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Our Honored Forebears
Staff Sergeant Canell, squad leader, finished with inspecting the personnel and moved on to the vehicles. The Staff Sergeant was exacting, two previous tours in Iraq had taught the young leader that there are no second chances, and that if a troop didn’t make his own good luck, ain’t no way luck was going to be a lady.
Pre-Combat Inspections (PCIs) were, in the young staff sergeant’s mind, the most important part of being a leader. Meticulously inspecting everything that would contribute to individuals and the unit’s ability to shoot, move, communicate and survive had to be inspected, assessed and cleared. Troops that had their individual and crew weapons and equipment good to go and ready to rock would perform well. Troops that didn’t would get themselves–or worse, their brothers and sisters in arms–wounded, maimed or killed. In Canell’s mind, there was no excuse for letting subordinates roll out the wire without every bet hedged in their favor. As always, the squad leader’s own vehicle was inspected first, with the two squad team leaders observing.
First, the squad leader inspected the form 5988E on a clipboard by the vehicle commander seat. All preventative maintenance, checks, and services had been performed. For those fixes needing more than just a liberal application of elbow grease, the order number to higher for either parts or service was clearly annotated. The vehicle was, at least as far as the paperwork was concerned, was Full Mission Capable; good to go.
The Staff Sergeant purposefully made PCIs formal affairs; a little bit of pucker factor would help encourage excellence.
“PFC Woodford!”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”
“Do you, as the driver, have any qualms, reservations or hesitations about taking this vehicle out the wire for a combat patrol today?”
“Negative, Staff Sergeant!“
And on, through each of the four vehicles of the squad, and each element of “shoot, move, communicate, survive” contained in or on the vehicle.
A/1/1a, the vehicle that always led the squad, had Corporal Stanton as the vehicle commander. The vehicle was better known though, for its dynamic duo driver and gunner, PFC Tavares and SPC4 Taverson. The two knuckleheads were insane. SSG Canell felt like whenever the two could be kept from drifting over to the “spooky” side of the FOB, where the Green Berets and SEALs hung out, just to get into a fight, just to say they got beat up by a SEAL, was a win.
The two had taken to calling themselves “The Terrific Tavar Twins,” based on some ridiculous sci-fi series they were reading. Beautiful knuckleheads.
Looking into A/1/1a, SSG Canell sighed. The squad leader eye-rolled Corporal Stanton, in a “we’ll talk about this later, but I got this” kind of way.
“Private Tavares! Specialist Taverson!”
In unison, “Yes, Staff Sergeant!“
“You asked, and I–through the goodness of my sentimental heart–agreed, that you could triple up on the basic load for the ‘240. And I see my munificence hereby shat upon!! Why is this extra ammunition not strapped down?”
Pause. In unison, “No excuse, Staff Sergeant!“
“PFC Tavares, if your vehicle is hit, while you are driving, by a well placed, Iranian-made, Jihadi emplaced EFP, what will cause the most damage to you and your crew as the vehicle goes dynamic due to blast effects?”
“Uh, Sar’n’t…”
“I’ll tell you what will do the most damage, Private: All that extra steel in heavy boxes with sharp, pointy corners that you have not tied down! Listen up, ‘Terrific Tavar Twins,’ you fail to secure your load again, the only Fury you’ll need to worry about is that of my boot up your ass! Are we clear?”
Pause. Mutual glance. “Clear Staff Sergeant!“
“Good, now tie down your load, before I’m forced to do things to you that make your mothers weep. And, say a prayer for Corporal Stanton. You two have screwed him. Im’a have a piece of his butt and you two are to blame. I’m hopin’ he has no mercy on you, and PTs you til you think your gonna die. But that’s his call.”
And on. The squad leader got through each vehicle. Every thing was mostly squared away. Every radio passed the commo checks. They were ready. Half an hour til they exited the wire.
Staff Sergeant Canell told the squad they were released within the launch area (which had a tent with USO cookies and coffee, big screens with news and sports, and some ping pong tables).
The squad leader went around to the side of the launch rec tent. The smoking area was staked out. To one side, there was a row of cruciform lumber. SSG Canell took the opportunity to remove body armor and head gear and hang it off one of the wooden “crosses.” The dry wind across the deployment shirt was a gift from above. The Staff Sergeant unpinned her hair and shook it loose, then held it up above her neck for some “cooling” breeze. She figured she had about 10 minutes to relax thus before getting back to the launch line before anyone else and prep her squad of misfit children for rolling out the wire.
