Go to War. Do Art.

A while back I mentioned an opportunity to write for the New York Times TimesSelect website. Over the next week I will share with you the pieces written for them from March to May.

This article appeared in The New York Times on March 8, 2006 and is copyrighted by Michael Fay and The New York Times.

I’m a warrant officer-1 in the United States Marine Corps Reserve. Warrant officers are hybrids, not fully commissioned officers, and although drawn exclusively from the non-commissioned officer ranks, no longer enlisted Marines. We are by and large the duty experts in a particular field; think of us as consultants. I am a combat artist for the Marines; a Winslow Homer in camouflage. I work directly for the Historical Division of the Marine Corps University and my orders from them are simple. Go to war. Do art. My output goes into The Marine Corps Combat Art Collection, which houses over 8,000 works of art. I think I’ve got the best job in the military.

I now live in Fredericksburg, Va., but was born and raised in Allentown, Pa. The lyrics in Billy Joel’s song “Allentown” tell it all: “Our fathers fought the Second World War, spent their weekends at the Jersey Shore.” Myself and two younger brothers grew up when there were only three television channels, milk and bread were delivered to your doorstep and all adults were addressed as Mr. or Mrs. Delivering the afternoon paper, belonging to the Boy Scouts, wanting to have long hair and pout like Jim Morrison, lusting after Patti Merkle and watching the anxiety grow on my Dad’s face with each year the Vietnam War continued as I approached 18 — these things define those years. My high school class, 1971, was last to get draft cards and have our numbers drawn, mine was 123. The only constant from then until now is art. Most of the cells in my body have probably been replaced since then, relationships and jobs have come and gone with regularity, but the doing of art remains. Oh, and Patti Merkle is still around … she says she’ll be in from California late this spring and wants to visit.

I’m now taking a couple weeks leave after returning home from Iraq on Feb. 15. There are plenty of reasons to take time off. This particular trip has been hard on my family. Not only was I over there, but a nephew, a Marine lieutenant, was with me in the Sunni Triangle. They — meaning my daughter, mom and extended family of brothers and their broods — have endured months of intense anxiety. I think separations during war are hardest on those back home.

We, those out in the war, are intensely focused on something we’re very proficient at. We’re in our element. There is truth in the phrase “time flies when you’re having fun.” Not that war can be described as “fun”, but it is at very least a competitor to elaborate meditation techniques. The mundane dross and noise of life drops away and the only place that matters is the proverbial now. I find that the deployments — this was my fourth in the war on terrorism — fly by. My days are filled with doing what I love. But for those at home there are daily scenes of death and destruction flashing urgently across TV screens and newspaper front pages followed by imagining the worse while waiting for reassuring word. I have the luxury of knowing I’m O.K. and intimately aware, despite the violence, that there are so many positive and engaging things going on all around me.

At this moment, I miss it. I wonder if this is what it’s like for a tightrope walker who’s come down off the wire.

What Movie Are You?

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

A friend sent me this. I just had to take the profile test to see which movie I am; needed a little break from all this seriousness. Seems I'm Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The Visit

1st Lieutenant Ryan McGlothlin USMC

Donald McGlothlin and Myself. Don's holding Ryan's notebook of inspirational poems and sayings.



November 16, 2005 is seared into my memory. It was a day of pitched battle, heroism and violent death.

We rose early that day and ate hurried meals of crackers and cheese, or PowerBars quickly washed down with weak lukewarm Gatorade. The night before word was passed that solid intelligence indicated a significant number of insurgents were cornered with their backs against the Euphrates River, and nowhere else to go. The blocking force, an Army National Guard Stryker unit, on the north side of river had seen to that. The Marines of 2nd Battalion 1st Marine Regiment had relentlessly pushed them for two weeks east along this ancient river valley; all the way from Husayba on the Syrian border to this final fist of land called Old Ubaydi.

In the early dawn hours Marines were pulling on battle gear, checking weapons, and drawing fresh ammunition. Warming themselves and shaking off the last dull vestiges of sleep they idled in groups of three or four. Tangerine faces glowed in the firelight of burn piles. Hoarse voices joked with nervous familiarity. The shouts of squad leaders and the platoon sergeant rose occasionally-chastising a slow riser here, bestowing cheery words of encouragement there. Tin-can radio chatter underscored the hum of hushed voices. Everyone knew, even after nearly two weeks of continuous combat in Operation Steel Curtain, that today was going to be a slugfest of the highest order.


Warming themselves around the burn barrel: from Left to Right-Corporal Rogers, LCpl Guzman and SSgt Homer. Corporal Jeffrey A Rogers was killed in action during the November 16th firefight.

At 0640 the order to move out rippled over the squads like a ribbon of May wind across a field of winter wheat. With the small crisp twisting and clinking sounds of gear and the crush of dry leaves beneath combat boots, the lines formed and moved out through pomegranate orchards and down irrigation ditches towards the several hundred acres of mud-daubed huts, walled compounds and palm groves where the battle royale would shortly take place.

