I honestly don’t remember the first time that I showed interest in the military, or if there was a “moment” that can be pinpointed. However, I do remember visiting my grandparents on my father’s side, on North Caledonia in Marianna, Florida and exploring the mysteries of my grandfather’s old war relics with my cousin. I remember going to the old “Army-Navy Surplus” store downtown and one of the adults buying us both a set of OD Green fatigues with black and gold “US Army” cloth tapes above the left breast pocket and a blank white tape above the right one. One of the adults wrote our first names on the blank tape with a Marks-a-Lot, and we were the happiest kids in North Florida that summer.
At some point I found an Army officer’s overseas cap insignia in a drawer somewhere and my grandfather used silicon sealant to attack the brass eagle to the front of a M1 helmet liner. This topped off my uniform nicely – and I never noticed that my white canvas “Keds” were WAY out of place in my make believe world. We read comics about the Civil War and World War II, and came up with ideas about how to play army in new and exciting ways. Of course we would squabble over the helmet, and whose stick was more like a tommy-gun and who shot who first.
While we knew that Papa (our grandfather) was in World War II, we had little frame of reference, other than he was fighting the Nazi Germans in the “ETO” – whatever that was. We knew he was on some sort of tank, and was lucky to be with us, but he didn’t really tell us much about his adventures at the time. Although he seemed to have a deep sense of patriotism, love of his family and respect for everyone he met – especially those in uniform. Vietnam had just ended when we were old enough to start to play army and as I became aware that there was a war OTHER than the Revolution, the Civil War and World War II, I began to ask questions of the other adults in the family.
My grandmother was very proud of her man, and always took time to show us his medals and badges, his uniform jacket and patches, and told us what it all meant. She would also tell us stories of the hardships that they faced at home - from rationing and a lack of transportation to the heartbreaking time and distance between them and shortage of just about everything. I looked up to her as a strong and independent woman who supported the love of her life through some very hard times.
One day I asked my father, who was at the time a truck driver for Poole Truck Lines, about his war (assuming that he was in Vietnam). He looked at me almost wistfully and told me that he wasn’t able to serve in the military directly. Of course, I was shocked and pressed him for details. It turned out that he volunteered to serve in the US Air Force, and had passed all of the aptitude tests to go to Officer Candidate School and through Pilot Selection – but when he went to Jacksonville, Florida to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), he was disqualified.
He had been horribly burned as a child when, while standing in front of a gas heater, his flannel robe caught on fire and left him with 3rd degree burns from his buttocks to his knees. While the burns were long healed, and he felt no pain, discomfort or limitations, the military doctors were less than impressed and barred him from service. I think that he may have regretted that rejection for the rest of his life. However, he made the most of it, had a successful career and later served his community and state as a Law Enforcement Officer for nearly 25 years. Whether he served in the US Military or not, Pop was my hero, and remains so to this day – but more about him later.
As the years passed, my family fed my growing obsession with the military, although they did it mostly either unwittingly or completely innocently. Remember dear reader, that it was a different time then, when little boys had BB guns that they carried around shooting cans and things that they shouldn’t as well as closely supervised trips to the sand pit to shoot .410s and .22s with our fathers. The steady diet of comic books like SGT ROCK and GI COMBAT were tempered with a set of encyclopedias, histories of the conquering of the American West and the documentaries that my father loved so much.
After reading the monthly feast of graphic imagery in DC’s comics, I would pore over the Encyclopedia Britannia to clarify the meaning of words, what specific weapons were and what they were used for, rank structures, what badges meant and why we were fighting. This was the start of my thirst for historic knowledge that would serve me well through my military career, and now as a part-time academic. It was not good enough to just play army and pretend to be Audie Murphy or Jeb Stuart, I wanted to know how they fought, what equipment they used, and most importantly WHY they fought.
Some of my fondest memories as a child were visiting the many coastal emplacements and forts that dot the shoreline of Florida, as well as observing living history exhibits that ranged from full-scale battle reenactments like the annual festival at Olustee to the pioneer exhibits at the Florida Museum of Natural History. I grew up on a diet of sugar cane and dusty books, while I clothed myself with Confederate gray and Army green, and I am grateful every day that my parents and grandparents were so willing to keep my appetite for history alive.
Indeed, I remember one year, convincing my Papa to let me carry “THE” gun to the Olustee reenactment, as it would only be proper with my brand new Kepi that crowned my head was a tribute to his grandfather – whose gun it was. That venerated ancestor was Thomas Lampkin Davis, who was a musician in K Company, 6th Florida Volunteer Infantry Regiment during the Civil War. He was a heroic mystery to me and in spite of extensive genealogy work, remains so, to some extent. At any rate, that was one of the proudest days of my life. While the old musket was battered, rusted and abused, it was a link to my past and pointed the way to my future. I still have that old musket - and it hangs, with the kepi, on my wall at home.
