On Assimilation: A Transition From War

By Leo Jenkins and Marty Skovlund

Some wars won't end.

Some wounds won't heal.

Some bonds can't be broken.

Former U.S. Army Ranger medic, Leo Jenkins, picks up where he left off with his best-selling book, Lest We Forget, to explore the difficulties of reintegrating back into society after years at war. In what has been called, one of the most important books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dead Reckoning Collective
• Release date: Aug 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986272436

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On Assimilation

a transition from war

leo jenkins



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Copyright © 2022 Leo Jenkins

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof

May not be used or reproduced in any fashion whatsoever

Without the permission of the publisher or the author

Except for the use of quotations for promotional purposes

Publisher: Dead Reckoning Collective

Editor: Jessica Danger

Book Cover Design: Tyler James Carroll

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 979-8-9862724-3-6 (ebook)

Praise for On Assimilation

"At the time of its first release, I related to On Assimilation and felt the story in my bones. I had experienced so much of it in my own way through a nearly identical lens. When Leo chose to retell the story with a renewed perspective and an urgency in his social responsibility to readers, I related to it even more with comparable years of reflection and development. On Assimilation is a story of victories and failures and a thorough explanation of how our growth makes those things relative. If your identity is built around one thing, you owe it to yourself and your community to read this book."

Keith Dow, Army Veteran

Author of Karmic Purgatory

"Merging the grace of a poet with the candor of a Ranger, Jenkins has succeeded in writing the most important book about coming home from war. On Assimilation belongs on every veteran’s bookshelf, wedged between Tribe and Odysseus in America."

Mac Caltrider, Marine Veteran

Coffee or Die Magazine

We talk often now of how to bridge the gap" between the veteran and civilian population. At the same time, the veteran community is still trying to master the art of gracefully transitioning from the military service to the next chapters of life. If I had to recommend just one book on this subject to veterans and civilians alike, I’d recommend Leo’s On Assimilation. This book takes you on the journey of highs and lows, dead ends and wrong turns that eventually reveal a better way to live."

Mason Rodrigue, Marine Veteran

Author of Rock Eater

I should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if very particular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning my mode of life…. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience… As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them.

-Henry David Thoreau

Dedicated to

Antouine Castaneda

&

Grant Shanaman

Foreword 

I remember sitting on my couch in central New York, still on active duty in the Army, discussing a possible separation from the military with my wife. We talked about where we would move if I got out and what we would do for work. We liked the idea of Colorado. We were both avid participants of CrossFit, so we browsed Facebook pages of local gyms in Colorado Springs and brainstormed which ones we might want to join if we moved there.

Scrolling through the pictures of a recent competition hosted at CrossFit SoCo, I found a few shots of a bearded competitor who was obviously in good shape. He had tattoos, looked a little rough around the edges, and most noticeably—he was wearing a pink and white shirt that was at least two sizes too small with the word ‘unaffiliated’ scribbled in black marker. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. 

There is no way this guy isn’t former SOF. Hell, I bet he used to be a Ranger! I said to my wife.

I shared the picture, thinking it was hilarious and the world needed to know about this man. About a day later, a friend of mine, Iassen Donov of 3rd Ranger Battalion fame, commented that he was actually Leo's roommate, and yes, he was a Ranger. I guess we can always tell our own! It wasn’t much later when Leo and I connected via Facebook, and I asked if he would write something for a book I was working on, and would he agree to be sponsored by my brand new company, Blackside Concepts? He agreed, and that was the beginning of what would become a great friendship and business partnership that would see us traveling the globe less than two years later.

Little did I know back then, that at that very competition, he was struggling. Not athletically, but beneath the beard and tattoos. He was a fellow Ranger buddy who was still in the midst of a transition from military service that I had yet to even begin at the time. Isn’t that how it always works out? We never seem to know our fellow brothers and sisters-in-arms are struggling. At least twenty times a day, we don’t find out until it’s too late. We don’t try to understand until it’s… too late.

What I also didn’t know back then, is that Leo Jenkins would become an agent of change. Someone who would go on to champion veteran transition issues, to spread awareness, and even talk good men out of very bad situations. Little did I know that he would abandon a beachfront paradise in Costa Rica to become a homeless transient in the hopes of contributing to the cause. Little did I know he would tear open the scabs on his internal wounds to write possibly the most important book ever on veterans and their transition from the military to civilian life.

With less than one-half of one percent of the total population serving at any given time, there is a large gap in understanding the challenges our warrior-elite face. For the 88% of America (and increasing) who have never put on a uniform, our challenges are largely out of sight and out of mind. Every time a tragedy or security situation arises somewhere in the world, America cries out for someone to do something. That someone is usually the American service member, and something usually involves them going into harm's way and doing things few others can or will do. Yet very little thought is ever given to how we help those same service members come back home.

This book shows exactly what one can, and oftentimes does, endure in an attempt to help themselves in that process. This book gives you an inside look at what happens after someone does something and then has to attempt a return to normal.

As you read through this book, I beg you to not read the words with pity for Leo. His story is certainly compelling, and at times you may be angered or saddened by the situations he found himself in. I ask that you avoid reading this with pity for veterans as a whole either. Pity is not what we need. What we need is to be seen as people who are not so different from most of the rest of America, but with different experiences.