Iraqi families (many waiting way too long to leave) holding sleepy children and limp improvised white flags, poured from their homes and were pointed in the direction of friendly lines. Old women wept while youngsters waved. Dogs darted about, roosters crowed and teams of M1A1 Abrams main battle tanks, with engines spewing exhaust and treads squeaking, unceremoniously crisscrossed freshly tilled fields. By 0805 the platoons of Fox Company 2nd Battalion 1st Marine Regiment were on line facing across several hundred yards of open ground- the otherside of which was eirely silent and, except for wandering livestock, devoid of people.

I was with 3rd Platoon as it took position in a farmhouse along the dirt road that bordered the battlefield and faced the open ground. 2nd Platoon was a hundred yards off to our left, closer to the river. Their three squads had each taken the meandering irrigation ditches up to their jump-off points, which were the first set of structures. Not knowing whether all the locals had evacuated, Fox Company was going to clear each house room by room, rather than by just "dropping" them with a missile from a Cobra gunship or a round fired pointblank from the the main gun of an Abrams.

At 0815 it hit the fan. 3rd Squad of 2nd Platoon had stepped into a virtual hornet's nest of mujh. By 0820 the radios were alive with frantic calls for help. Marines were down.

Staff Sergeant Michael Ventrone, 3rd Platoon's platoon sergeant, raced his Marines under fire across a hundred yards of open field to the aid of the stricken squad. We came upon a scene from Dante's Inferno. SSgt "V"'s men fanned out quickly engaging the enemy, securing our position, and rendering care to the many wounded. All of 2nd Platoon's corpsmen (medics) were down and 16 Marines and sailors were hurt bad.

I found myself with a group trying to help 2nd Platoon's gravely wounded lieutenant, Ryan McGlothlin. Up to mid-afternoon of the day prior I had been with Lt. McGlothlin and his men. All around me there were Marines I knew wounded and dying. Unfortunately Lt. McGlothlin didn't make it. Someone brought a blue sheet out from the home in who's courtyard the triage had been set up and handed it to me. I went over, laid a hand on Ryan, said a prayer, closed his eyes and covered him up. He was still warm. I will never forget this. This memory will revisit me daily for the remainder of my life. 5 Marines died that day and 11 were wounded.

Through all of the chaos, just like any other Marine that morning, I continued to do my job. Yes, I fired my rifle, but I also continued to take photographs and record the events with a small digital audio recorder. In addition to my primary mission as a combat artist, I also function as a field historian. While with Lt. McGlothlin's platoon I had taken several photos of him and did an oral history interview just days prior to his death. When I retrograded back to Camp Fallujah I reviewed my pictures and realized I also had several of two of the other KIAs from 2nd Platoon. Through something called Legacy.Com we were able to get word to the families that there were pictures of their sons taken days before they died in action. All the families concerned responded and have recieved the images.

This past Saturday the father of Lt. McGlothlin paid me a visit at my home in Fredericksburg. He has an aunt who lives here. Ryan's dad, Donald McGlothlin, is a former circuit court judge and practicing attorney. He is also a gentleman of the old school. Don, as he asks to be called, was enroute to a special memorial event held this past Sunday in Washington, DC called "A Time of Rememberance". Don is a fearless warrior when it comes to facing the still painful and raw emotions flowing from the loss of his beloved youngest son.

During a phone conversation arranging our get-together, Don said to me, "You have other photographs of Ryan don't you". I knew what he was asking. We had already supplied him with a CD containing pictures and the oral history interview of his son done days before he died. In no uncertain terms he wanted to see everything I had. Everything. I had sound recordings of the battle, the casualty evacuation, and photos of his son as the corpsmen worked on him and moments after he died. Don needed to see and hear it all. He had gone on-line and gotten a fuzzy satelite image of Old Ubaydi. I had a complete stitched together panoramic view of the battlefield, to include the house where his son was fatally wounded. This is a spiritually brave man.

Old Ubaydi Battlefield. November 16, 2005 Scene of firefight of Fox Company 2/1

Don also wanted the local paper to cover our meeting. His willingness to not only share the full story of his remarkable son's life and death, but also his own grief and struggle to heal is a gift to us all. You can read about it by going to this link:http://www.fredericksburg.com/News/FLS/2006/052006/05222006/192992

Don likes to share a telling quote from his son. Ryan, like his father, was a staunch Democrat. Ryan's politics and character are summed up simply in this oft spoken sentiment, "I would never vote for Mr. Bush, but I'd take a bullet for him." Words like these need no editorializing.

I learned another surprising fact about Lt. McGlothlin. Ryan's great grandfather's name was Sa'id Mafouth Rasbey. Sa'id was a Druze from Moukhtara, Lebanon who immigrated successfully to our shores alone at the age of 12, and this was his second attempt! The first time he stepped on Ellis Island they sent him back to Lebanon because he lacked a sponsor here. He turned around and came back a year later. An immigration official, remembering him from his previous try, went out of his way to find him a family willing to take him. Sa'id changed his last name to honor the man who took him in, Williams. Ryan's greatgrandfather eventually married and settled in Bristol, Virginia. Ryan was raised in Lebanon, Virginia.