The years passed and my tastes refined. For several years, the television show “The A-Team” was the cornerstone of playing Army with me and my friends. We all had a role to play and perhaps not surprisingly to some of my friends today, my role was that of the mad pilot – Murdoch. During this time, I fell in love with both aviation and the Marine Corps. One of my friend’s fathers was a Vietnam Vet Marine, and my friend worr an ERDL camouflage pattern Marine Corps cover to school every day. I coveted that hat. It just had an aura of badassness...yes, that is a word. Of course, I began to research both and soon filled my young head with the specs and nomenclature of just about every aircraft in the American inventory at that point – as well as most of the foreign military aircraft. Likewise, I began to make special trips on my bike to the Marine Corps Recruiter’s office, which was just down the street from my grandparents’ house in Tallahassee. Decals and posters were the best treat that this boy could have – that and model aircraft – they filled the skies of my bedroom in our little apartment.
About this time I began to spend a bit more time with my Granddaddy (My mother’s dad) and discovered that he had served in Korea during the war there as an Military Police Soldier (MP), and this was as intriguing as my Papa’s stint as the Tank Commander (TC) of a Tank Destroyer during WWII. To my further delight and respect, I found out that my great grandfather on my mother’s side was an Infantryman in the 81st Infantry Division in World War I and lost a lung to German mustard gas (Those damned brutal Huns!). Little did I know how all of this would profoundly affect my personal choices in the military later, but it did and I couldn’t be more happy.
At some point in the early 1980s, my friends and I discovered a duffle bag full of US Army uniforms and insignia that someone discarded next to the dumpster at our apartment complex. Soon I had a fully uniformed squad of troops (between 8 and 10 years old) marching in step and singing cadences that we picked up from various sources. We were in hog heaven. While playing at marching one day, we met “Sarge,” he was a veteran of some sort from the neighboring apartment complex, who taught us the “stomp your left and drag your right” cadence/step. I suppose we were probably fun to watch – not unlike the “Little Rascals” whose re-runs were a part of our TV diet.
When I visited my father, he always had a new stack of history and reference books (most of which I still have today), and I would spend hours studying the characteristics and lineage of American martial aircraft. He would take me to museums and monuments all over the state to let me see and experience for myself the wonders of the military world. He knew I loved it, and would not dissuade me from my dreams. By the time my mother took a job in Jacksonville, when I was in the 7th grade, I had completely turned away from Marine Corps Aviation and Aimed High – I wanted to be an “Eagle Driver” – a pilot of the US Air Force’s F15 Eagle.
I adored the airplane and coveted it. I collected anything and everything related to the F15 that I could get my hands on and afford (or convince my long-suffering parents to afford) – I acquired a flight helmet and painted it in the livery colors and style of the 33rd Tactical Fighter Wing out of Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. I found an “Eagle Driver” patch like those worn by the pilots and even scored some flight gloves at one point. Indeed today, I still grin uncontrollably when I see an Eagle fly over – she is the girl I never had.
When my mother got a new job and moved us to Jacksonville, and I started school at the Douglas Anderson 7th Grade Center (at that time it was a centralized 7th grade school for all of Duval County) I was pretty nerdy in my own right. All I really cared about was being a fighter pilot. Every day I wore an ERDL pattern jungle blouse with patches ranging from both grandfather’s combat units (3rd Infantry Division and Tank Destroyer Forces – that Grandfather was in the 629th TD BN, 29th Infantry Division) to that Eagle Driver patch I was so fond of - as well as wearing some old clapped out jungle boots and jeans – this would become an unofficial and unrealized “uniform” of some of my friends in high school. But, for now I was the new kid. I still spoke with a bit of a country accent and didn’t really know how to handle myself yet.
There was rumor that some of the older kids there were like 18 years old – and had flunked so many times that they were just homesteading at the 7th Grade Center. I had a run in with one of them that changed my life. If was after gym class, and I was standing in line for lunch, talking to a very well developed and pretty blonde girl named Pam. I remember her skin tight jeans, punky hair, and neon accessories made her seem much older, sort of dangerous and hella hot. It was then that things went sideways.
Her beau – I don’t remember his name, but he was one of the ones rumored to be 18, slid in between us in line out of nowhere and elbowed me out of the way. Of course, I protested as I thought Pam and I were getting on famously and did not want to be bullied. Moments later, when I picked myself up off the floor, nose bloodied, I realized that I might just want to learn how to fight. Damn – that hurt! Of course, it was not my last punch to the nose – nor the worst. That week, my mother let me sign up for martial arts lessons at a little dojo called LeeMarCas where I would be hit in the nose hundreds more times.