Krista Canell lit up a Marlboro light and tried to empty her mind. The squad was prepared, the boys were ready to rock. A female squad leader had to be squared away. Her previous tours, and her loss of comrades in arms on those tours, had made her the right leader for the job. She had had to overwhelm the meatheads on the squad with sheer competence. Following her battlefield displays of competence, she’d had to dissuade the “mom” role a lot of the guys wanted her to fulfill. She figured she was now solidly labeled as a “big sister with bad attitude.” She could live with that.
Her Military Police unit had taken some egregious hits. The Infantry guys and Civil Affairs guys and all the others could roll out the wire with varied agendas that kept the jihadis on their toes. The MPs, though, had to man specific security points, both inside and outside the wire, and routs to and from were limited. Which meant that Jihad Johnny didn’t have to do a whole lot of creative planning to bring the hurt. The unit’s second squad had taken an egregious hit just last week. The Platoon Leader had been accompanying that patrol. RIP.
Word was battalion was sending down a stud to replace the KIA platoon leader, but Canell hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a newbie LT walking the grounds.
Canell punched out her Marlboro and lit another. When they hit the gate out the wire, she had a plastic can of Skoal in one of the combat pockets on the sleeve of her shirt. She did a grin/grimace; Ma would be so disappointed. Sure, ol’ man tobacco might kill her, but right now the prime candidates for killin’ her ass were Johnny Jihad and Sammy Sectarian. She’d battle the demons of tobacco later if she had the chance. Right now, keeping her squad alive was the priority. She knew her blond hair, freckles and slightly buck teeth had not aided her assumption of leadership in the squad. But she had won them over. The squad was her charge. She’ll be damned if she’d let anything happen to them.
“I’m guessing you’re Staff Sergeant Canell?”
Canell turned and saw a First Lieutenant standing on the edge of the smoker’s pit. He was tall and lean and hardass, Asian; looked like you could cut diamonds on his cheekbones.
“Yes, sir, I’m Canell. Can I help you with something? Sir?”
“I’m Lieutenant Yazawa, your new PL. I’ve heard good things about you and your squad. Figured I’d strap-hang this patrol and get to know the squad.”
“Oh. That’s awesome. Sir. And will Sergeant First Class Payton be joining us, too?”
“No, the Platoon Sergeant will be hanging with third squad. My understanding is that PCIs are complete and you’ll be rolling out in the next twenty?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I was just about to kit back up and get ready to shove my band of happy retards into their vehicles.”
LT Yazawa didn’t smile, but Canell thought she saw maybe a lip twitch. Lip twitches were good, from an LT. Tics were bad.
“Outstanding. I’ll ride in your vehicle. Just observing. You run the show, I just want to get in the know.”
“Yes, sir, that’s…great. Uh, welcome aboard, or something.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re so happy you can hardly stand it.”
“Hardly. Sir.”
SSG Canell re-donned her armor and kit. She clipped in the single point release on her M4, and headed back out to the line of her vehicles, idling and ready to step off. She felt the spritz of adrenaline that she always got before they moved outside the wire. Canell headed toward her vehicle, glad that it was only the new LT, and not the Platoon Sergeant accompanying her patrol; she’d gotten enough grief as it was, for something she wasn’t going to compromise on.
The Platoon Sergeant, from guidance down through the First Sergeant and then the exalted Battalion Command Sergeant Major, had been on her ass for carrying a piece of non-standard equipment. Rightly, the Bn CSM had declared that every troop would have all the same gear in all the same places on their load-bearing equipment. Canell knew that made sense. Everyone’s first aid pouch was in the same place. Everyone’s radio, ammo, and explosives were located on each troop in the same place. That made sense. If you need to grab something off a fallen comrade, you shouldn’t be rootin’ around trying to find a troop’s first aid kit to staunch his wound. But. The NCO chain had declared that nothing extra could be added to personal kit.
Canell carried a tomahawk. Years ago, greats-ago, a great-grandaddy captured it as a Texas Ranger during the Commanche wars. Her family had carried it in WWII. Her grandaddy had carried it in Vietnam. Her father had borne the tomahawk into battle during the first Gulf War. Her big brother, an Army Ranger, had carried it into Afghanistan after 911. He had bestowed the hunk of steel with a hickory shaft upon her when she rotated into Iraq on her second tour. Now on her third tour, there wasn’t no way that the tomahawk wasn’t going to be damn well affixed to her kit. First Sergeant and Sergeant Major had a problem with that. Well, they’d get over it. What she didn’t need though, was the new LT getting all obstreperous about it. The tomahawk was slid into a ring that MPs usually carried billy clubs in. LT would get over it. Canell just didn’t need a spat right before they launched.