With this posting I include pages Don was gracious enough to have copied for me from a journal Ryan started at the age 14. Of the hundreds of inspirational quotes and poems, from Yoda to Mae West, Don't Quit is the very first one written in this notebook. His careful deliberate handwriting tells me they were meant to be read and understood not just by his own eye, but by others as well. Lt. Ryan McGlothlin has been submitted for the Silver Star for his actions that day, actions that protected the lives of his Marines and which have left a legacy of personal courage, integrity and inspiration for us all. Two Marines under his command, Corporal Alvarez and Lance Corporal Mooi, have been nominated for Navy Crosses for their heroism on that fateful November morning.


*Click on images to enlarge

I'll end with two interesting(at least to me)coincidences. A couple days ago I posted an op-ed I penned for the local paper commenting on two other pieces printed in the same publication. One of the referenced writers was Wade Zirkle, a former Marine. It turns out that Zirkle was the platoon commander of 2nd Platoon F/2/1 immediately prior to Lt. McGlothlin taking command. In that same op-ed I said No Child Left Behind should really be called No Parents Present. Today's Free-Lance Star, in addition to the story about Don McGlothlin and myself, has a wonderful Associated Press piece about a former emotionally disturbed special education student,Ernest Lewis, who's graduating second in his Richmond, Virginia high school class with a 4.4 GPA. How did this miraculous reality come about? Simple...he was taken in by an aunt and uncle who took him out of special education and provided him with PARENTING. Cost to the taxpayer....$0.

.....Ouch, A Response to My Op-Ed

Here's an editorial response published in Fredericksburg's Free-Lance Star newspaper on the 17th. The opinion expressed by Gary T. Moore is in response to the piece I shared with you in my previous post. I'm not quite sure what this gentleman is suggesting with the paranthesized statement, "which I consider to be subjective by its nature and the Uniform Code of Military Justice". Op-ed pieces are by their very nature "subjective", so I don't get the purpose of stating the obvious; however the reference to the UCMJ is a little too obscure for this knuckle dragging neo-con devildog. If I had indeed stated directly or by inference that "America can't be fixed", then the body of his response would have been raising an extremely valid point. My take was that personal investment (blood), and not simply spending tax dollars (treasure), is the irreplaceable element that at the end of the day makes positive changes possible here, in Iraq or anywhere for that matter. Was that unclear? (In case anyone is wondering-the choice of pink letters is slanted, subjective, wholely disrespectful, completely biased and meant to influence the reader's perception and interpretation of Mr. Moore's comments in a negative light....ain't democracy great!)



Gary T. Moore
Date published: 5/17/05

Michael D. Fay's self-serving promotion of military opinion (which I consider to be subjective by its nature and the Uniform Code of Military Justice), at the expense of Larry Syverson and his alternate focus, wasn't worth all the extra ink ["Our soldiers who've been there know it: Iraq is worth fighting for," May 4].
He could have just as easily stated that America can't be fixed, and Iraq can, so it's best to spend out tax dollars over there instead.
It was also very disrespectful to speak of Mr. Syverson's three sons in Iraq without interviewing them while there and getting their unbiased opinions for his comment.
Gary T. Moore

Donald McGlothlin, the father of Lieutenant Ryan McGlothlin, visited yesterday afternoon and we shared about his son. Out of respect for both Donald and Ryan, I'll talk about our meeting in another posting. Suffice to say that this was a very moving experience. At the invitation of Mr. McGlothlin the get together was covered by the Free-Lance Star, and I'll give you all a heads-up when the article is printed....which hopefully Mr. Gary T. Moore won't experience as a waste of ink.

View From the Soapbox

I've mentioned before that I live in Fredericksburg, Virginia. One of many wonderful things about this beautiful and historic rivertown is our hometown newspaper, The Free-Lance Star. The Op-Ed page editors occasionally humor me by publishing one of my soapbox ramblings. I thought I would share a couple of them with you over the next couple days. I am finding myself, now that I'm in the rear with the gear, compelled to respond to things I read in this well-balanced paper.

This coming weekend I will be meeting with the father of a young Marine lieutenant who was killed in action on November 16, 2005. Donald McGlothlin's son, 1st Lt. Ryan McGlothlin , died leading his platoon during a particularly hard battle in Old Ubaydi, Iraq. Yesterday I also recieved an email from the grandparents of one of Lt. McGlothlin's Marines, LCpl Justin Mayfield (his portrait appears in my December 26th posting), letting me know that Justin had just recieved a Bronze Star with Combat 'V' for his efforts that day. He and his fireteam came to the aid of fellow Marines at a hotly contested farmhouse. Justin has also just proposed to his high school sweetheart! These are real families investing their blood and treasure every single minute of every hour of everyday to make the world safer for us all. Those who cannot grasp this profoundly simple reality have only my genuine old school in your face disdain.