I would ride my bicycle from our home in the Arlington Heights neighborhood, near Fort Caroline Road down University Boulevard to the little hole in the wall Martial Arts studio and shop and put on my gi – ready for whatever Master Lee Barden could impart to me. In those days, Lee’s dojo was in the back room behind the small storefront. It had no air-conditioning, no pads on the floor, and no pads on the support poles that were spaced throughout the relatively large room. We wore leather bag gloves as they allowed better grappling and lasted much longer than the dipped foam that most dojos used. The drawback was that the padding was a bit thinner, so you felt the punches a bit more.
It was in that hot dojo that I learned to take a punch. I earned a few black eyes, probably a broken nose or two, and most importantly a deep respect for the teachings of Master Lee and the philosophy of Taoism. I don’t know if Lee knows this, but that was the beginning of a life long journey for me. The beginning of finding myself and trying to maintain balance within me. Over the years I became a decent fighter, and that was exactly what Lee and his Black Belts taught, how to engage and win a fight – in the quickest way possible. This would serve me well in the future, as that wasn’t the last fight I got into in school...but it was the last one in which I got my ass handed to me. Thanks again Lee!
Academically, I was a terrible student, but I was a good test taker and in the gifted program, so I thought that I would be able to do whatever I wanted after Middle and High School. My plans were to go to the Air Force Academy (I even had a subscription to the Air Force Association Magazine) and of course become a bad-ass fighter pilot – shooting down Soviet MiGs like a Boss. I kept up on all of the latest technology as well as the latest paint schemes for NATO aircraft. Yeah – I was that kid. However, a few events during my high school years would change my perspective and my course. The least of which was not my terrible study habits.
I played football in one form or another until I got to 9th grade and went out for the High School team at Terry Parker. During pre-season work-ups, I was injured with a scratched lens in my eye and decided to call it quits. How was I supposed to be a fighter pilot if I messed up my eyes? Of course, the irony is that I continued to train with Lee until half way through my Junior year, and was hit in the face multiple times every other day. Looking back, I suppose that it was just a period of transition. This was reflected in several ways in the coming years.
In the summer between 9th grade and my sophomore year (at the time Duval County High Schools were 10th through 12th grades), I met a pretty girl named Debbie. As I mentioned before, I was a terrible academic student at the time, and was attending summer school to make up some class or other (probably math, which I still struggle with). She was also there, but to get ahead – yes, she was my polar opposite when it came to academics. She came from a good, upper middle class, Episcopalian family that spent free time at their beach house or on their sailboat. Yes, she was a bit out of my lower middle class league, but we hit it off nonetheless.
We were crazy high school in love until about half way through the first semester of our Junior year. We both had our own vehicles and friends, and spent a considerable amount of time apart, considering that we were so in love. She would spend much of her time with other members of the school band or church groups (often the same kids) and I would spend an inordinate amount of time with my friends in the woods, accomplishing whatever teen-crazy mission we dreamed up four ourselves on weekend camping outings.
As I mentioned before, looking back, there was a bit of a uniform that we subconsciously developed in those years. black T-shirts and jeans, with boots and a well-worn military fatigue jacket were the go-to wardrobe items – although this was not a steadfast rule - all of us could and did assume more preppy threads when the need arised, like dates and dances. None of us really fit into any particular group – we weren’t jocks or nerds – socialites or gear heads, specifically. We knew and were friendly with most everyone. However, we did seem to run in a pack, with a couple of us eventually serving our country in one way or another. Kenny joined the Army as an MP, Tyrome joined the Merchant Marines and Chad became a Ranger and later a Border Patrol Agent. These guys all shaped my life in many ways – and we bonded over fire pits and while paddling john boats across the mighty St. John’s River – both with varying degrees of success.
One weekend we decided to camp out on Quarantine Island, which is in the middle of the St John’s River and was used as a way station for incoming cargo ships back in the days of sail. Now it was deserted except for some workers during the weekday that were part of the crew building the nearly complete Napoleon Bonaparte Broward Bridge (Popularly known as the “Dame’s Point Bridge”) that would connect Arlington with Oceanway and provide a quick route for the denizens of Eastern Jacksonville and relatively short route to the Airport and Interstate 95 North. Well, initially our little expedition went rather well, although with only one 8-foot john boat, and five of us in the trip, we had to make two trips across the mile-wide waterway from Ruddy Point to the island. Once we all got on the island, we decided to explore the construction site and see what we could find. First we set up our little patrol base with our sleeping bags and some tarps for cover (tents were for pussies) and set our beer in the cold wet send to stay cool.