Canell saw to her squad mates mounting up and getting ready to roll. The new LT, this Yazawa guy, was kitted up and standing by her vehicle. After getting everyone set, she approached her own vehicle, and pointed to the rear door behind her seat as the vehicle commander. “That’s where you go. Sir.”
Yazawa pointed at her kit. “I see you’re carrying some non-standard equipment, there, Staff Sergeant.”
Canell bowed up, just a little bit. “Yes, sir. This ‘Hawk has been in my family about a hundred and fifty years. It’s seen more combat than the two of us ever will. It goes with me. Sir.”
Yazawa’s lip twitched. “As well it should. And, hey, big Sarge, you are not the only one carrying a family heirloom into the fight.” Yazawa turned, and Canell saw what was either a small-ass sword or a big-ass knife hanging at his waist. “This wakizashi has been in my family for over 350 years. I don’t leave home without it.”
Canell grinned. “Roger that, sir.”
They both sat the Humvee, and Canell radioed for the formation to move out the wire.
Two hours later, the security patrol was about a third of the way through its rout. Canell had downed two Ripits and copious amounts of water. Funny how on patrol she never needed to pee.
The patrol was about 800 meters from the next security checkpoint they were to check when they got hit. Canell couldn’t have said whether the shock from the blast of the IED or the plume of smoke and dust registered first. She saw CPL Stanton’s Humvee rock up and around, and then a hail of all kinds of fire was pouring into her squad. Her squad. Canell hit the radio, we need QRF, we need air up and eyes on now, all vehicles status up now. Stanton’s vehicle wasn’t responding by radio but she saw Taverson up on the M240, laying down fires. A second IED went off to the rear of the patrol. Canell could see jihadis massing on the far side of a low wall to the formation’s right, shooting and looking like they were getting ready to assault the squad. Her squad.
“All vehicles, gunner’s fire right, keep eyes left. Watch for friendlies, I’m on the ground.”
Canell bailed the Humvee and moved toward a break in the wall, from which all the small arms fire was coming. She rolled over the break and on the far side saw all kinda jihadis shooting at her squad, her boys. She leveled up her M4 and started shooting as she moved forward in the little trench behind the wall. She got close and, in the press of bodies, aiming wasn’t really necessary. She felt supporting fires coming from behind her, over her right shoulder, but didn’t stop to check who had followed her into the trench.
Her M4 ran dry and she flipped a mag switch without thought or hesitation. She was now walking on the bodies of those she’d shot, without being sure they were done and she was clear. There was still a swarm in front of her. The person supporting her from behind had moved up so that they were virtually shoulder-to-shoulder. Canell’s weapon clicked dry again. As a mere Staff Sergeant, she didn’t rate a sidearm, and because the US Army was so super-duper high tech, neither Canell nor any of her squaddies carried bayonets.
Without a thought, Canell dropped her carbine on its sling and pulled her tomahawk from its ring on her belt and got to cutting. Her (butthead) Ranger big brother hadn’t just handed her the weapon; he’d spent hours training her to use the weapon, burning into muscle memory how to best employ both the ax-head and its tail-end spike, and how with a thumb-stroke to rotate between the two. Canell, if she had a thought, was only thinking of her boys and taking the heat off them. She hit the press and alternated low and high with the swift, savage strokes of the ‘hawk.
The crowd of jihadis was thinning when Canell knew she was dead. One of the last hadjis in the line was bringing his AK-47 up to bear, and Canell knew she wouldn’t reach him in time to stop his killing her. Here’s hoping them thousand dollar plates work. Canell reached forward as far and as fast as she could. Her ‘hawk swept down through the shoulder of the threat and well into his clavicle, keeping the threat’s weapon from coming all the way up. The jihadi reflexively jerked the trigger, and Canell felt her left leg jerk from under her, like she’d been damn mule kicked. She fell forward knowing she couldn’t do anything to stop the next shot. Knowing she was dead.
She saw the jihadi try to lever the muzzle of the AK back up with the arm she hadn’t ruined, when his head seemed to leap from his shoulders. LT Yazawa moved beyond the still-falling corpse and took out the next two jihadis behind him with that skinny, big-ass knife of his. Strangely, weirdly, that seemed to be the end of the line. Canell thought, good, my boys are safe. She managed to rotate onto her back to see the sun, and watched it fade to black.