This particular Op-Ed piece was motivated in large part by my personal experience of both family members and of Marines who've made the ultimate sacrifice. If you go to the link for Larry Syverson's commentary, which I'm primarily responding to, you will, in my humble opinion, read the most pathetic self-serving and transparent anti-war rant that will ever enter your brain housing group.

Here's my two cents:

A recent edition of The Free Lance-Star featured a very interesting juxtaposition of two viewpoints with respect to the war in Iraq. One writer, Wade Zirkle, talked about our nation's war effort cogently, within the greater strategic context of world events and the disconcerting imperfections that often attend the unfolding of history ["Through a Marine's eyes: Iraq a necessary part of a greater war," April 28]. The other writer, Larry Syverson, presented us with a highly emotional rant rooted in his own anxieties and fears ["Iraq costs too much in blood, money," April 28]. Zirkle spoke with measured reason born of actual events and international political consequences. Syverson, in obvious desperation, reduced the prosecution of this war to a dollar amount--and then proceeded to opine about imagined superior ways to spend if not our blood, at least our treasure.

Like Zirkle, I've been to Iraq twice as a Marine. I've also been to Afghanistan on two separate tours. I agree completely with his assessment. In a recent article in The Free Lance-Star, U.S. Army Capt. Matt Thompson--a Stafford native who served four combat tours in the war--asserted strongly, as most returning combat vets interviewed by this paper have done, his belief that the fight in Iraq is worth it.

We who've actually invested our blood and treasure believe in the mission wholeheartedly, even in the face of the horrors and realities of war. I've seen the price being paid. I was with Lebanon, Va., native 1st Lt. Ryan McGlothlin when he was killed in action Nov. 16 in Ubaydi, Iraq. I closed his eyes, said a prayer, and covered him up.

I've also been a public-school teacher. Syverson laments that the treasure being spent to establish democracy in Iraq would be better spent on education. But the chronic problems plaguing education in Fredericksburg, the state of Virginia, and across this great nation will not be solved with money. The past 40 years should teach us that. The problem in our schools is the absence of parents. No Child Left Behind should really be called No Parents Present. Money is not going to change this reality.

Syverson would also like us to believe that the money would be better spent on health care. The overwhelming majority of health care issues in this country stem from individual lifestyle choices. Until the consumer marketing juggernaut stops pushing alcohol, tobacco, fat-laden foods, poor relationship choices, and fast cars, we'll have a health-care crisis no matter how much money we throw in that direction.

And building housing with the money? Every major city in America is actively tearing down the socially engineered housing projects of the 1960s that turned inner cities into war zones during the '80s and '90s. People value and care about their homes when they have to earn and pay for them--not when they're handed out like spare change.

The answer to America's problems in education, housing, and health care lies in personal responsibility and accountability. Plain and simple. Throwing money at these realities will never take the place of real folks stepping up to the plate and doing the right thing.
Syverson's three sons are all in Iraq. I find it interesting he couldn't trot out one good anti-war quote from any of them. Syverson's talking points are entirely tainted by his own discomfort and anxiety. Narcissism, anyone?

Apparently his sons are more concerned and committed to investing their blood and treasure in a better tomorrow for Syverson's future grandchildren than in making Mommy and Daddy sleep better. Perhaps the sons--like Zirkle, Thompson, and myself--have had, and continue to experience on a daily basis, reason for hope and glad promise for the Iraqis and our own descendants.

MICHAEL D. FAY is a combat artist and warrant officer in the Marine Corps. He recently returned to Fredericksburg after his latest tour of duty in Iraq.
Date published: 5/4/2006

Afghan Images.....Continued

Afghan gardener pruning roses, Jalalabad
Surveying IED site
Afghani farmer harvesting pumper crop of wheat
Me bumping down the road with good luck smeagh (scarf)
My battle buddy during trip, Radio Operator Lance Corporal D.W.Wofford USMC
Young girls, Pech Valley, come out to wave
Detail of typical stone wall bordering the road along the Pech River
A gang of Afghan boys take a break from swimming in the Pech River to run up and wave
Afghan boy in the village of Khogyani


Blogger didn't seem to want to upload pictures yesterday, but today it does! These images accompany yesterday's post. Enjoy.

Afghan Images, Afghan Memories

There's one incident from my trip to Afghanistan back in May of 2005 that I love sharing. I went out on a patrol along the Pech River to survey an IED site. The battalion's executive officer was making his rounds of the various FOBs (forward operating bases) the previous week when his vehicle was destroyed by an IED set in the road that parallels the river. Miraculously, other than busted ear drums, no one was seriously hurt. One of the drawings with this posting is of the XO's driver.

This road, if you can even call it that, ran between Asadabad and Jalalabad. The narrow valley that the Pech River had carved over the millenia was deep and rugged. All along our way we were greeted by families coming out of their rustic stone homes, ragtag gangs of boys in baggy pants dashing up from swimming holes and farmers busy in their terraced wheat fields. The smells of dust, freshly sythed wheat, water from the spring melt boiling in the river, and Humvee engine exhaust filled the air like some exotic curry dish. I was standing braced in the rear of an open back vehicle holding on for dear life. This road was so rough that kidney stones were being passed, dental fillings loosened and major vehicle components dislodged and discarded by the roadside.....and we could only go 20 mph max! Village after village came out to wave and stare.

