Elizabeth's Guide to Traveling in Germany

Language:

• Most Germans, especially those in restaurants, will speak enough English that they can communicate with you. However, they will be much more willing to help you if you make the effort to try to speak their language.
• Please: bitte or bitte schön (bit-eh shun, where 'u' is as in put)
• Thank you: danke, danke schön, or vielen dank (thanks, thank you, many thanks; pronounced dan-keh, dan-keh shun--'u' as in push, or feelen dank--'a' is as in father)
• Greetings: 'halo' ('a' as in father) or grüß gott ('groos got'); 'halo' is obvious, 'grüß gott' is literally translated 'God is great' and is more of a Southern German/Austrian greeting. I think I've heard it the most in Austria.
• Ziehen: pull; drücken: push

Dining:

• Germans typically don't do the 'have it your way' thing with menu modifications. Unless there's something you really can't have (i.e. are allergic to) don't ask them to do substitutions. Go to quality restaurants, though, and you will probably be happy with what you get.
• They don't do free refills for drinks; drink your own water before the meal if you are thirsty.
• The hostess/waitress will probably not guide you to a table when you walk into a restaurant. There is a good chance they will simply wave at an area and say something that you should assume means "take your pick." Avoid tables that have labels that say 'reserviert' on them. Germans are very picky about their reservations, and if you sit down at a table that is reserved, expect to be asked to take a different table.
• If you sit down at a table, they expect you to take that table for as long as you like. If you come into a popular restaurant and they have a table available but that table has a reservation on it, they will tell you that you only have a certain amount of time at that table. Expect to abide by that time limit, i.e. possession is not 9/10ths of the law when it comes to table reservations.
• Your waiter/waitress will not interrupt your meal endlessly trying to earn a tip. Your waiter/waitress will also not expect a tip. If you want something, you will probably have to waive them down.

Driving:

• Right of way in Germany is very different than in the states. Unless you have a priority road (see next bullet), you always yield to the driver on your right. Fortunately, you really only have to worry about this when driving through neighborhoods. Most major roads through cities will be priority roads.
• The priority road is indicated by a yellow diamond sign, or by a sign that resembles a hazard/warning sign. The priority road (yellow diamond) means that vehicles entering the road must yield to you. The hazard variation of the sign means that the next intersection is a priority intersection, and that following the intersection, you return to the normal situation of yielding to the driver on your right.
• The US Army publishes a driving guide that explains all the important traffic laws. The driving guide itself starts on page 16 (the first 15 pages are laws that apply specifically to armed forces members holding a US Army driver's license).

Miscellaneous:

• Always have a 1- or 2-euro coin on hand when you go to a museum. Most museums will have lockers where you can store your bags while you're in the museum, and a lot of museums will not allow bags inside the museum. The great thing about museums in Germany, though, is that you actually get your 2 euros back when you retrieve your bags.

Deportiert

I had originally intended this post to be a facebook album, since it's built around pictures. However, as I thought about what I wanted to say I realized that FB was going to cut the comments off, and that would be sub-optimal. Hence I've made a photo-heavy blog post.

While I was looking for cool things to do in Berlin, I read that there were special bricks scattered around the city sidewalks delineating where people had been deported. I decided to look for them when possible (as much as I could while avoiding running into the hundreds of cyclists on the streets) and photograph every one I saw. I didn't do this to be disrespectful or intrusive on the residents of the city, but I figured if the people of Germany found it worth the permanent reminder, then it was worth me remembering it.

[As you read through these, please keep in mind that the translations are my own with the help of Google translate.]

This is the first one, and the only one I saw on Friday:

The inscriptions:

HIER WOHNTE ELLI ABRAHAMSON GEB. KORTOWSKI JG. 1879 DEPORTIERT 14.12.1942 ERMORDET IN AUSCHWITZ
HIER WOHNTE DR. KATHELEWY JG. 1896 DEPORTIERT 26.10.1942 RIGA ERMORDET 29.10.1942

"Here lived Elli Abrahamson, born in Kortowski in 1879 deported 14 December 1942 murdered in Auschwitz"

"Here lived Dr. Kathelewy, born 1896 deported 26 October 1942 to Riga murdered 29 October 1942."

