The Unknown Soldier

The words echoed across the tarmac.  First in English, then in Romanian.  The darkness hid the source in such a way that it seemed as if the night itself were delivering the orders.

“Attention!”  The word was drawn out, somehow emphasizing each individual syllable.

“Present.  ARMS!”

In unison, everyone in the formation delivered the ceremonial salute, right hands moving slowly to the brow with the hand becoming a knife’s edge, taking three full seconds to make the trip.

I didn’t know him.  This was the first such ceremony my unit had been called upon to perform.  No more rehearsals.  We were sending a Soldier on his last trip home.  Home to his wife.  Home to his one year old daughter.  There is no way to be unaffected by the sight of it all.

His brothers in arms silently carry him toward the plane.  His casket draped in the colors of Romania, but somehow in this moment nationality is at once everything and nothing.  We are all Romanians and they are all Americans.

We just had a BBQ in the Romanian compound.  Maybe I was next to him in line.  Perhaps I sat by him at the table as we ate.  Less than 48 hours later, he was out on a mission, his unit was attacked and he died of his wounds.  Part of their mission is what we call force protection.  In other words, part of his mission was protecting ME.  It is likely selfish to consider myself at all in this moment or to search for some connection.  I couldn’t share the emotion that was so evident amongst the troops with whom he served.  They knew him.  He was theirs, but reality, mortality and perspective tend to strike hard in these moments.

While he was on patrol, I was likely busy doing a completely unimportant legal review of an event that no one will remember.  I remember a line from Saving Private Ryan in which CPT Miller says to PVT Ryan:  “Earn this.”  As I watch this Soldier’s casket pass by me, I can’t help but wonder:  Is there anything I’m ever going to do that would make these poor people think that I “earned” the absence of their husband, father, son, brother, or friend?  I think not.  He didn’t know me.  He wasn’t thinking of me.  Nonetheless, we are bonded now he and I.  I don’t think I can ever forget him.  A Romanian Soldier unknown to me, but forever remembered.

I find myself challenged spiritually as well.  The thought almost unavoidable in the face of such sacrifice.  When Christ died, he WAS thinking of me (and you).  He knew I couldn't earn it.  He did it anyway.  What have I really done about that?

The last strains of taps disappear in to the darkness.  A final ceremonial salute.  A Soldier's thank you.

“Dismissed.”  Now to find a way to earn it.

Murphy.  He is real and he may be Taliban.

Every Soldier knows that Murphy will attack the moment they leave home.  We know this with the same certainty that you will hit every red light when you’re running late or that having Taco Bell for lunch is delicious but will cause gastrointestinal apocalypse within 20 minutes.

Our experience was no different.   A few days before my flight, we discovered that the icemaker supply valve failed, creating a lovely waterfall in the basement living room.  Hours after my departure, my wife had my beloved dog at the vet for what we thought were allergies.  It was cancer.  She then had to plan his care and a loving end alone.  Arriving home, she noticed water under the washing machine.  This, of course was just before a massive snow storm, which made repairmen scarce.  It also meant it was a great time for the garbage disposal to fall out of the sink.  The same snowstorm led her to drive my previously trusty SUV ...until the window and door latch broke leaving her to climb though the passenger’s side to drive it with the window down in a snowstorm.  This forced her back in to the other car, which already required a screw driver to get it in to gear (I swear I was gonna get to it).  You can just imagine her relief when a helpful neighbor pulled up and informed her that her brake lights weren’t working.  Sadly, this just added an errand when, the next day, two of the four kids became ill.  Meanwhile, the hotel the Army had me in was providing only oatmeal raisin cookies and not chocolate chip.  No, I didn’t tell her that.  Yes, I helped in whatever telephonic ways I could.  I’m not nearly as dumb as I look. 

Ah, the first week done.  Fifty more to go. 

Before you begin sending sympathy checks (remember, my name is with a Y not an I), know that people were there for us.   Some fantastic friends helped move kids, fix cars, find ceiling fixers, lent vehicles and more.  I even have nurse friends volunteering to provide first aid when I come home on pass and Marsha punches me in the face for deploying.  In all of it, we begin to see that we aren’t alone.  Sometimes when people say “call me if you need anything”, they mean it.  Sometimes the church is the Church.  Sometimes, when you ask God for help, He looks an awful lot like a neighbor just watching your daughter for a couple of hours.

Thanks to those who helped us and who help any Soldier’s family.  When you help my wife fix a car door, you have her back.  When you have her back, you have mine.  When I know my back is covered, I can focus on covering another Soldier’s back.  Thats how we all make it home so our spouses can punch us in the face.

Seriously though, oatmeal raisin…THAT is hardship.  Looks like a cookie.  Contains raisins.  Unfixable.

I Need What?

