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My nephew Erik is a professional firefighter based in Washington State. My sister, his aunt, called me from the West Coast today to tell me, among other things, that he's been dispatched to help contain the Redding fire in California. His specific mission is to help defend residential areas threatened by the fire.

Erik is a young man who has been in public service since he graduated from high school. He served 6 years with the U.S. Army's 75th Ranger Regiment, with multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Following that, he served in security with the U.S. Treasury Department before taking his current position with a Washington State fire district.

His mom is, of course, concerned about him, especially given the unpredictable nature of wildfires, some of which are literally capable of generating their own weather systems.

Needless to say, our thoughts are with her and we wish him, and his fellow firefighters, well...

LPK
Dreamwidth
8.1.2018 
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Last night, I opened an e-mail from my sister in California. A week or so earlier, she had phoned me about an e-mail from her son Erik who was deployed with the United States Army's 75th Rangers. In it, he'd said something that made her think he might be coming home.

Then came the President's speech about "the way forward" in Iraq which seemed to mean only bad news for those waiting to come home and for the families waiting for them. And while I've rightly been accused of being a pessimist, it just made sense to fall back, once more, to "hoping for the best but preparing for the worst."

Thinking about it afterward, I'm sure if the news had been bad there would have been a phone call. When the news is bad, there's always a phone call. You know, one of those late at night things or early, early in the morning. But the subject line of the e-mail said, "When Erik came march..." and then was cut off.

When I opened it, and read the full text, it said, "When Erik comes marching home again, Hoorah, Hoorah!" A few minutes before her e-mail was sent, she'd gotten a phone call from him to say that he, and, thankfully, miraculously, his entire brigade, was safely home.

This time he talked about college, when he gets out in a month or so. Which is different from previous times when he'd talked about Blackwater and other security contractors luring special forces people with the big money, etc.

It sounded like, this time, he'd seen enough. Or had maybe processed it differently as a result of his recent training and experience as an NCO who was, in turn, responsible for training and commanding others.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad of it, for my sister's sake as well as his. And I hope he finds an opportunity in civilian life commensurate with the extraordinary dedication with which he and his fellow Rangers have served their country.

So yeah, let's celebrate that Erik is coming home, that he's physically whole and able to look forward to whatever life may hold for him. But let's not forget the tens of thousands of others like him who are still there, whose deployments will almost certainly be extended, or who will be going there shortly.

Let's be happy about this young man, about this moment. But let's not forget...

LPK
LiveJournal
1.13.2007
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My sister's house is on one of those streets where you park your car with the front wheel turned in against the curb. That way, if the parking brake slips, the car won't roll down the hill. A short distance away, in the bay north of San Francisco, is a mothballed fleet of naval transports and other ships from past wars. This day, they appear motionless on the shimmering waters. "What a beautiful place to have grown up," I think.

In the livingroom, with its high, vaulted ceiling, is a table covered with memorabilia. Looking up, I think, "Geez, most places I've lived could fit in this room." Bill and my sister had done OK, financially at least, before the divorce. Bill had been a fireman in Berkeley and if you've ever listened to firehouse stories, imagine his, working in a town like Berkeley. Their son Erik had inherited Bill's sense of humor. That, and a willingness to take risks, judging from their choice of occupations.

My wife and I have just flown in from the east coast, to set up our youngest daughter at culinary school in San Francisco. Sarah and her cousin Marc, who lives in Nevada, have both recently graduated from high school. And since it's rare to find all of us in the same time zone, Erik's mom thought this would be a good time for an impromptu graduation party.

The stuff on the table is about what you'd expect at this sort of thing. You know, the growing-up pictures from grade school and little league and family vacations. But Erik is already two years out of high school, by this time, so some of his pictures are from the DMZ, when he was stationed in Korea, as well as his recent graduation from Ranger Survival School.

My sisters are really good at this artsy stuff. The pictures look like they're professionally matted and their arrangement on the table is like the banquet staff did at the hotel where I worked. You know, for the fancy receptions and big business conferences and such.

My other sister is late, driving down from Carson with Marc. Marc's dad has a Berkeley connection also. He's a legacy graduate of UC Berkeley and his father, Marc's grandfather, had been a hotshot architect in San Francisco. But apparently that wasn't for Marc. In a few weeks, he would be starting pre-med at the University of Nevada-Reno.

Erik had already been to Iraq, before Ranger school. The centerpiece, on his part of the table, is a photo taken from the door of a Blackhawk helicopter on its way to a raid in Mosul. It looks like that scene from Apocalypse Now, with the gunships swooping in out of the sun, door gunners leaning into the smoke and recoil of the fifty-calibers, and Wagner's "March of the Valkyrie" blaring from the speakers.

As I look at it, I'm thinking, that's gotta be Donald Rumsfeld's way of getting more "bang for the buck" out of his "reconfigured" army. Put a Ranger's beret on a twenty year old kid, send him into firefights in Iraq and Afghanistan and then, if he lives through it, send him to survival school. Rummy doesn't want any darn slackers at Fort Benning, by gosh. No wonder the generals want him sacked. Probably should do the same with that no-show slacker who hired him.

Anyway, we had the party and nobody's car rolled down the hill. Soon afterward, Company C, 2nd of the 75th, returned to Fort Lewis. While Erik was at Benning, the unit had deployed to Afghanistan to extract the survivor of a failed Navy SEAL mission along the Afghan-Pakistan border. The Rangers got him out. Hua! With the unit, on that deployment, was twenty-four year old PFC. Blake W. Samodell. Weeks later, he would die in a parachute accident over Fort Lewis. He was a personal friend of Erik's.

Erik has recently returned from his second or third deployment to Iraq and has talked about going to school, in a few months, following his discharge. I hope he does. For his mother's peace of mind and because he's sure as hell earned it. I hope he does it for himself and for all the others, his brothers and sisters in arms, from all the wars and all the services, who earned it too but never got that chance.


POSTSCRIPT

Erik was promoted to sergeant in the summer of 2006. That summer and fall, he was a trainer for his unit at Fort Lewis, Washington. In the winter of 2006-07, he was deployed, for the fourth time, to Iraq.

In the spring of 2007, following his return to the states, Erik was honorably discharged from service. It is a point of pride, with him, that he brought all members of his unit safely home.

Erik plans to reside in Benicia while considering his future. Among the careers under consideration: airborne EMT.

LPK
LiveJournal
5.7.2006
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I thought about calling my sister and asking about his voice, how it was when he told her. I wondered if it sounded young and strong, with just a hint of that Ranger bravado. You know, like it does in the movies where they say, "Hua, Sir," or whatever it is that Rangers say. I wanted to know, so if I wrote about it later, I'd get it right.

Then I wondered if it changed, at all, as he told the story. Especially when he got to the part where he was safe on the ground and above him heard the screaming as they tried to get air under the tangled chutes and plummeted downwards through the darkness. And if there was any sound at all at the end of it or just the terrible silence pouring in around him.

I wanted to ask if, for an instant, he might have stood there, thinking he might turn suddenly in his sleep to find himself unharnessed from the horror of this nightmare. But nothing was said about that, only that they'd jump again in a week. And there'd be an investigation.

I thought about calling my sister, and asking her these things. But, in the end, I didn't. Instead, I'm trying to decide if I'm brave enough to wear a loop of black ribbon on my collar when I go back to work. And to say, if asked, that I support these men but not their present mission. Because my right to do these things is what they train and fight and die for...

LPK
LiveJournal
11.30.2005

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