many over-embellished stories from the guys who had just gotten back from the sandbox.

Regardless of how I came to that fantasy, it really didn’t happen the way I had imagined.  Days like that never happened at all.  In fact, what really happened was nothing like the events I just described.

What you are about to read is what really happened.