Just below one of these villages, from my vantage point standing high up in the back of the HUMVEE, I saw what I soon learned to be a new school house. What drew my attention, in this landscape of golden fields, rock walls and churning water, was a flood of blue and white pouring out of the school. Banging down a river valley at 10 to 20 mph gives folks a lot of time to stop what they're doing and see what the ruckus is all about. What greeted us as we slowly passed the school house were several hundred Afghan girls in uniforms of sky blue cerulean topped with snow white hajibs. They were waving as if waving was an Olympic event. They stood in windows, leaned over the courtyard wall and jammed the entrance way jockeying for position. Here's the best part, the part I tear up every time I re-live this moment; they were shouting in English "Thank You!"

If You Build It They Will Come

Last Saturday I was invited to participate as a panelist at the first ever Milblog Conference sponsored by Military.Com and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. I had a fantastic time and met a whole bunch of kindred spirits. It was a combination evangelical tent revival and family reunion. Andi of Andi's World was the prime organizer of the event and she's done a super follow-up job at her site.

The overarching theme of this gathering centered on the passion milbloggers have for sharing their story-matched only by the equally fanatical desire of our readers to find, follow, encourage and support us. (I'm reminded of Norman Rockwell's WWII painting for the cover of the Saturday Evening Post-Homecoming Marine - a newly returned gyrene, clutching a Japanese battle flag, relates his war experiences to the eager ears of neighborhood boys and the guys at his old workplace.) To a person, we milbloggers are amazed how these simple internet diaries, universally started to keep family and friends informed, have taken on a life all their own. Our journals became journalism. Our first hand reporting was countering second hand media retorting. Milblogging's authentic in the trenches voice continues to challenge the reporting of the main stream media, and on a daily basis is calling them out on the carpet. We built them and you came....by the tens and hundreds of thousands. Thank you! Staid institutions like the New York Times and the San Francisco Chronicle, during this rapid unfolding of history, are hemoraging readership while the ranks of blog readers is swelling...traditional journalism is rapidly becoming journalwasm. Speaker after speaker referenced two newly published books which help explain both the phenomena and the impact blogging is having-The World Is Flat by Thomas L. Friedman and An Army of Davids by Glenn Reynolds.

I wore a second hat at the Milblog Conference. The BBC, who interviewed me twice while I was in New Orleans earlier in the month, asked me to do interviews for them at the conference. One of the interviews (half way thru the podcast)was with Deborah Scranton, director of a documentary produced in collaboration with soldiers of a New Hampshire National Guard unit. The documentary, entitled The War Tapes made its debut at the Tribeca film festival and recieved a rave review from The New York Times. Ms. Scranton, along with one of the "stars" of the film, Specialist Michael Moriarity, came to the Milblog Conference out of solidarity with our movement, and to acknowledge the influence our blogs have been on her as a film maker. Go see it when it comes to town. Her website has a list of screenings open to the public.

Another high point this week was the portfolio review, acceptance and invitation extended to a new artist to join the Marine Corps Combat Art Program. Kris Battles, a former Marine sergeant and reservist, discovered this blog last winter and immediately contacted us about participating in the program. Kris is a professional portrait and landscape painter living in St. Augustine, Florida. We're excited about this addition to the line up and expect great things from this talented Marine. Over the next few months Kris will be in-processing back into the Marine Reserve. One of the great things about being a Marine is you only have to go to boot camp once! (In fact, only Marines can enlist into any other branch of the military without ever attending their particular boot camp.)

I continue to work in my studio on prelimary sketches and studies for my first major work of the year. The tentative title is going to be Storm and Stone. It's based on my experiences last May in Afghanistan with the 3rd Battalion of the 3rd Marine Regiment. This unit was responsible for three wild and wooly provinces on the border with Pakistan. The foothills of the Tora Bora Mountains and the valleys of the Pech and Kunar Rivers are spectacularly beautiful, and ruggedly impassable. More to come as the work progresses.

Like most of you I've watched with interest the debut of another film this week, United 93. A retired Marine gunny friend of mine called yesterday after seeing the film and was virtually delerious with rage.....at the hijackers and at those who oppose the War in Iraq and on Terrorism. Every American, according to him, should be required to see this film. I've seen trailers of it and have listened to commentary on the radio about Flight 93. I don't know that I can go see it just yet. Just getting a tiny wiff of the film's content and hearing the impact it's having on moviegoers makes my jarhead meter peg way in the red. My friend, Gunny H., is a much calmer guy than I, and if he said he had to literally physically restrain himself during the last 45 seconds, the final assault on the cockpit scene, then I would have to be straight jacketed, sedated and hung upside down from a crane to keep me from bodily attacking the screen. I kid ye not. I'm Irish, and when my blood is up, Katy bar the door!

