(Writer's note: For both of you out there that read this blog, you're probably used to a certain style of writing from me. I guess the best way to describe it would be "potty humor". But today I need to step away from the dick jokes for just a little bit. I promise I'll get back to the usual smut, but something happened a couple of weeks ago. And it wasn't funny. But I can't stop thinking about it, and I feel like the story needs to be told, so bear with me, okay? Thanks.)So a few Saturday nights ago, I was working a concession stand at Red Rocks Ampitheater for the last concert event of the season, featuring the Irish punk band, Flogging Molly. Annie and I volunteer periodically to work there, because the funds that are raised benefit our kids' soccer and hockey programs.
For those of you that aren't from around here, if you're ever in Denver, you need to experience a concert at Red Rocks. It's a beautiful natural ampitheater, and the acoustics are terrific. Even if there's no concert, just go up to the park and walk around. Just trust your little pal on this- you have to see it.
Anyway, the concert was nearing the end (surprisingly entertaining- great combination of Irish music and rock), and I was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for Annie to finish up with some paperwork. She's our stand manager- just another excuse for her to tell me what to do.
While I was waiting, this kid came walking up to me, saw my Red Rocks hat, and I guess assumed that I worked there. He asked, "Sir, is there anywhere here that I can still get a beer?" I flinched a little bit from being called "sir", but I explained to him that alchohol was cut off an hour before the end of the concert, so that everyone could sober up a bit before they drove down the mountain and went back to Denver. So no beer in the whole park.
The kid was bummed, just like everyone is when I tell them that alchohol is cut off. "Sir, is there a bar around here? I'm not ready to stop partying yet- this is so great up here! I've only been in town a couple of days."
He seemed like a nice kid- honestly, I was surprised that he was old enough to be able to buy a beer. Big boy- around 6'2", maybe 210 pounds, and built like a brick shithouse. But he had a teenage kid's face. I asked him why he was in town.
"I just got stationed here, sir. I'm a Marine."
Well, at least that explained why he kept calling me "sir", instead of "dude", which was my usual moniker at Red Rocks. And for the first time, I didn't mind it a bit. Kind of seemed right coming from him.
Then I did what I always do when I meet a member of our Armed Services. I looked him in the eye, shook his hand, and thanked him for his service. They don't hear that nearly enough, and they deserve to. When I'm volunteering at Red Rocks, and I see a military ID when I'm carding for alchohol, I almost always find a way to give them a free beer or two.
Because I love these guys.
Without launching into a big flag waving musical number, these young men and women, along with cops and firefighters, are my heroes. I mean, how can you
not love people that will put their lives on the line every day for somebody that they don't even know? It boggles my mind how they can go to work knowing that there is a chance that they won't come home that night. And what it must be like to be a member of their family.
Anyway, I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Joe, and he was from Atlanta. I asked him if he was having fun at the concert.
"I was, sir, but I got into a little fight with a guy a few minutes ago. The guy was drunk, and bumped into me while my friend and I were watching the show. Next thing I know, he's jumping around, showing me these karate moves, and asking me if I want to "go" with him."
I laughed. "He must have been plastered. You're the size of a Chevy."
He smiled. "I identified myself as a Marine, and told him that I didn't want to fight. Then the security guys came over, and it looked like everything was calmed down. Then the guy breaks away from the guard, rushes over and tries to take a swing at me."
"Big mistake?"
"Yes, sir. I had to put him into the ground. His face was bleeding a little bit when security took him out."
"You're still here, though. You didn't catch any shit?"
"The security guy was pretty pissed when the other guy broke away from him. He told me that he heard me identify myself, and that he was actually happy that the guy got fucked up. I wish it hadn't happened, though. I don't like to fight."
Then he apologized for his language, and I explained to him that I was a hockey goalie, and have invented more ways to say "fuck" than he could ever imagine. He smiled again.
I continued with Joe while I wondered how drunk a guy has to be in order to take a swing at a big mother-ripper that has
identified himself as a Marine. Holy cow, I've been drunk
, but
I've never been
that drunk.
"Have you done a tour in Iraq yet, Joe?"
"No sir-I just got back from Afghanistan. I was there for nine months."
"See any action?"
"I'm a sniper, sir. It's my job to make sure that our patrols can go from one place to another without being shot at or bombed. It's really hard, though, because there are mountains everywhere, and it's pretty easy for the enemy to hide."
"They don't let just anybody be a sniper, do they?"
"No sir. There were 300 in my training class, and only 12 of us made it all the way through. It's all I ever wanted to do." I could tell he was proud of that.
I know a little bit about guns- not because I ever shoot, but because my dad and brother are big-time hunters. Myself, I never really got that gene. I can knock the shit out of spiders, but other than that, I'm not real big on making other things die. I don't have a problem at all with the concept of hunting, and I very much enjoy a big juicy steak- it's just not my thing. Anyway, we talked a little bit about his weapon, and how hard it is to shoot accurately from great distances.