Some of us went to basic training instead of freshman orientation after high school. Some of us went to an officer candidate board instead of an internship interview after college. Some of us endured combat deployments instead of semesters abroad. Certainly, they are different experiences and different paths. But one demographic has to deal with the stigma of PTSD when interviewing for a job whether they have it or not. They have to water down their resume and hope the HR manager will understand it. What do we need? To be seen as equals, and given a fair shake. Those who need help or rehabilitation to be given what they were promised would be there for them.

America wants us to leave the military and seamlessly assimilate back into society as if that part of our life never happened. They don’t want to hear about the son who asks you if his father is dead. They don’t want to hear about how you told him his daddy was fine, and please be quiet, even though minutes prior, you stepped over the fragments of his father’s skull, and the contents it once protected. They don’t want to hear about how we sat in plywood boxes, sweating through our uniform for a ten-minute call with our loved ones. A ten-minute call that would conclude with an obligatory, I love you, talk to you soon—even though we knew the latter was a potential lie.

Give this book to someone who doesn’t know any veterans, who are consumed by their first-world problems, problems afforded to them on behalf of generation after generation of an ever-shrinking warrior class, and ask them to meet us halfway. Try to understand our background and our veteran community as much as we try to return to normal—despite all the challenges some of us face when trying to do so. 

-Marty Skovlund, Jr.

A Note On This Edition

This book could be dedicated to Matt Sanders. It's not, but it could be. Matt was the original editor for the first edition of this book, the one published eight years ago. I chose him as an editor because I trusted him. We served together in Ranger Battalion, and I knew he had gone through enough similar experiences and that he would understand the need and importance of a book like this one. Matt advised me to rewrite certain parts of the book, but I refused. Not because I believed he was wrong, but because writing the first draft put me in a wretched and dark place. I rushed to finish the book because I hoped it could be a valuable tool for others engaged in a similar struggle. I felt that if just one person read this story and it helped to turn them around, then the struggle I faced to share it would be worth it. I did not believe it was wise to wait. 

Matt tried to convince me to continue working on the book. He said, writing is rewriting. I was exhausted with it though, with the story and the person telling it. Never in the eight years since it was published have I done a reading from this book. I never did any of the typical signings or promotions. I wanted the person in this book to finally go away. But he didn't. He kept showing up. He showed up at readings for other books and speaking events. Time and time again he came up to me, sometimes with a thick beard, sometimes with a frayed baseball cap, holding a tattered copy of On Assimilation in his nervous hands. He would hug me and thank me. He would tell me if he hadn't found this book, he most certainly would have killed himself. He would say things like, I thought I was the only one going through it, man. He emailed me. He messaged me. He told me he's doing better now. He read the book. He reached out to friends. He went to college. He started writing. It helped him to understand how he was feeling. Every time he shared that with me, I felt like he deserved a better book, one worthy of his struggle. I felt embarrassed that I had essentially published a first draft. Sometimes his wife messaged me. She said thank you, I understand him better now. And I think I should have written him better, more clearly. 

It is not common to completely rewrite a book that has already been published. There is not a lot of precedent for this mostly because there will never be enough money in the sale of the reworked version to justify the incredible amount of work that would have to go into it. Just move on, write something new. It will make more money with a fraction of the heartache. Well, I can say honestly that the success of this book was never measured in money to begin with. I told myself on the first day it was published that if it helped one person, that it was a success, and that it was worth all of the struggle required to write it. It did just that and then some, and perhaps that should be enough. Perhaps I should be satisfied and move on.

I had the chance earlier this year to sit down and have coffee with the owners of my publishing company. I told them I wanted to rerelease an old book of mine under their brand. And not just rerelease it, but completely rewrite it. I wanted to gut it and rework it from the inside out. The two of them sipped their coffee, an awkward smile on one face, a look of questioning their decision to sign me on the other. 

They humored me and allowed me to explain, why go through all the trouble? Because I learned something along the way that I did not know when I first wrote On Assimilation. Something simple yet profound. When I told them what it was, they both shook their heads in agreement. This is definitely your next project, they said. 

So here we are. A little under a year of stripping this house down to the studs and rebuilding it. It has the same address, the same shape, but I don't think it can be considered a second edition. If you read the rough draft that I published eight years ago, thank you. We can call this the second draft of On Assimilation. Assimilation is a process, after all. And writing is rewriting. 

1

20Oct2006

I drove away slowly, one last time. I drove away from a group of proud men gathering into a formation behind the tall brown fence, covered in rusty barbed wire. That fence had separated us from them, from the rest of the world. As I left, I looked back, the way you might look back at a person you’d loved, at a person you’d grown into, and were now leaving, knowing it was for the last time. Freedom feels different when you haven’t had it for a while. It feels heavy, even scary. And while I wouldn’t call the relationship abusive, it was certainly controlling. For years, I had to ask permission before going to most places. Forms had to be filled out requesting endorsement for travel. For the first time in years, I could go anywhere without asking permission. The choice was now mine to come and go, to sleep in or wake early, to shave or not to shave, to be who I wanted and when. 