Krista Canell woke up in what she figured was the CASH (Combat Support Hospital). Her head felt muzzy and she had about the worst case of cotton mouth ever. The lights were dim and she could tell she was hooked up to that machine that went beep. She felt a dull, throbbing ache in her leg. Not painful, but full of bass. She looked around and saw a cup with a straw on the lap table next to her bed. She grabbed it and greedily sucked down the ice water in it. She settled back, content but for that throb in her leg. Then she jerked up. She’d heard all type-a stories of troops feeling aches and throbs in limbs that were no longer there. She reached down and felt her leg. It was there. Her hands walked down her leg as far as she could reach. Her leg was there. She fell back and slept.
When she woke up, she saw the razor-sharp silhouette of LT Yazawa by her bedside. Guy was so erect, he made her spine hurt just lookin’ at him.
“Hey, sir. I screw up the SITREP, or something?”
“No. Your team covered for you. SITREP is good. You got over.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The docs say you only got soft tissue damage. You’re damn lucky that round didn’t break your femur. You have a couple days before they evaluate and either MEDEVAC you to Germany, or see whether you can rehabilitate on site and return to duty.”
“Hey, sir, I’m good, I’ll rehabilitate and go RTD.” Return to duty.
“It’s the doc’s call, based on your condition. If you can RTD, that’s great. But you need to give him the right feedback. If you can muscle up and get back to work, that’s great. But if you can’t look me in the eye and tell me you can hit that trench just as well as before, then you need to bow out. Your squad deserves that.”
That gave Canell pause. “Yes, sir.”
LT Yazawa reached under his chair and pulled out a couple items.
“The boys told me you’d want this.” Yazawa handed her her leather bound bible. Canell felt herself getting a little teary.
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Thank them for me.”
“Absolutely. And we all knew you needed this, to help with the healing.” The LT handed her her tomahawk.
Canell seized up a little bit and held the ‘hawk to her breast. “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”
“You heal up, now, Staff Sergeant. That is a direct verbal order, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Yazawa got up to leave.
“Sir? I saw you, in the trench, using that long-ass knife–“
“–It’s a wakizashi–“
“–right, using your whatsits. Did you ever think you would use it? I mean, you carried it, but did you ever think it would be a weapon you used?”
Yazawa paused. “We both carried the weapons of our forebears. Not because we thought we would need them, but because we wanted to venerate those who had fought so hard, so long ago, to give us what we have today. No. I never thought I would use the weapon of my ancestors, but I’m darn glad I had it.”
“Me, too, sir.”
“Heal well, Staff Sergeant.”
Since we’re talking veneration, this post was inspired by this incredible young lady. God bless her and those like her.
Also, I needed a Nippon-American name. Thanks to Al Yazawa (USMA, ’89) for letting me use his. ‘Course, he stopped his man-killing ways years ago to become an MD. Quitter.
Published in General
The Staff Sergeant unpinned her hair and shook it loose
I did not see that comin’! Really well done.
Thanks, RA. I was going for that. All the PC schmegma keeps righteous ladies from getting the props they deserve.
You’re a very talented writer, you know. I went to that link- very impressive young woman. It’s good to be reminded that just because the Left shoves it down our throats, that doesn’t mean there aren’t some good points to it.
Whoa, Boss! Up close and personal…I’m learning – and enjoying every minute of it. Just outstanding! HooWah and thanks!
Agreed on the well done. A good example that it doesn’t make a difference, when it doesn’t make a difference. And the misdirection reminds of what Heinlein did in Starship Troopers. You start assuming Johnny is American, are misdirected to thinking Argentinian, and finally learn he’s actually Filipino.
They pretty much crap on everything, so that those who deserve accolades for doing heroic stuff are shoved to the periphery, because everybody/all the time are heroes.
A great parable of veneration, based off a real life soldier who is far more than a plaster saint.
Aren’t you being a bit harsh toward “Tommy” and his chronicler, Kipling, @cliffordbrown? Thanks be, the tenor of the times is different, but the way we view our troops as they come back to us to heal and share hard-won wisdom with us hasn’t changed much, has it?
It’s “route” not “rout.”
(I only spotted the first one by eye.)
Excellent stuff, Boss.
Great stuff Boss. So when is the first book coming out?
Not at all. I was just playing off the theme with the poetry reference. Worth looking to any British members for comparison of how our publics differ in expressed views of our military service members. In the past two decades, U.S. public expressions of support for our military service members have been positive, I believe.