I asked, "Can you tell if you've made an accurate shot, other than that their shooting stops?"
"I have a partner, sir. He's my spotter. He has a high powered scope, so when I take a shot, he looks for a puff of blood. That's how we know if I got him."
At that very moment the entire tone of our conversation changed. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but it hit me right then that I was speaking to a kid that had killed another human being. As far as I know, that was a first for me.
"Does that happen a lot, Joe?"
"Yes, sir. I have 22 confirmed kills, but I know it's a lot more than that." And as much as I could tell that he was proud to have been selected as a sniper, I knew from his tone and his facial expression that he was absolutely not proud of that fact.
Quietly, I said, "Well, your fellow soldiers are pretty lucky to have a guy like you watching their backs, Joe."
That's all it took. It was like I flipped a switch. Maybe it was because Joe had a few beers in him, but he certainly wasn't drunk. Maybe it was because I'm probably around his dad's age. Maybe it was because I'm pretty easy to talk to. But whatever the reason, Joe needed to let some things out, even it was to a total stranger.
So I did what I thought was the best thing I could do. I listened to the kid.
He spent the next 15 or 20 minutes talking to me about some of his experiences over there.
"Sir, I know it's my job, and I know they're the enemy, but I can't explain how it feels to kill a guy. It just doesn't seem right. I mean, I've taken maybe 50 guys out since I've been a Marine, and I think about it every day. I have nightmares. I try to put it out of my mind, but it never leaves me. "
I said that it must help knowing that he's protecting his brothers from potential harm.
"It's how I get through, sir. The guys in my unit are my family. We don't ever call anyone by their last names. It's way too impersonal. I'm closer to those guys than I'll ever be with my own family. They're the only ones that understand how I feel."
He hesitated a second, and looked down at the ground. I could tell there was something specific on his mind, and it wasn't good. I was torn between wanting him to tell me, and dreading what he might say. But it was clear that he needed to get something off his chest, and the absolute least I could do was give him my ear.
"What are you thinking, Joe?"
"This one day, we were on patrol, and the guys on the ground spotted an abandoned car. That's where the enemy will plant IED's (improvised explosive devices), so they approached, while my partner and I were up in the hills, looking for snipers. My best friend Michael was one of the guys by the car.
"Then I heard some shots from the mountains, but my partner and I couldn't find where they were coming from. The only way to really spot a sniper is to look for the flash from his rifle when he shoots. Otherwise, it's just too hard to find them in all those rocks. We knew the general direction, but we just couldn't find the shooter.
"I radioed down that we couldn't spot the gun yet, and they needed to take cover. Then I looked through my scope down at our guys, and..."
He stopped. I looked up at him, and this poor, tortured, giant kid was choking back tears. Oh, no...
"Mike got hit. I saw his chest explode. I watched my best friend die, sir. He got killed because I couldn't find the sniper in time."
By the way, my oldest son is called Mike. I thought about him right then.
I tried, "Joe, you can't blame yourself because you couldn't find a gunbarrel that was 1000 yards away. You just can't."
"It's my job, sir. I have to keep my guys safe."
Holy shit, this kid was in a lot of pain. "Joe, you need to talk to somebody about this. You can't just bottle it all up, and hope it gets easier. You have to talk to somebody."
"I can't, sir. I'm afraid they won't let me be a Marine anymore. It's all I know. I drink a lot, sir. It helps me forget for awhile sometimes."
I found myself thinking, how many of these kids have the same stories, and the same memories? I grew up watching war movies, and the soldiers were all like John Wayne, or Henry Fonda. They were all in their 30's or 40's, and tougher than hell. The movies made it look like it was almost romantic, going to war.
But it's not like that at all, is it? The majority of today's soldiers are children, most just a year or two out of high school. They've had their friggin' driver's license for two or three years. And I know the Army needs them to be young because they're in their physical prime, and can be easily molded to do what they're told.
But what happens to these kids when they get back from battle? How do they reconcile what they've seen, and what they've done? There has to be thousands of young men and women like Joe, that will be seeing enemies die by their hands, and watching their friends die over and over in their minds for the rest of their lives. How is it possible to ever live a normal life after that horror?
I'm sure this problem has existed as long as there have been soldiers going to war. But it never really hit home for me until my conversation with Joe. These kids don't stop being soldiers when their service ends, and they come back to the real world. They're soldiers for the rest of their lives, and I'll never be able to repay the sacrifice they've made to keep all of us safe.
I've thought a lot about Joe since that Saturday night at Red Rocks. The last thing I did was shook his hand again, put my hand on his shoulder, and thanked him a last time for so bravely serving his country. I wish we would have exchanged phone numbers, so that I could have called and checked on him every once in awhile. Or he could have called me if he needed someone to talk to again, since he was so far from home in Atlanta. I really regret that. I wish there was a way I could find him, but I never even got his last name. But I'll never forget that night, and that Marine.
And one thought keeps going through my mind over and over again.
God, please make sure my kids never have to go to war.