I was a medic. My job was to take care of the men of Charlie Company. I had both garrison and field responsibilities, from treating small scrapes and infections to gunshot wounds, maintaining shot records to prescribing drugs, teaching first responder courses to maintaining my own proficiency with a rifle. Most of the tasks were not terribly complicated, yet they all added up to a considerable responsibility for a person in their early twenties.  

As I pulled away from that brown fence, I wasn’t responsible for anything. Just like that, in a single moment, I was released from the willful obligation of taking care of my best friends, my brothers, my fellow Rangers.

It was a warm day for late October. Amber leaves ran across the fresh cut grass as fat squirrels gathered nuts in the golden Georgia afternoon. There was no farewell, no party, no ceremony or send off. It was me leaving as my extended family laid out their gear for inspection, preparing for what may come. Another day, another drill, another battle soon to fight. Another war altogether, perhaps. The mission goes on, and the wars go on in your absence, no matter how important your role was.

I passed by the 75th Ranger Regiment barracks. Two paltry columns of thin men marched by, an old white bus behind them—the bus filled with faces, tired and looking down at their feet. 

I glanced at the tan beret on the dash of my pickup truck. What had I put myself through to earn the right to wear that silly brown hat? What all had I done to keep it, to show it I was worthy? The tan beret was a symbol that told a story of generations of honorable men. It showed that the wearer had earned the right to belong to a highly respected war tribe. As I drove, I knew I could never again don my beret in an official capacity. The thought filled me with excitement for the future and broke my heart.

——

Fuck! My hands are cold. I thought to myself. There was no making a comment like this out loud. Not here, not in this line. The Ranger cadre could hear you, and that would be it. It was that wet Georgia cold seeping into each of us, standing there, still as toy soldiers in two long rows. A cold you didn't think could exist this far south, a damp unforgiving cold that settled in our sore bones. We stood in the black mist of uncertainty, warm anxious breath escaping, up from empty bellies and joining the tenebrous fog. 

We had twelve miles in front of us. We had a rifle in our hands and an old cumbersome helmet on our heads. We had blisters covering our raw feet—hot spot on the right pinky toe and another on the left heel. Those could soon become big problems. We had an ancient green external frame rucksack on our backs, the contents of which were required to weigh at least thirty-five pounds, not including water. We had no way of measuring this before the road march, however. So most of the packs in the formation weighed far more. An old white school bus pulled up behind us. That's what we'd been waiting for. Thirty minutes, motionless, somewhere between midnight and dawn. 

Move OUT, a voice called from somewhere in the wet, black, December morning. Knee joints cracked, creaked, and popped as our forty-man centipede lurched forward. The average age of those old knees was twenty-one years.

 Arms length, men, the faceless voice yelled out. For the next twelve miles, every wannabe-Ranger in each of the two columns would have to be able to touch the rucksack in front of them. We made long swift steps, stretching stiff legs at a pace just a tick slower than a run. The old white bus followed behind. 

The man in front of me slowed slightly. Dawn was on us now, and I could see the gap between him and the man in front of him. It wasn't much, but enough. If I help him by giving him a nudge, I'll be put on the bus. I will fail the test and risk starting selection from the beginning. I will not earn my tan beret. If I go around him to close the gap, he will be put on the bus, and likely so will I for screwing him over. If I wait for the cadre to notice that he is falling back, I will have to close a considerable distance or risk being thrown on the bus. I look around for cadre. I press the man in front of me forward with my rifle. But a few minutes later, his pace slowed again. 

Holes form in the two columns as the miles grind on. There is enough light now to see my friend Jess Fisher in the opposite row. He is the best runner in the formation, but his legs are short. If you run, you're on the bus. I see sweat dumping from his brow. His gait is crippled. He limps along. I have nothing for him. We suffer in silence, alone. Together.

The man in front of me is grabbed by the straps of his rucksack. The cadre pulls him down and into the middle of the street between the two moving columns. He lays there, like a turtle overturned, until both columns pass. The bus stops for a moment. He is ushered on. He finds a seat with the rest of them on the half-full bus. He looks down at his feet.

My hips scream, stepping out, reaching with each step to close the gap without running. If you run, you're on the bus. Every man behind me is forced to do the same. The frigid dark has retreated, overcome by the sticky Georgia humidity. What a perfect place to train a tolerance for misery. 

——

The drive home was short. Fifteen minutes maybe. I shared a house off post with a few other guys from my unit. In addition to living together, we had trained and deployed together. We ate together and fought together. We went on road trips and on occasion were detained together. And though we never once said it, never, amid all of the laughter, amid the funerals, the drunken nights and early mornings, through all of the small steps on the long walk toward manhood, we loved each other in a way that only family could. 

I bloodied Matt’s nose one time in a fist fight in our kitchen. Mort, Nick, and Juan watched from the dining room while sipping PBRs. Another time, before we had any furniture in the house, Matt deep-fried a turkey for Thanksgiving, and we watched eighties movies on a brand new flat screen I bought with a twenty five percent interest rate AAFES credit card. We each drank a bottle of whiskey. It