The Longest War

By M. Stefan Strozier

3rd Edition of a collection of war stories from the front lines. War veterans are encouraged to send in their story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Stefan Strozier
• Release date: Mar 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781934209882

Book preview

World Audience Publishers

N e w  Y o r k

[]

ISBN 978-1-934209-88-2

Copyright © 2012, 2013, 2017 by World Audience Publishers.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us at: www.worldaudience.org

Editor-In-Chief: M. Stefan Strozier (www.mstefanstrozier.com )

[]

Dedicated to those who have died in the Wars and cannot tell their own stories.

Preface

M. Stefan Strozier

––––––––

Welcome to the 3rd edition of The Longest War, an ongoing compilation of war stories told by veterans from their first-hand accounts, in their own voices. I am calling for more veterans to join our continuing project from any foreign US war. The previous assistant editor to this book, whose agreement was fulfilled, has been removed. He has written rather personal and unwarranted attacks against me, personally, as well as against my press and posted them in various locations online and in print, disparaging my good name. He has erroneously claimed that he and I agreed to donate money to Wounded Warrior’s Project and that that money was not paid. It is hereby noted that is not what was agreed to, in writing. We agreed to donate to any charity of our mutual agreement. I therefore did not agree to donate to Wounded Warriors; that was his pet charity—not mine. Furthermore, after Wounded Warriors was involved in a scandalous event in the news, I determined—as the CEO, Publisher, and Editor-in-Chief of World Audience, Inc.—that it would be very bad press to my publishing company to donate to that organization. However, as long as my company is in existence, as it has been since 2003, and this book is in print, as it has been since 2012, and I am its editor-in-chief, there is no deadline to the fulfillment of the former assistant editor’s agreement with World Audience, Inc. I will therefore donate at a time and place of my choosing, and to the charity of my pleasing (our original agreement being in breach of contract after he has illegally slandered my good name; a charge of libel I intend to pursue in real court), a satisfactory donation to a veteran’s charity to fulfill the original spirit of our agreement.

I too am a combat veterans of another war, one in which I fought in the front lines of a tank division and saw real combat. I have been fighting for veterans and veterans’ issues much longer than anyone involved in this book has, simply because I am twice their age. It was no different for me, after I returned from the Persian Gulf War, and really saw for the first time of my life Vietnam Veterans, and truly understood what they had experienced—both in wartime and upon returning back to USA. I took this newfound insight to heart and made a point to act, as best I could, in what ways I could, to better the plight of veterans. This book exists because of my efforts—first and foremost. This book would never have come into being had I not realized as I had what war really does to men, many years ago. It should be further understood by authors and assistant editors everywhere to never directly challenge their own publisher, nor should any man ever publicly disparage the good name of another man, without good or just reason—and especially not another war veteran.

Here is a short story that happened concerning this book and the reason why—despite the predictable and disgusting actions that are par for the course in the business of publishing—that I keep doing it. Shortly after publishing this book, there were many responses by friends and family members of the veterans, and many other veterans as well, that came in to my publishing house. One grandmother who wrote me (and there are many other similar examples) said that one of the stories concerned her grandson, and that he had since passed away in combat operations. She told me that she was eternally grateful of the memory that his story has provided to her, that she was unaware that it had been written, and that it has given her solace, and that she would forever treasure this book, and place it carefully upon her shelf for her own family and its decedents to read for some time to come. I forwarded this email to the previous assistant editor, who did not reply; but instead demanded more money be sent his way—immediately.

Finally, in addition to stories like these, I continue to publish books because a publishing company is a vital and very important part of American culture. The books that a press puts in print often have a political impact, sometimes a powerful one. I therefore seek to end all war and the suffering that it brings to veterans. That was my motivation in publishing this book. And yet, the Afghanistan War drags on into another year, after another decade, very much America’s longest war. And yet, that conflict has never been clearly defined, too reminiscent of the Vietnam Conflict. My own war became another war in Iraq, and now the Iraq War has morphed into war in Syria. The names no longer are important—whether the Forgotten War, the War to End All Wars, The Greatest War—it truly has become endless war. Thus, this book will stay in print—and I as its publisher—as an ever-present reminder of the continual cost upon American veterans that war causes.

Again, I call on more veterans to join this project and send me their stories. I will accrete them to this collection so that America will hear our stories and perhaps someday there will be no more veterans who have to come home from war.

Dignity

Justin Gravett

So no shit, there I was in Baghdad Iraq. I believe it was a warm summer day, birds were chirping and the Muslim Holiday known as Ramadan was in full swing. My Advanced Reconnaissance platoon was tasked with a Personnel Security Detachment mission to our Squadron Leadership, this basically meant that the Squadron’s elite were merely bodyguards...

As I stated, the time of the year was Ramadan. Where Muslims sit back and reflect on their everyday evils that plague the world and while in this reflection do not eat, drink or smoke cigarettes during the day time. When the sun goes down though, this Fast is broken and Muslims may eat/ drink/smoke again. Some of my compatriots will note that this is usually the funnest time of a deployment. I’m getting side tracked though.