Rather than moving cases along in my regular docket, I spent the day drawing my combat gear.  Talk about a change of pace.  I use the term "combat gear" rather loosely given the slim chance of a lawyer seeing "combat".  The gear however, is the same, so there you have it.  This process is called "RFI" for Rapid Fielding Initiative".  Bear with me here.  This is a program that quickly evaluates lessons learned from the theater of operations, identifies equipment that will assist Soldiers in accomplishing their missions while maximizing safety, and then quickly acquires and issues that equipment to the Soldiers who need it.

You may now understand my reaction when I was issued an "Improved Groin Protection System".  This causes me concern on a number of different levels.  First, the name implies that there was a previous Groin Protection System that needed to be improved.  Did it not work?  In what ways did it fail?  Can someone explain to me the criterion for "fail".  Seriously, I think I deserve to know.  A second concern quickly followed:  I NEED A GROIN PROTECTION SYSTEM?  I'm virtually certain that targeting that area is a foul in most sports and violates the law of war.  Must we have such a thing?  I don't know, but what I do know is that I'll put it on at the first hint that anyone thinks it might be a good idea to do so.  I have no desire to be the first beneficiary of a "Don't ask, can't tell" policy.

As I think about it, I am filled with an even greater patriotic fervor for my Nation.  How wonderful to realize that the things my country values and the things that I value are so very perfectly aligned.   Thank you America.  Thank you indeed.

"Are you going to be here tomorrow?"

This innocent question has become part of the night time routine. Spoken in the cutest 8-year-old girl voice you’ve ever heard, it echoes like the war drums that will soon change my answer to her question. 

I would prefer to tell you a story of the courtroom or some silly criminal caper, but this blog is about what I’m doing, and what I’m doing of late is more about preparing to deploy with the Army.  Perhaps in some way I can take you on the roller-coaster with me.  I suspect there will be a great many ups and downs, but hopefully, in the end, it will have been worth it. 

I’m not doing anything that a half a million other Soldiers and their families haven’t endured before.  I’m neither special nor different.  I will likely be as safe as one can be in Afghanistan.  Lets face it, if your lawyer is returning fire…something has gone horribly wrong.  My job is not inherently dangerous.  There will be no movie entitled “Lone Solicitor”, though I think Daniel Craig would do a marvelous job if he can manage a Midwestern accent.  The thing is…its still hard. 

It is a hard thing to leave your wife, even when you know that others are there to support her.  It is a hard thing to leave your children, even when there are others who will help care for them.  It is a hard thing to put aside your cases, handing them off to co-workers (who have yet to complain of it in my hearing).  I am supposed to be there to do all of those things.  I won’t be. 

It is not my intent to whine (even though I am, just a little), but rather to document what I think every Soldier, Sailor, Airman and Marine feels when the Nation calls.    It can leave you downright schizophrenic.  The Soldier is eager to test his training and vindicate his service.  The husband and father laments every missed teacher conference, wrestling match, choir performance, or dinner time conversation of the year that hasn’t yet come.  For the most part, it has been so incredibly busy, that there has been too little time to dwell on what is to come.  Perhaps that is a Divine mercy.  As the day approaches though, it is the small things that are beginning to penetrate the noise.  Small things like the innocent questions of a little girl trying to understand what it all means.

“Yes, sweetie, I will be here tomorrow.”  

“Okay, goodnight daddy…see ya in the morning.”   That may be the secret to making the best of the whole thing; taking it one day at a time. Even so, I already dread the night my answer will be different.

Seriously though, I think Daniel Craig would be a good choice.

Prosecuting….the War on Terror?  The Docket deployed.

The big news for Docket Dynasty is that I am headed for Afghanistan.  No I’m not kidding.  Being a prosecutor and crusading against darkness and evil while juggling law school student loans on public servant pay just wasn't challenging enough.  I have therefore remained a member of the Army’s Judge Advocate General’s Corps, known as “JAG” for short.  It really isn't much like the old television show at all, though I believe I may be even more rakishly handsome than David James Elliott.  Yeah, I know…

I hesitated to post this as I don’t always know how to deal with the usual responses which range from “thank you for your service” to “Don’t go, can you get out of it?” (You’re quite welcome and No.).  I’m not doing anything that a half-million other troops haven’t done.  I don’t think myself “special”.  I’m just another guy doing his job…that happens to be in Afghanistan.  This fact will obviously change the character of my posts.  I don’t yet know exactly what I’ll be doing or if I’ll be able to post at all.  I do know that I will very likely be depressingly safe.  Yes, depressingly safe.  You see, I started my Army life as an Infantryman… a steely-eyed killer...a predator seeking America’s enemies…well, okay, I was just a grunt, but grunts are in the fight.  Though still a Soldier, my job now is that of a lawyer.  “Safe” in a combat zone is relative of course, but rather than firing my weapon and taking ground in the war against terror, I shall be reduced to an angry signature on various legal documents.   That stings a little.