After a considerable hike, we made it to the construction site where we found all of the typical equipment and detritus one would expect at such a place. More importantly, we found that there was scaffolding attached to the side of the support towers, from where we were all the way to the top almost 500 feet above. After a VERY short debate, we began to climb. The deck is a “mere” 174 feet above sea level, and at night with only a 10 inch wide steel been to cross, our first stop was horrifying enough. We clambered onto the deck and looked around for a bit, before we noticed headlights headed in our general direction – so back across the beam, and up the scaffold we scrambled.
The scaffold topped off almost level with the top of the south support tower and between the wind and the ridiculous height, it seemed like we were on top of the world. After soaking it in, we began the long descent and after what seemed forever, we made it back to terra-firma. Then one of the guys discovered that the construction workers had left the keys in a front-end loader. We grabbed every fire extinguisher we could find and climbed aboard. Our trip back to our little camp went much quicker as we tooled along over the rolling dunes, most of us piled on top of the engine compartment or the cab of the loader – all while leaving a smoke screen of dry chemical extinguisher powder behind us.
The next day we woke, sore and tired, to a blustery wind and a heavy line of storm clouds moving toward us from the West. It was February, and although we were in Florida, the weather in the winter can turn harsh and bitingly cold in short order, and we all sensed that this would be a bad storm. So, we hurriedly packed our gear and made our way back to where we had pulled the boat up onto a dune. It was still there, but the water was very close to surpassing the cord grass that marked the high tide mark. We had another quick debate about making several trips across and decided that we needed to make it in one go.
We cast about for suitable raft making material and found a huge piece of Styrofoam that had once been part of a dock. Using our climbing rope, we tied it off to the stern of the boat, and found a board with which the person riding the Styrofoam could paddle. We loaded all of our kit into the boat and cast off, with Jimbo riding the Styrofoam like an aquatic horse. The water was still relatively smooth in spite of the wind, and it had not started raining. We paddled the overloaded boat as strongly as we could, all while the Styrofoam raft drifted and tugged on the boat. Then we saw the line of wind and rain coming.
The water started getting choppy and soon we found ourselves taking on a bit of water. Someone behind me complained that their feet were getting wet, and then I made a huge mistake. I stopped paddling to point to my rucksack and tell him to get my canteen cup out, with which to bail out the water. That was when we drifted abeam to the choppy waves. We only had about 6 inches of gunnel above the water as it was and when the first wave it us, the little boat swamped without hesitation. Suddenly we were in the VERY cold river, holding on to each other, the swamped boat and our sodden rucksacks all while Jimbo laughed at us from the comfort of his Styrofoam sea horse.
Chad was quickly becoming hypothermic as he did not have the nice layer of fat that I did, and I became worried about him. We all squabbled about what to do while our paddles and loose, lightweight items quickly drifted away on the wind assisted current. Jimbo continued to guffaw like a jackass as we slowly lost our body heat. I had one hand on his sea horse, and the other through the straps on my ruck and holding tightly to the johnboat. I decided that I had enough. I pulled down sharply on the Styrofoam float and sent a very surprised, and not so amused Jimbo into the drink with us. Yeah, I know that it was a dick move, but sometimes you have to be that guy.
After a prolonged and exhausting struggle, we dragged ourselves onto the far shore, like wet rats and dragging our soaked kit through the mud and cord grass onto the shore. As we shivered in the biting wind, we opened our rucksacks in hopes of finding dry clothes - to no avail. Except for Chad. His winter coat was wrapped in a tied off garbage bag and was completely dry. While all of us were sorely jealous of his foresight, none of us had time to worry about it as the sound of sirens alerted us that we were not alone.
Apparently, someone living in the apartment complex up river from where we came to shore saw us swamp and struggling, and eventually called 911 in hopes of helping us out. Jacksonville Fire and Rescue were first on scene, followed closely by officers from Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. They must have thought (mostly correctly by the way) that we were just stupid kids and after a brief interrogation loaded us up, wrapped in the firemen’s bunker gear and drove us to Chad’s mother’s house, less than a mile from where we waded ashore. Never had I been so happy to strip out of my clothes in front of friends and a mom! She turned her heater way up and shepherded us all into the showers to warm up while she washed and dried our clothes.
These and other experiences had a duel effect on me. They fed my hunger for adventure, while toughening me up a bit for some of the trials in the future. But physical toughness is not the single attribute that makes a soldier decent. You have to be mentally and emotionally tough as well. This I was not. In fact, my grizzled old Papa told me that if I ever did join the military, I would not make it through Basic Training – I was that big of a wimp emotionally back then, in spite of ongoing martial arts training and being able to take a punch.