My thoughts this week about Flight 93 have been tempered by the protest this weekend in Washington, DC about the genocide in the Darfur Province of Sudan. Finally the left is picking a worthy cause to champion! Even they realize only the United States and Britain have the necessary kahoonies to do anything about this tragic and reprehensible situation. I hope and pray this time, with the support of the libs, we don't fail the Darfurians the way a previous administration allowed the slaughter in Rwanda in 1996 to go unchallenged and unmet by the UN. I still consider myself liberal and progressive on many issues. Author Victor Davis Hanson's muscular idealism resonates deeply with me. Another sign of hope, and evidence of a healthy self-examination and adjustment on the left is something called the Euston Manifesto.

I'm finally getting the hang of hyperlinking! Enjoy. I used to feel like the last analog guy in a digital world. You can teach an old devildog new tricks.

Remembrance

Lance Corporal Nicholas G. Ciccone USMC October 4, 1980 - October 13, 2003



Right before Easter an email appeared with a subject line that simply said Please Read. I didn't recognize the sender's name. Since starting this blog I've recieved messages from many new folks, so that by itself was no cause for concern. So, with some trepidation, I opened Please Read and the reason for the writer's urgency instantly became crystal clear. The writer, Matt, informed me that he'd just found my site and the graphite drawing of his step-brother, Lance Corporal Nicholas G. Ciccone. Whenever I'm asked what I believe to be my finest work unhesitatingly comes the reply that it's this portrait. Matt also informed me that his beloved brother committed suicide in October of 2003.

Matt's Please Read was followed by a flurry of emails from an extended network of family and friends. I had the privilege of speaking over the phone with LCpl. Ciccone's father and mother. Among other things I learned Nick's birthday, October 4th. October 4th is also the anniversary of the day my own father joined the Marines in 1938, and passed away in 1981. I can scarcely tell you how humbling and gratifying it is knowing how touched his family is by this portrait. The common thread through all their heartfelt messages is a healing sense that they've regained a piece of Nick they thought they'd never reclaim. They also wanted me to share his story-To keep before people's eyes those wounds which are rarely seen, heal the slowest, and often kill; the wounds that pierce the very soul of a person.

Here is LCpl. Ciccone's portrait again. It shows him the very instant after dropping his pack, putting down his rifle and taking off his helmet. He and his platoon have just stumbled exhausted into the blasted remains of the Kandahar International Airport terminal building after a nine day patrol among rugged Afghan mountains deep in winter's icy embrace. They had originally planned on being out for just twelve hours, but they found a huge weapons cache and the bad guys wanted it back. For nine days they battled the Taliban. For nine days they worked to destroy the cache. When they retrograded back to Kandahar they possessed what war correspondents simply call "the look". After returning to the States I had my film developed and sorted through the pictures. Ciccone's photo jumped out. I now realize why. His gear is off, but the weight's still there. Ciccone had "the look" in spades.

I personally call what had settled on Ciccone's face the "young/old" look. Walt Whitman, the greatest American poet, spent most of the Civil War as a nurse, a changer of bandages. After the war he added a chapter to his core work Leaves of Grass titled Drum-Taps. These eloquent poems are as close as you're going to get to photo-realism in poetry. Whitman, an avowed pacifist, honored the sacrifice of the soldiers he served without artifice or agenda. There's no taint of "but".....no editorializing or moralizing. He writes from a stool set beside a dying boy and not from some comfortable soapbox. Whitman wrote a poem that speaks of this young/old look called A Sight In Camp In Daybreak Gray and Dim. The poet has risen early and walking about a Union encampment comes upon the bodies of three dead soldiers laid out under heavy brown woolen blankets. Whitman pulls the covering away from each face in turn and speaks of what he sees. I give you the last stanza:

Then to the third — a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man I think I know you — I think this is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

This is the face of Nicholas G. Ciccone. At Easter each year we are reminded of our connectedness to the divine, to those who have suffered for us and hopefully to the healing that comes from awakening to the realization that we share a common lot with each other and with God. Christ's suffering upon the cross was in its finality more about abandonment and seperation, more about psychic than physical wounds. So to you Nick we say what Marines often do when pulling the blanket over the face of a fallen buddy, "go easy my brother, semper fi".

His father told me the story behind finding the drawing. His stepson Matt was up late unable to sleep thinking about his dead brother. So he did what many of us do during dark midnights of the soul, we google. Matt googled Nick's full name and up jumped a half dozen websites where the drawing is featured. A ray of light entered the dark night. I know this is not about me, but I must tell you again how profoundly moving it is for me to know that those closest to him find him alive in this drawing.

I mentioned in the previous post that I was down in New Orleans. I'm posting a photo I took there that I think is appropriate, and self-explanatory.

As always, your comments are greatly appreciated.

Pay It Forward

Hi everyone. Sorry I've been gone so long. Let me attempt to bring you up to speed.