(Note: I am not 100% confident confident about the word "RIGA" in Dr. Kathelewy's inscription, but given that the word has no German translation, and Riga is a city in Latvia, it is my assumption that Dr. Kathelewy was deported to the city.)

HIER WOHNTE MAHJUB BIN ADAM MOHAMED 'BAYUME MOHAMED HUSEN' GEB. 1904 IN DARESSALAM VERHAFTET SEPT. 1941 SACHSENHAUSEN TOT 1944

"Here lived Mahjub Bin Adam Mohamed 'Bayume Mohamed Husen' born 1904 in Dar Es Salam arrested September 1941 [SACHSENHAUSEN] died 24 November 1944"

This is the only one I saw where the victim was obviously not Jewish. Also, Google translate tells me that "Sachsenhausen" translates to "Saxony dwell," so maybe Mr. Mohamed was detained in Saxony until he died? Also, this is the only brick I saw where the victim was listed as "died" and not "murdered," which adds some emphasis to the ones where the victims were murdered.

HIER WOHNTE ISAAK FEILSCHUSS JG. 1887 ABGESCHOBEN OKT. 1938 BENTSCHEN SCHICKSAL UNBEKANNT
HIER WOHNTE GRETE FEILSCHUSS GEB. FRIEDRICH JG. 1888 ABGESCHOBEN OKT. 1938 BENTSCHEN SCHICKSAL UNBEKANNT

"Here lived Isaak Feilschuss born 1887 deported October 1938 to Benschen fate unknown"

"Here lived Grete Feilschuss born in Friedrich in 1888 deported October 1938 to Bentschen fate unknown"

HIER WOHNTE HARRY HUTTEL JG. 1897 IM. BIDERSTAND VERHAFTET 3.3.1936 ZUCHTAUS BRANDENBURG SACHSENHAUSEN BEFREIT 5.5.1945 MAUTHAUSEN

"Here lived Harry Huttel born 1897 in Biderstand arrested 3 March 1936 [ZUCHTAUS BRANDENBURG SACHSENHAUSEN] freed 5 May 1945 [MAUTHAUSEN]

I really struggled with the translation on this one, but the good news is that Mr. Huttel was freed. My best guess is that Mr. Huttel was detained in Zuchtaus, Brandenburg, and Sachsenhausen before he was freed.

HIER WOHNTE ROSA KATS JG. 1989 DEPORTIERT 1942 ERMORDET IN AUSCHWITZ

"Here lived Rosa Katz born 1898 deported 1942 murdered in Auschwitz"

HIER WOHNTE ADOLF JACKS JG. 1895 DEPORTIERT 2.8.1943 ERMORDET IN AUSCHWITZ
HIER WOHNTE EGON JACKS JG. 1923 DEPORTIERT 15.8.1942 RIGA ERMORDET 18.8.1942
HIER WOHNTE WILHELM JACKS JG. 1925 DEPORTIERT 1.3.1943 AUSCHWITZ BEFREIT/UBERLEGT
HIER WOHNTE RAHEL EDITHA JACKS GEB. SEELID (?) JG. 1898 DEPORTIERT 2.3.1943 ERMORDET IN AUSCHWITZ

"Here lived Adolf Jacks born 1895 deported 2 August 1943 murdered in Auschwitz"

"Here lived Egon Jacks born 1923 deported 15 August 1942 [RIGA] murdered 18 August 1942"

"Here lived Wilhelm Jacks born 1925 deported 1 March 1943 Auschwitz freed/survived"

"Here lived Rahel Editha Jacks born Seelid in 1989 deported 2 March 1943 murdered in Auschwitz"

Speculation: From the dates, I think what happened is that the oldest son, Egon, was probably the first one to get involved in the resistance. He was arrested in August 1942 and beaten/abused so severely that he died 3 days later. His younger brother probably got involved or increased his involvement at that time, resulting in his arrest and deportation a few months later, in March 1943. And then they just decided to come back for the parents the next day. I can't imagine the terror their parents must have been feeling the night after Wilhelm was arrested. Unfortunately, he was the only one of the family to survive.