Move over Clancy. Make some room for the Boss.
Coming soon to your Kindle via Amazon.
Thanks, @percival. I had to get pretty liquored up to power through this story in time. You should see how much trouble I had writing “sense.”
Thanks, @columbo; working it.
@goldwaterwoman: Thank you, ma’am.
Outstanding, Boss. I’m still teared up. Thanks.
My original dissertation proposal was focused on a related topic, specifically regarding the advantages suggested by using MP units (mixed male/female) vs. Infantry units (100% male) for area security missions. The proposal was first made in 2011, and I wrote an essay about it in 2013 (found here). Your essay here encourages me to return to that original research. @bossmongo – Any further thoughts you have on the topic would be welcome.
Bottom Line: your essay here is a GREAT piece of writing!
Thanks, @postmodernhoplite.
Let me package my thoughts up, but I’ll follow up with you. Great essay you wrote, by the way. Here’s the problem (and it’ll go toward my later comments): You took a hard look at a sensitive subject, defined your terms, and went forward examining pro’s and con’s. This will be/is a political football for both sides of the aisle, and rational, dispassionate analysis will be pilloried and maligned by those with an agenda.
Amazing. Just amazing.
Thanks, Skip.
Uh, @skipsul
Great story, Boss. Just out of curiosity, since I served 30 years ago, and that was with Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children: why “troop” instead of “soldier?”
Also, I think it’s “stanch” and not “staunch”, but some of the dictionaries now list the latter as an alternate spelling.
@archiecampbell, in order:
-Our eternal wars have led to all services providing fighters. Navy guys love getting sent to landlocked Afghanistan. Because our formations have become so (sometimes intentionally, sometimes not) intermingled, the term of art is now generally “troop,” therefore not inadvertently leaving out a soldier, sailor, airman, marine or coastie that contributing to the fight. In all honesty, I didn’t even think about it when I threw down “troop.”
-You are probably right on stanch vs. staunch. I’m not proud. I’ll say it. I more’n likely screwed it up.
Glad you liked the story.
Makes sense. After all Navy Corpsmen (uh, I mean “Corpsemen”) are part of Marine units. Though in that case I would always and everywhere applicable just use “jarhead/squid” instead of “troop.” That’s interesting that Army units would have folks from so many other services with them. And that, of course, leads us to the the Hierarchy Of Bar Fights. In my day, it was this:
-Marine Corps in a bar and Navy comes in, they fight each other.
-Marine Corps and Navy in a bar and Army comes in, it’s Navy/Marine Corps v. Army.
-Marine Corps, Navy, and Army in a bar and Air Force comes in, *everyone* fights them. Lousy rich zoomies. “Ugh, steak again?“*
-Everyone in a bar and the Coast Guard comes in, no one fights them. They’re usually local, and therefore know where the girls are.
*Something I actually heard an enlisted Airman say in line at the enlisted mess, er dining, hall at Andrews Air Force Base (incidentally, it was the nicest military dining hall I ever saw) when I was shipping back out to Gitmo after a leave. And we’re not talking about the normal “strip steak” the rest of us chumps got; these were real T-bone steaks. I wanted to kill him with my tray. Probably should’ve.
Marine Corps, Navy, Army and Air Force are all in a bar. SF guy walks in. They all give him the hairy eyeball.
SF guy grins and says, “We good? Or do ya’ll want to get stacked up like cord wood? Again?”
Neither a tomahawk nor a wakizashi, Captain Nieves Fernandez used a bolo knife.
Had a boss whose OER [officer evaluation report] writing method was to compose them in the evening, sitting in the BOQ drinking good vodka. Worked every time.
If you click on the link above to the official briefing on the OER system, you will understand the utility of attaining and sustaining an effective blood alcohol level before writing.
Also in the realm of the backup weapons…
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1296136/As-Gurkha-disciplined-beheading-Taliban-Thank-God-side.html
This I learned – painfully – when I presented this to my dissertation committee for approval. Great wailing and gnashing of teeth followed. I was also much chagrined to subsequently learn that the various Joint and US Army security operation think tanks were not at all interested in making AAR data available to test my hypothesis.
I remain convinced that this study is worth doing. I hope to find an academic or research position that will allow me to do so.
Gurkhas are badass on toast. If we had any real sense of what’n the world we’re doing in Afghanistan, he’d’ve had a medal pinned on him and sent back into the field. Instead, he’s sitting in stir in Kent. Know what he’s not doing in Kent? Killing Taliban.