First, where am I right at this moment? I'm sitting on the steps of The Wallace Library in lovely downtown Fredericksburg, Virginia. The time on deck is 2115. Why here? Simple, it's close to my home and provides free wireless internet access. This is a wonderful library. My daughter and I have done many a homework project from here. Years ago it was an elementary school. Warren Buffett, the richest man in the known universe, went to school here. His older sister, Doris, just renovated a house down the street to be her primary residence. Something special must have happened for them here way back when. She's donated a couple million to start a Boys and Girls Club in town. The headquarters for one of Warren's flagship companies, Geico Insurance, is up the road in Stafford County.

Directly in front of me runs Caroline Street, and on the opposite side, although very much in the dark, is the site of the first home of Fielding Lewis. Lewis was married to Washington's only sister, Betty. Rumor has it that she bore an uncanny resemblence to her brother.

The original home on the property burned to the ground during Fredericksburg's Great Fire of 1807. In fact the blaze started in the house, which by then belonged to another family. A funeral wake was being held in the home, but mourners were called away to the local race track. The burning candles around the casket had the final say that day. What remains on the property from then (there is a home built in 1811) is a step garden and the oldest retail building in America, the Lewis Store. http://65.17.219.53/Subpage.asp?pageid=7&subpageid=17

Tonight is a lovely Virginia evening. From about seven blocks to left down Caroline at this very moment streams the rythmic clamping of a train accompanied by its mournful trombone like whistle. I love listening to that sound late on hot summer nights. The traffic on Caroline is light and there's a soft cool breeze drifting over the rising and falling swosh of passing cars..... there goes Phoenix, my neighbor's Black Lab, he's barking at something. Excuse me while I bark back, it usually quiets him. Ole Phoenix is a bravo male. I'm an alpha. I babysit him frequently....there he's stopped.

Other common sounds tonight are sirens (we've got a large regional hospital) and the sound of helicopters. HMX-1, the President's squadron is just north of here and does training flights in these skies. I was once a crewchief with them and the pilots always liked to fly over the town and neighboring counties of Stafford and Spotsylvania to point out newly purchased homes.

A few people, mostly couples with dogs, are strolling by. I must look ghostly with the blue laptop screen illuminating my face. They say Fredericksburg is the most haunted town in North America. Tens of thousands of soldiers died in these streets and homes over the course of our Civil War. Nearly every home in the Old Town districts boasts a resident spirit. The History Department students of The University of Mary Washington conduct, for a small fee, a very entertaining "Ghostwalk" every Halloween season. A local Episcopal church did an exorcism about a decade ago to liberate a home from the supposed spirit of a Confederate. My ghost only turns up the old style thermostat on very cold nights. He must long to be warm again. Check out this site on Civil War battlefield ghosts.

Living in this town is a constant reminder of the long and hard journey democracy has had even in this country. Each Memorial Day weekend the Boy and Girls Scouts sponsor a moving "Luminaria" display at the National Cemetary bordering the Fredericksburg Battlefield. The over 16,000 civil war graves are individually graced with a small votive candle set in a cushion of sand at the bottom of a plain brown paper bag. These simple luminarias create a scene that leaves only the soulless dry eyed. Taps, which was written and first heard here, is played every half-hour by two live musicians echoing each other. The scouts patrol the grounds keeping the candles lit and replaced when necessary.

So what's new? I've been busy writing for the New York Times Frontlines site. That's brought other attention. For instance, last week I did radio interviews with Minnesota Public Radio
http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2006/04/04/midmorning2/ , and two BBC talk shows; Radio Five Live and World Have Your Say. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/s. My good friend Pat Dollard was wounded a couple times in Ramadi. You can read about his adventures at Hollywood, Interrupted http://www.hollywoodinterrupted.com/. Scroll down and you'll find a couple articles with pictures he's sent from the front lines of gonzo documentary film making. I tell you again, Pat is the real thing. He's lost some weight. I told him the picture on the Hollywood, Interrupted site is his Zoolander "Blue Steel" look. Go see. I'll wait......Hopefully his show, Young Americans, will get finished before Pat is vaporized and achieves martyrdom.

Last week I attended a Marine Corps conference for the combat camera community in New Orleans. This was the first time ever for me in the Big Easy. What a fabulous town! On the last day, Friday, I was able to spend a whole afternoon in The French Quarter. Wow. I'm smitten. I had a nice talk with a gallery owner and she echoed sentiments close to those we troops have made about MSM reporting. She lamented, especially as a business owner, how CNN has mischaracterized the condition of New Orleans. Yes, there are still widespread and unmistakable evidence of Katrina's rath, but the Quarter is open for business while the rest of the town is being radically resurrected. My day included a monster plate of steaming Jambalaya nuking the inside of my mouth, and a visit to a used bookstore where I found a book by my favorite author, Richard Brautigan, Revenge of the Lawn. Despite everything you may have heard, seen or read, the mystique of this gem at the mouth of the Mississippi is intact and palatable. Reports of the Big Easy's death, like that of Mark Twain, has been greatly exaggerated.