HIER WOHNTE PAUL ROSSHANDLE JG. 1890 DEPORTIERT 1938 WARSCHAUER GHETTO ERMORDET
HIER WOHNTE MANJA ROSSHANDLER GEB. HIRSCH JG. 1890 ERMORDET
HIER WOHNTE LEO ROSSHANDLER JG. 1930 ERMORDET

"Here lived Paul Rosshandler born 1890 deported 1938 murdered in the Warsaw ghetto"

"Here lived Manja Rosshandler born in Hirsch in 1980 murdered"

"Here lived Leo Rosshandler born in 1930 murdered"

Leo Rosshandler was the youngest victim I found, probably 8 if his and his mother's murders happened at the time his father was deported.

I didn't translate any of these inscriptions until I was done taking all of the pictures, but when I did it hit me that to plainly list so many victims as murder victims makes a very strong statement. I'm curious what the German people think of this in general, but they tend to be fairly open about the Holocaust in other places, too. For example, the Mercedes-Benz museum talks about the Holocaust as the "most terrible event in history," or something similar.

To be honest, I like the bricks. I think they're simple and meaningful. I definitely like them better than the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, which to me seems like someone was going for simple and elegant, like the Vietnam Wall, and instead ended up in the land of "artsy and confusing." (Also, if you call it the memorial to the Murdered Jews, you leave out people like Mr. Mohamed, and others who were victims of Nazi aggression but not Jews.)

The one thing I do wonder about is whether it's really a good thing to be so self-condemning about the Holocaust. I'm not trying to make it sound as if it's not as bad as it was, but is it really good for a generation of people to grow up being constantly reminded that their grandparents/great-grandparents were murderers or accomplices to murder? I'm not qualified to answer this question, but I do wonder.

Of all the things I did in Berlin this weekend, this probably meant the most. Also, if you know German better than me and would like to help me understand some of these inscriptions, I would be quite grateful!

Berlin

There really isn't anything all that interesting to say about my trip to Berlin. I showed up, started walking, and after three days all I have to show for it is a lot of pictures. I think the most adventurous thing that happened during my trip is that it took about half an hour to get the change to pay for my train ticket when it started raining on Saturday afternoon. But what that means is that I didn't get mugged even though I spent all of my time walking alone (including at night) and I didn't get run over by a bike (even though I did my best) and I didn't get fined for not having a ticket on the U-bahn or the S-bahn (even though I did get checked). So I thought it was pretty awesome, but I don't know there's a lot to write about.

Total mileage over the three days is somewhere in the marathon range, probably on the high side. I did utilize the S-bahn the first day and the second day I caved after about 9 miles (estimating another 3-4 miles in the evening once I got off the training), but the only time I set foot in a train station yesterday was to scout out my platform for this morning, since my train left at 0600 and I wanted to make sure I know where I was going before my morning coffee kicked in. (My suspicions were confirmed when I got on the elevator this morning to head down to the lobby and pushed the number for the floor I was on...) I walked through a lot of neighborhoods over the past few days, and I probably could have seen some more cool things about the city if I'd rented a bike or better planned my trip, but I saw everything I wanted to see.