So there I was one night, in Baghdad Iraq being a body guard for a SCO (Squadron Commander). In terms that are very easy for me to say and easier still for people to understand, he was a huge doucher as he cared for no one but himself.

One day we go to the Iraqi National Police Headquarters for a meeting and so he can attend the breaking of the fast. He sends his Radio Telephone Operator out to tell everyone that the SCO wants them in there with him to attend this Breaking of the Fast and enjoy some of this fine Iraqi food.

I would like to add there is no FDA or Health Inspectors to quality control food and beverages. This was a real treat cause there is nothing that we liked more than the Iraqi National Police, than Iraqi food.

My team hesitantly ate some of the food. It tasted just as terrible as it looked. What the fuck is that? Bro, the fuck are you eating? This tastes like shit! was heard from various members of the platoon. Regardless, we wanted to eat so they would leave us the fuck alone.

I ate many things, trying to find something that would be digestible and not so fucking gross. I ate chicken, some weird rice with dates and raisins, some lamb, fucking weird ass vegetables, and some raw dates. If you have never had a date before, please go out and do so. They are fucking terrible, but then again I only had Iraqi dates which they probably got from behind their Headquarters, near their huge pile of garbage. The Recon Team par- takes in this fine Cultural Buffet all while the SCO, eats a small banana.

Our fearless Recon Team 3 Leader (who is a lovable guy) volunteered to be vehicle guard, and missed out on the wonderful food that was presented. I grabbed one of the nice INP guys and politely told him to make a plate for our Team Leader, ensuring there was some of those delicate dates on there too. The INP guys brought the food to him, who politely refused stating that he had ate a Meal Ready to Eat, or MRE, and was not hungry.

The two INP fellows were quite nice and kept insisting that he eat the food, they also sang wonderful Arabic songs and began to dance. No joke, too awesome to make up. The Team also reminded him of how fucking terrible it was and how they would never forgive him for allowing them to eat that shit...

The Team tried to get him to eat a date, so he pretended to do so. We told the INP’s that the Team Leader LOVED dates and had them bring him A LOT more. Upon hearing this their faces lit up like an eight year boy get- ting a puppy for Christmas and they scurry off returning with a gargantuan bowl of dates, they also returned with flashlights to see him eat these tender little morsels as well as to do magic tricks (again, too awesome to make up). With the concealment of the dark gone he had no choice but to eat the dates. I hope he enjoyed it as much as I did.

Upon our departure from the INP HQ, I felt a mighty rumbling inside my guts. It sounded like there were two cats in there fucking themselves up a storm. I knew immediately that I had to shit. The Forward Operating Base was only a two minute ride from the INP HQ however, every second of that two minutes though felt like years. To make things worse, my Recon Platoon Leader kept poking me in my tender little belly. I get out of the Stryker armored vehicle and was immediately doubled over in pain, like the pain that could cripple and elephant. It was then that I realized I had to shit really really badly. I look at my Senior Scout and said Clear my weapon! while forcing my M4 carbine assault rifle into his hands.

About 75 meters away from the clearing barrels, was a Porta Potty. I identified this target and took off in a dead sprint, eagerly wanting to give this plastic god my offering of a warm creamy shit. There was one problem though... I was still wearing my all of my combat gear which would prevent me from giving my lovely present to my new found master. I began to tear off all of this precious gear while in full sprint. First thing that came off was my helmet; I scratched at the buckle and finally freed the male end from the female with a swift and very panicked motion removing it. As I did so, I accidentally removed my eye protection which had prescription eye glass inserts so I could see clearly. I dropped the helmet and glasses right there a good 50 meters from the Porta John...

Next item to be removed was my rack. A rack is a piece of gear that is basically a bunch of pouches that holds items such as weapon magazines, night vision goggles, maps of the area, high value target lists, vs-17 panels used to signal, grenades etc. Essentially something NOT to be left about where someone could potentially walk off with the thousands of govern- ment dollars worth of material inside. Without slowing my stride or show- ing a care I removed that rack with the same finesse and grace that I used on the helmet. This near priceless item came off around 40 meters from my soon to be plastic friend. Next thing to go was my bullet proof vest.

This was the easiest thing to take off as we had the new Improved Outer Tactical Vest, with a slight tug and pull to the emergency release and it just fell off of my gorgeous body. I am now 30 meters away from my throne of excellence.

I am completely free of anything that would and could potentially prevent me from blowing up this plastic toilet. I feel invincible, I feel like the night has gone from terrible to awesome. What would transpire in the coming moments could not have been further from the truth. Then a dark cloud rolled over me as I began to think negative thoughts such as; what if people are fucking in there, what if mortars or artillery land in this area while I am shitting and kill me dead, what if its locked, what if there is no toilet paper, what if it is full. I tell myself ‘No - No way.’ I have survived too much to die on a Porta Potty. Besides what would they say when they hand my Mother the flag, Well, he almost made it there... Fuck that.