From my family’s perspective, what I am most certainly going to be is GONE.  Not here.  Not gone for a minute.  Not gone for the weekend.  Gone.  This is the most difficult part for me.  It is not likely the most difficult for them.  I will have “three hots and a cot” and the camaraderie of a few thousand similarly situated brothers and sisters at arms, all of whom are willing to come to my aid and I theirs should the need arise.  Meanwhile, my lovely bride still has to cook dinner for everyone and get them to sports, music, church and school activities by herself, all while wondering if I’m okay (I will be) and whether I've told her everything ( I haven’t).  Furthermore, as a Reservist’s wife, she won’t have the usual complement of resources readily available to the families of my active-duty brethren.  Though I may covet your prayers, I covet them for my wife and family most.  If you really want to support your Troops, find a way to support their spouses.  If you’re inclined to ask, when she says “we’re fine”, help her anyway.  Nothing allows the Troops to focus on the mission like knowing their families are well taken care of in their absence.  I am learning the humility of need in ways I hope to remember.

Though still at home, the insanity has begun.  I think deploying Reservists are inherently schizophrenic.  The Soldier is ready to go and begin the mission.  The husband/father is already missing everything that hasn't happened yet.  The prosecutor is reluctantly handing off cases for others to work.   If I dwell on it much, my eyes leak.   I’m ready.  Lets get this thing going.   In the meantime, I hope to have the means and opportunity to regale you with what I’m assuming must be “one-of-a-kind” stories from the combat zone.  Here’s to 2014.  I hope it’s the fastest year ever!  

We WON!  It was HORRIBLE!

My audience (meaning, I suspect, both my wife and my mother) notes that it has been TWO MONTHs since I've posted anything.  Time flies.  There is a good reason which I will not address now, but it may well may change the character of Docket Dynasty for a few months.  Who knows, perhaps it will be more interesting!

I wouldn't have thought that trial practice and a high school English class would have much in common, but it it seems they occasionally do.

I have posted before about the purgatory that is Trial.  Murphy is always hard at work ensuring that anything that can go wrong will.   Need to play a video for the jurors?  Did it work two seconds before the jury came back in?  It won't work now.  Have you created a brilliant closing, replete with choreographed video, background music and interpretive dance?  The timing will falter, the music won't play and the dancer will trip.  There is NOTHING in the wide world of sports than can make you sweat like a snafu in the middle of trial.  Competitive swimmers can look relatively dry in comparison.

Having just finished the book "Lord of the Flies", my daughter's English teacher had her students put one of the main characters on trial.  Naturally, my daughter was assigned as the "prosecutor" and worked diligently with her team to make the case.   Her text to me after the trial:

"Dad, we WON....It was horrible.  The copier wouldn't work, so we couldn't get everyone copies and then I dropped the papers and they went everywhere....but we WON!

I know the feeling.

Elvis and the Judge

There are three things known to draw additional attention from a judge I appear in front of regularly.

First:  Lying.  Almost every defendant will be asked if they’re taking any drugs.  It doesn’t matter if they were huffing paint in the janitor’s closet before walking in to court, if they are honest, it won’t be as painful as being discovered in a lie.  If the mom/girlfriend/grandma/buddy they say drove them to the courthouse really is waiting outside in the parking lot, there will be no problems at all after they are introduced to a Deputy.  Get caught lying though, and it’s going to be a rough hearing.

Second:  Drinking and driving.  Obviously it’s bad enough if you’ve done it once, but if you are on probation for such an offense and do it again, it’s going to be a rough hearing. 

Third:  When your momma cries.   If your misdeeds bring your mother to tears, it’s going to be a rough hearing.  The poor kid today didn’t see it coming.  He thought it was going to be a quick plea.  It wasn’t the crime of the century, but he was young and dumb and had done some pretty young and dumb things…enough to merit criminal charges.  His parents drove him to court and sat in the gallery watching their teen deal with the consequences of his actions.  The judge was administering an admirable “judicial counseling”.  Then it happened.  His mom did what mom’s do.  She cried.  The judge noticed.  He then invited the parents to the podium, and pointed out the tears.  “You’ve made your momma cry!  Are you proud of that?”  “No, sir” was the strangled reply. 

I’m not sure if the judge is an Elvis fan or not, but whether musician or jurist, the principle is the same.  It’s bad news when momma cries. 

Apparently no stranger to the experience, the judge continued:  “I made MY momma cry once.  Once, and I’ve never forgotten it.  Am I ever going to see you in this courtroom again?  Are you going to put your momma through this again?”  “No, sir.”  The emotion had clearly burned through the bravado.

In that moment, I think he was telling the truth.  I hope he was.  For his momma’s sake.