It became exceedingly clear to me that I am very much a history nerd, as the highlight of my visit was probably Saturday afternoon. My first stop of the afternoon was Checkpoint Charlie, the primary transit point between the American sector of West Berlin and Soviet sector of East Berlin during the cold war, including a visit to the Mauermuseum. The museum overlooks one of the original checkpoint guard huts, and has a lot of stories about how people escaped into West Berlin. After walking through the museum I visited the Tempelhofer Freiheit, or the airport where all of the flights flew in and out of during the Berlin airlift. Today it's Berlin's largest open park, and both runways are open for the public to walk/jog/bike/unicycle (yes, I saw some!)/rollerblade/paraglide/dog walk/whatever. I was slightly disappointed that I couldn't really see any aircraft wheel marks on the south runway, but I guess they paved it over to make it smoother for all the paragliders.

My most common experience was ordering food/drinks at restaurants. Typically, I'll walk up to a counter and order something in German--it's really not that difficult to say "ein kaffee, bitte." The nice person behind the counter then rattles off something in German, like, "schwartz oder mit milsch," and I would stare blankly at them. (The other common variation of this is asking for a scoop of ice cream and having them ask, cup or cone.) The person then usually changes into English that is more or less pretty good but always good enough for me to understand them. ("Black or with milk?") The lady on the train this morning told me I was sweet for trying and repeated things in English and German for me. Anyway, the end result is I'd like to thank the good people of Berlin for knowing enough English for me to get by.

Sorry to be boring, but everything else interesting about my visit is best told through all the pictures I took. So I think it's time to end this post and work on those. :-)

Eine Woche

One week. Wow, what a week. I arrived last Thursday, and it's been a bit of a whirlwind since then. I spent my first three days on deck waiting for my baggage. *I* was able make a connection in Paris in about an hour and a half--my bags were not so lucky. They arrived in Stuttgart the next morning, which was good, but instead of taking "up to 48 hours" for delivery, the company took a good 54 or so hours. I had been prepared for travel delays and actually had an extra change of clothes in my carry-on bag, so I became very proficient at washing a very small load of laundry each night.

However, this is certainly a very welcome change from Yuma weather! I am told it was hot for a short period of time about a week before my arrival. "Hot" meaning in the mid-90s. I will qualify this by saying that many buildings here don't have air conditioning, so these temperatures are a bit more uncomfortable than they would be in Yuma. Fortunately, since I arrived I don't believe the temperatures have gotten over the low 80s. Every afternoon the beautiful outdoors beacons and I enjoy a run, or walking around the base or into the nearby town.

I hesitate to say that Germany is exactly how I imagined it, but it is very close. I live right next to a small town outside of Stuttgart, which is considered a major city. The town has narrow roads and homes with steep roofs packed closely together. All of the cars are extremely small but traffic is very orderly. It's easy to walk around the downtown area, and you will see housing and shops intermixed with each other. The people are very friendly, and I have started being able to say a few simple phrases, although I do very poorly with prices. I need to learn to say "please say it more slowly."

I spent a lot of time this week sitting in orientation classes. Some things, like "Army Substance Abuse Program" were boring and painful and yielded little to no new or pertinent information. Some, like the German hospital tour, were interesting and quite useful. I feel sorry for all the new people here who have children. Not all German hospitals will serve children, so if you bring a child to the emergency room at the wrong hospital, the emergency room will send you away to a hospital that treats children. To further complicate matters, hospitals have specialties. So if you are sick, you go to hospital X, but if you have a broken bone, you go to hospital Y (which makes an exception for children with broken bones, even though it normally only treats adults). Fortunately there is a Patient Liaison hotline for us confused Americans that will tell you which hospital to take the patient to.

The other major difference that will take more getting used to is German traffic signs and traffic laws. There are maybe five signs that will look familiar and mean the same things as in the U.S. For example, their stop sign is exactly the same. The yield sign is identical except for the fact that it doesn't say "yield" on it (or anything else or that matter). One of three signs they can use for a railroad crossing is very similar--but the other two aren't. Some signs are similar but mean very different things. A sign with a bicycle on it does not mean "watch out, there are going to be bicycles on the road", it means bicycles only, if your vehicle has a motor, then stay out. (Same thing for the pedestrian sign: it doesn't mean "watch out for pedestrians" it means "pedestrians only".) A red circle around something does mean that symbol is prohibited, but it won't have a red line through it.