I make it to the door of the Porta Potty smile and say to myself, Crisis adverted... I run my still gloved hand down to remove the riggers belt from my Army Combat Uniform trousers. Alas, the buckle apparatus is stuck. I fumble fuck with it for what feels like yet another hour but is really only seconds. It is starting to take such a long time that the panic and fear began to flood back into my mind. A little bit of dookie start to squirt out of my ass. I try to reassure myself, No biggie. Just a little bit, we’ll be fine. Fuck you, you stupid fucking belt! right when I began to free the constricting belt, my asshole opens up wide to release my shit. I shit my pants. However, this isn’t your ordinary shit. This is something that looks and has the viscosity of coffee with parts of creamy peanut butter mixed in just to give it that little extra.

So I’m standing there, with trousers filled with shit in Iraq hating life. Confusion, sadness and anger sink in. I don’t think I have ever shit that much before or even all my years on this Earth collectively as I did that night. I then sat down and finished shitting. That’s right, I was not done. The Iraqis have yet to discover soap or much less the term sanitation. I sat on that toilet and shat for a good half hour. Most of us joke about feeling ten pounds lighter after dropping the dirty duece, I swear to God I really was lighter.

I tried to wipe as much of the shit out of my pants and off my ass as I could. I ran out of toilet paper and had to call it quits. I pull up my shitty pants and began to allocate my gear. Luckily no one fucked with it or stole it. Strangely I didn’t care for it’s well being until after I had finished my duty. I scooped all of the items up and began the trek to my tent. If you have ever shit your pants you know that shameful walk that you do. The one where you feel gross and think that if you walk that special way then the shit won’t stick to you. Throughout this ordeal I left my knee pads on. I could feel the shit that I didn’t get out pooled up around my knees. Disgusted, I take the knee pads off and feel the poop run down my legs...Grossest feeling in the world.

I make it to the tent and throw my combat gear on my bed. Fellow soldiers from my platoon cry out; "...The fuck is that smell? How was the mission? Why the fuck do you look like that? The fuck is wrong with you?"

I ignore them and head towards the shower trailer. I climb in fully clothed and wash the crap off of me. At this point, I do not fuckin care. An officer from the company walks in and gives me a odd stare, the stare that you would give an elk if it walked into your local place of worship. I look him dead in the eyes and say, The fuck you want, Sir? and go about cleaning the shit off. I then remove my pants, leaving my boots on. I walk back with my John Thomas free for all to view and the shit pants in tow. I step outside the barriers and place my trousers in the garbage bin. I walk into the tent and began to hear laughing, as everyone has figured out what happened.

I get dressed and find the Recon Team Leader. He asks me if the team/ vehicle are in good order and a bunch of other random questions. I tell him that I don’t know and explain that I shit myself.

[]

Heroes

Alicia Cadena

What a horrible day it was today. I showed up to work at 0745 and ran into the night Battle Captain who says I was just coming to get you.

I had told him to come get me if there were any MEDEVACs (aero medical evacuations) with more than one patient. So I said, OK, I went inside to see what was going on...

The 9 line MEDEVAC request was for 3 urgent US MIL (US military patients). A few minutes later, it dropped to 2. I asked what happened to the 3rd, they said he just became a HERO (a coalition forces Soldier killed in action). Damn it. Then a few minutes later, it went back up to 3. Turns out they revived him and he was coming in and out. So they came in hot. We, of course, called in mortuary affairs (section that handles/cleans up remains) just in case, since they had lost him once, and another guy was losing his pulse.

So the bird comes in and the flight medic is already opening the door still in mid-air. We go running up to unload him, and the flight medic is doing CPR. One of the medics from the unit we’re replacing takes over the chest compressions. This is the guy who became a HERO then came back. I saw his face and he was exposed from the chest up, because of the CPR. He’s a big guy... Not fat, just stalky like a big football player, but obviously young. He gets rushed into the trauma room and we’re all praying that the docs and surgeons can fix him. The second guy gets unloaded and gets taken to the stripping container since he’s not as critical as the other guy.

I ask what’s going on with the 3rd, since we were told there were 3. I’m told the 3rd is still pinned in or under the vehicle, since it was an IED (improvised explosive device) blast. He was going to be a HERO, if he wasn’t one already. Damn it again. An emergency blood drive is suddenly called, by the surgical team. We scramble to get it all together, then after it’s all set up, we’re told to stand down. I asked the guy that I was replacing why we were standing down. He said because the first guy, the one we unloaded that was getting CPR, just became a hero.

WTF. It hit me, but not too hard yet. I went into the surgical team’s TOC (tactical operations center) and they had the kid’s ERB (enlisted records brief) pulled up. Yup, he was a kid, a 20 year old kid. He’s part of the unit that already sent its ADVON (advance party) home. He was next I’m sure, within the next week or so he would’ve been staged in the transient tents.

It’s not until he’s brought back out, draped in an American flag that it hits me hard. Just 20 minutes prior, I saw his face, he was getting worked on and there was a chance, he