A theme I've found myself turning again and again to is the "I support the troops but not the war" mentality. I'm fed up hearing it. Here's my feelings and reflections on the subject. The troops are not impressed with what we see as an elitist self-serving feel good attitude. This is a statement of pity and nothing more. It's pathetic and pandering. Male intuition may be a contradiction in terms, but most GIs have highly evolved BS meters, and it pegs in the red zone on this one. It reeks of political correctness. Marines returning from Vietnam were often greeted with outright animosity. Perhaps some of those now voicing this sentiment were guilty of this 40 years ago and are now trying to placate their own guilt. Inherent in this statement is a subtext that says we, the troops, are victims and they, the anti-war folks, are going to rescue us. It also suggests that they know better than us, that our visceral field experience has little or no value. We're either just a gaggle of country bumpkins hoodwinked into serving by socio-economic pressures, or knuckledragging cretin warmongers. The actual truth is something you'll never get from a Hollywood movie. The overwhelming majority of those serving are high school graduates, of high moral character and, based on the standardized military entrance exam, fall in the upper 50 per cent percentile group intellectually. We're educated, highly trained worldly men and women from all walks of life who've chosen freely our own path into the military. In short, don't cry for me Argentina. Usually wedded to this "we're so sorry you got tricked into fighting" gestalt is an underlying belief that Iraqis, and by extension all Muslim cultures are incapable of democracy. I want to suggest that there could be a little touch of racism at work here. And all the Bush mislead us crap. Get over it. We are here. Leaving is not an option. We got this girl pregnant and we need to do the right thing, which is not an abortion. Victimization. Stereotype. Racism. I'd rather step off the plane to someone spitting at me...that, at least, takes some courage. Los Angeles Times op-ed writer Joel Stein had the hutzpah in his article "Warriors and Wusses" to not make this distinction. He doesn't support the troops and he doesn't support the war. This is a guy I can respect. But big sad puppy dog eyes I don't need. The conditionality of "I support the troops, but not the war" posits a distinction we Marines don't make. We are the war. We're not interested in the kind of self-serving intellectualizing that argues about the definition of the word "is" and butt covering legal rationalizations about what does and doesn't constitute actual sex. We live and work in a concrete world and find abstractions, the obsession with splitting hairs symptomatic of a defeatist mentality. We're in the mission accomplishment mode and by extension only interested in what supports the mission. The cry of "havoc" has been shouted and the dogs of war let loose. Talk is at an end and the doing, the mission is afoot. We don't engage in the luxury of second guessing, or the liberty of political debate. One great strength of our Republic is the freedom from fear of military coups. (For those of you who at this very moment are taking a big over-educated breath and preparing to interject into your thought process "well not yet" I caution you to examine your stereotypes-Full Metal Jacket and A Few Good Men are entertainment and not documentaries.) Our necessary philosophy in the field is real simple and can be summed up in our oft said phrase "Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way". We're only interested in one statement, "WE BACK THE TROOPS". Highly footnoted, carefully nuanced and qualified statements like "we support the troops and not the war" doesn't support us, it trivalizes us at best and at worst re-enforces the will and agenda of the enemy. We don't want to cut and run. Take that as gospel. Victory is our only option, and not some hybridized academic version of victory that everyone is comfortable with. I'm talking about the species of victory that only comes from doing very bad things to very bad people until either they're dead, or demoralized into abject unconditional psyche changing surrender. We taking Unfolding of History 410 are tired of listening to the sophmoric rants of Self-fullfilling Prophesy 101 coming from down the hall. The war on terrorism is a war being fought tactically in Iraq, but strategically in the hearts and minds of America. "I support the troops, but not the war" is a little white flag being waved in another American head. The main weapons in the arsenal of the terrorists are uncertainty and fear. You might as well be loading another AK round into an insurgent's magazine. Saying "I back the troops" is the equivalent of saying you support us tactically and at the same time strategically. Anything less is self-annihilating blither which says we support you tactically, but will fight against you strategically. Or, as the great philosopher from the 1960's, Pogo, put it, "We have met the enemy and he is us." If at the end of the day this becomes the stance of the majority of fellow citizens, then we are to be pitied. Pity takes our sacrifice, freely given, and gives it back into the hands of our enemies. So next time you see a GI tell him what he needs to hear, "Kick Ass and Take Names." Or, just be honest with yourself and glare.

Want to show your gratitude, your support? Pay it forward. Go to New Orleans this year. Vacation. Volunteer. Whatever. Everything we fight for is there. Good food. Resiliency. Pretty women. Dedication to excellence. Fun. Freedom of expression. Music. The face of America shines in the streets of the Big Easy. If we weren't over in Iraq name tak'n and heart break'n that's were we'd love to be. So go! Send us a postcard.

Oh, one final thing, I'll be a panelist at the first ever milblogger conference that's going to held in DC April 22nd. This link has all the details. http://www.militarywebcom.org/MilBlogConference/11/Conference%20Panelists.html
If you come please say hi.