And then most of the signs you just have to learn from scratch. For example: any guesses as to what this sign means?

No stopping!

Ah, but then what does this one mean?

Restricted no stopping! Which means you can stop for up to 3 minutes as long as you don't park. Parking is defined as a stop longer than 3 minutes, or getting out of your car. Clear as mud, right? And then you start adding arrows to the signs... Honestly, it's not really that complicated. It's just different.

One other large difference in German traffic laws is right-of-way laws. If there are no signs at an intersection, the general rule is right-before-left. (There are many intersections on my way into town that have no signs whatsoever.) There is no requirement that the vehicles arrive simultaneously. If you arrive at an intersection and there is a vehicle approaching from your right, you must yield to them. The instructor at the class we are required to take before getting our German driver's licenses drew a scenario on the board with four vehicles at an intersection with no signs. In this case, you use what is called the Gentleman's rule: one vehicle yields their right-of-way to the vehicle on its left. This allows the intersection to clear, but the Gentleman vehicle ends up going last.

Next week I'm being sent to Greece and Italy...darn. Don't know how I'm going to handle that one. But hopefully once I return I'll have more fascinating cultural notes to share!

What Do I Know of Holy?

What do I know of you who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood but the shore along your ocean?
Are you fire?
Are you fury?
Are you sacred?
Are you beautiful?
Lord, what do I know?
What do I know of holy?


Words by Jenny Simmons. Performed by Addison Road.

 

Warning: Heresy ahead.

I first contemplating writing this post last May. Now here I am a year later, I've thought on and off about it for the year, and I'm still hesitant to push the "publish" button. The reason I hesitate is that this is a topic that is deeply personal for me--more so than anything else I have ever written about--and yet I want to share it. But I have just spent several hours today forming my thoughts here instead of studying for my upcoming final, so I owe it to myself to publish.


Some of you may be familiar with the religious environment that I grew up in. But for those who aren't, I will summarize for you what I remember most about that environment:
* We know what the Bible means.
* We know what God wants.
* We are obligated to do certain things--primarily reading the Bible and praying--in order to have "a relationship with God."
* If you do not have a relationship with God, you are a bad Christian.
A relationship with God and a belief that Jesus was the Christ and that he had died for your sin was supposed to free you from your sin. It was supposed to take away your guilt and shame.

To be fair, there were times when I felt this way about my practice of religion--that it freed me from my guilt and shame, that grace was wonderful, and that I was happy with my "walk with Christ." But most of the time it was a source of guilt. I wasn't reading the Bible enough. I didn't pray enough. I didn't feel that spiritual connection with God enough. I was not a very good Christian.

I honestly didn't feel very much guilt and shame for the ordinary, everyday things I did in my life. I was not, am not, and never will be anywhere close to perfect. I wronged people and I hurt people, just like every other human being. Some times I tried to make amends. Some times I did better than other times. Some times I would live up to my resolve to next time be more patient and and more kind--more like Christ. Some times I would ask for forgiveness--from the person I wronged, and from God. But those actions were not the primary source of guilt in my life.

I was taught a very strict interpretation of the Bible. We had to know what the Bible said, we had to define what it meant, and we had to follow it in order to not be in sin. So, obviously, we knew what the Bible said, and we knew what that meant. If you did not agree with the reigning interpretation of the Bible within the community, either there was a lot of controversy or you were in sin.

To those who are reading this that I grew up with--please do not take this as an attack on you or your beliefs. I freely acknowledge that I was much a contributor to this environment as anyone else. I believe that your intent was good--to encourage people, to help them, and to help them be more like Christ. You loved me unconditionally, with all my flaws, and I owe you a deep debt of gratitude.