And emotionally, I was a bit of the pussy that Papa insisted that I was. What he didn’t understand, and what I didn’t either, until later, is that physical pain never bothered me much, and even extreme physical and emotional stress is a good thing… it was the close bonds that I formed with people that would hurt me and break me down. They reason that I could take a punch and play football, suffer broken bones and worse without being a pussy is that I really had nothing invested in those tribulations. But, if I disappointed Papa or my Dad – those were the things that broke my heart…and I guess they still do. I suppose that I fully subscribed to the idea of never crying for pain – only for for love. If that makes me a big pussy, then so be it.
Anyway, it was around this time that I became much more interested in joining the Army. The life of an Airborne Ranger and eventually Special Forces seemed like the life for me. Perhaps it was a realization that I would never have good enough grades to get into the Air Force Academy, or maybe the romanticism of being a snake-eater got to me, or perhaps the fact that Debbie and I went through a nasty break up in which I showed the depths of my immaturity and douchebaggery and simply wanted to change everything. Regardless of what combination of things led to the change of heart, I soon found myself in the US Army Recruiter’s office wanting an 11X (Unassigned Infantry) contract with an Airborne option. The problem I then ran into was the fact that I was still 17 and needed a parental signature.
When I approached my mom and step-dad, they were adamantly against the idea of me going into one of the direct combat branches of the Army and preferred that I choose a job that would have some application in the civilian world when I got out. Additionally, they refused to sign unless I joined the Army Reserve first – to see if I even liked it – before committing to at least four years of active service.
So, I made my way back to the recruiting office and met with the Army Reserve Recruiter. I explained my plight and asked for his advice. I know that any military or veteran reading this is now wincing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. However, Staff Sergeant (SSG) Swed was actually as good as his word. He never lied or misled me, and actually helped me out in this situation. However, there was much that he did not – nay, could not – know about the field that I would choose. He convinced me that being an MP had much of the adventure of Combat Arms, without the long ruck-marches, as well as being a transferable skill. He also let me know that there was an MP Company local to Jacksonville and I could get a bonus for enlisting to fill one of their slots.
Let me make one thing clear – SSG Swed WAS a smooth talking bastard, and after a brief meeting with my parents, they were convinced that I would be riding in a patrol car and learning how to be a civilian cop…which is partly true. So soon, I had the parental signature that I needed and was at MEPS taking my physical and signing my contract. That day is a bit blurry to me, but I remember SSG Swed coaching me through most of it, including making sure that I got everything that he promised I would – IN WRITING. So I left MEPS that day a newly enlisted recruit, feeling physically violated (not for the last time!) and bearing a contract that guaranteed that as long as I fulfilled my part, I would get a $1500 bonus (split into three payments and taxed heavily), split option training (where I would attend Basic Combat Training [BCT&91; during the summer between by Junior and Senior years in High School and then attend MP School after Graduation), a unit close to home where I could attend drill and begin learning about my trade, and an 8 year commitment to the US Government.
Soon after signing the contract, I had a huge falling out with my mother and step father that resulted in my relocation to Plant City, Florida to live with my father. I enrolled in school there and found that I really liked PCHS and the people there. Pop was very no nonsense about everything and basically made it understood that I could sink or swim, pass or fail at my leisure. He impressed upon me in no uncertain terms that while he loved me, this was my journey and that he would rather me choose to fail and suffer the consequences than spend his time and effort in a fruitless and ongoing effort to MAKE me do the right thing. This is when I began to turn myself around…although I still struggled in some classes.
Nonetheless, I made it through the remainder of a relatively uneventful Junior year while making some new friends and finding that I could be outgoing and friendly without revealing too much about my past. This would also stay with me, as I am often considered an extroverted introvert to this day. Funny how that works. I dated and spent time with several young ladies, and Debbie even came to visit me once on a whim. But I promised myself that I would remain single and unattached after such a messy breakup with Deb (not that I fault her at all!).
June approached rapidly, and I began to pack my bag to leave for Fort McClellan, in Alabama, and did so strictly according to the packing list provided by my recruiter. Little did I know that the bag was to be of little use to me. See, other than a few of the toiletries that I brought, everything I needed would either be issued to me or purchased from a limited selection in a small troop PX (Post Exchange – this is a military only store, and can be from the size of a very small convenience store to a full sized mall). Nonetheless, when my ship date came, I was ready and Pop dropped me off at Tampa International Airport with a ticket to Atlanta and on to Anniston Alabama – thus beginning a very long journey.