In me, however, the end result appeared to be different than in all of you. Religion, God, Jesus--it was all supposed to be wonderfully freeing. I felt trapped.


Some probably blame the college I went to for my move to agnosticism, which I define to be uncertainty about the existence of God. I will definitely agree that the school facilitated this change, but it was by far not the source of this change. I held to Christianity throughout my time at school, but there were three definite factors that made me question my beliefs.

The first was having close friends that were not Christians, and seeing that their lives were not terrible and conflicted because of their lack of Christianity. This was not as I expected.

The second was the unquestioning adherence to scientific thought and the scientific process over religious texts when it came to matters of science. I remember during my freshman physics class being taught about dating igneous rocks based on the magnetic field that had been "frozen" in them. I don't remember the specifics of the lesson, but afterwards I approached the professor and asked how we knew that the field captured in those rocks was actually as old as the date given. Again, I don't remember the specifics of the answer, but what surprised me was the complete disregard for any religious theory about how old the rocks should be. To these people, the debate between creation and evolution that I had been taught was a huge controversy didn't even register as something worth thinking about. They were not hostile or opposed to Christianity--it just wasn't even an issue.

The third was the seminar class I took my senior year titled Science and Religion. Our professors were a philosophy professor who was an atheist and a chemistry professor who was a Christian. For the first time in my life I was exposed to someone who believe the Bible and practiced a religion similar to the one I had been taught, but who did not seem to require that he believe every word of the Bible as literal fact in order to practice his beliefs. I was relieved to see a glimpse of an alternate method of practicing Christianity, but I wasn't ready for it myself.


I honestly don't know what prompted my actual shift to agnosticism. I do know that it took me nearly a year after I graduated college, a year of puzzling and pondering, to make a decision. I doubted the Bible's veracity. There were multiple passages that I couldn't believe literally, as I had been taught. Moreover, if I couldn't believe some of it, then the claim that every word of the Bible was the word of God was suspect. I decided that I couldn't rely on the Bible to tell me anything about God, and not only that, I didn't have any independent evidence even of the existence of God. I couldn't say for sure that God didn't exist, but I couldn't give you a good reason that he did exist, either.

This took me a while to come to terms with. My faith, for the pain and difficulty it had caused me, had been a huge part of my life and something that I had relied heavily on growing up. It was difficult to decide that it was no longer a significant part of my life. However, I do remember the moment that I decided that I would no longer force myself to believe that God existed--it felt as if a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. I did not decide that I was going to believe that God did not exist, or that I could never return to the belief that he did exist. I merely decided that I was going to be honest with myself about what I believed or didn't believe, and would not believe something because someone else had decided that it was true.


I spent a good amount of time in fairly solid agnosticism. I attended a fairly liberal Episcopalian church about once every month and found both the liberalism and liturgical approach to be useful changes from my previous experience with religion. Their approach to religion--a de-emphasis on the literal meaning of the words of the Bible, and a strong emphasis on physical ministry and care for the community--was refreshing. I wasn't sure what the theological basis for their approach was, but the outward effects--love the poor, care for the needy, welcome the outcast--was exactly what I believed Christianity should be.

My questions about the theology of the approach--even though I wasn't sure I cared about the theology--was settled when some good friends gifted me with Marcus Borg's The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering a Life of Faith as a present after my graduation from graduate school. I will not go into the specifics of the book here, in part because it has been several years since I read it and I don't remember the specifics, but the most significant aspect of the book that I remember was the emphasis on the truth of the Bible rather than the literal meaning of the Bible. The truth of the Bible--that God loves people, that he wants a relationship with them, that he wants to heal them and care for them--does not rely on a literal interpretation of the stories of the Bible. I wasn't sure what the doctrinal authorities that I was accustomed to following would say about this approach, but I didn't and still don't care. The approach made a lot of sense to me. More importantly, I was relieved that there was an approach to Christianity that did not require me to believe the literal interpretation of every word of the Bible.


Even though I was relieved to learn that I could go back to Christianity without being trapped into something I couldn't believe in, I didn't see a reason to go back. Christianity had been mostly a source of guilt for me. For most of my teen years I had difficulty believing that hell existed, and since I'd become agnostic, I wasn't sure about the existence of heaven either. So if Christianity did nothing for the afterlife, and made my life here on earth worse off, there didn't seem to be much point to me.

My concept of the purpose of Christianity did not change until after I joined the Marine Corps. I have made it a habit, once I learn that a friend or acquaintance was is Christian, to question them in a non-threatening way about their beliefs--what their beliefs are, and why they hold them. So one night when I was at TBS and my platoon was cleaning weapons late at night after returning from a field exercise, I asked another Lieutenant in my platoon about his religious background. I told him about my background, and when I did he did not immediately try to convert me back to Christianity (like just about every other Christian I have met that learns that I am an apostate). He did, however, recommend that I read C. S. Lewis' Mere Christianity, and then he actually loaned me his copy. About a week before we left TBS, we sat down at lunch and had a long conversation about it.

I told him more about my understanding of religion, and how it had restricted me--how a relationship with God was a chore and an obligation and something that did not bring anything positive into my life.  He told me about his childhood, and about how the situations he had dealt with growing up had nearly destroyed him. Then he told me about his concept of God as a Father, how God had healed him, and how his relationship with God brought him joy and peace. I was pretty sure his theological conception of God was not as I had learned growing up, but to this day he is the best witness of God's love and grace that I have ever met.

My conversation with him made me realize something else--that true faith in God and love for God comes out of true brokenness and despair. Not necessarily the brokenness that you are required to feel and profess because you attend a church. But because there is a place in a life that needs healing. I'd never felt that way in my own life--that something was so completely broken that I needed God to step in and fix it. I wondered if that was why I wasn't a Christian, and if I would ever get to that point.


It was about a year ago that I realized that I believed in God again. I was hiking through Joshua Tree on a day I had off in the middle of the week. I was struggling with some recent events in my life--nothing like what my friend had dealt with, but events that at least gave me pause and that I had to figure out how to deal with. As I hiked back down the from the pass, I saw Mt. San Gorgonio in front of me as I listened to the words of the song I transcribed at the beginning of this post. I realized that I was worshipping God even though I couldn't tell you for sure that he existed. The song seemed to take everything I had believed and not believed about God since I started my journey and sum it up--what do I know? What have I seen of God, but the sliver of an ocean? How could I know the true nature of God? When have I ever experienced the grace of God as it is supposed to be? What do I know of God's love?

The answer is: I don't know. I can't know. The love and grace and majesty of a God is certainly much greater than my ability to imagine. Even more importantly, I would rather commune with a God that I don't know in a time that is reserved just for me and him then go to church every week and profess to know him.


Maybe you are thinking: ah ha! She finally gets it! Maybe you are thinking that despite what I have written of my characterization of my religious background, what I have expressed here about the nature of God is what you believe. That is perfectly acceptable to me. Just please don't ask me to characterize my beliefs in the same way that you characterize yours.

Maybe you are thinking that I have it wrong. You can argue with what I have written here all you want, either on a theological basis, or on any other basis you choose. Maybe you will argue that I am making this about myself and not about God. Please don't be offended, but I don't care. What I have and what I have decided for myself is for me and me alone. You are not going to convince me to believe something based on your interpretation of the Bible. If you don't like what I have written, that is perfectly acceptable to me. I am not asking you to conform your beliefs to mine. I am simply telling you what they are.

These days I am very sensitive about public displays and declarations of religion. It doesn't matter who it comes from--a family member, a friend, a youtube video--but every statement reminds me of the religion that I tried to live with for too long. It makes me angry, in part perhaps because the people who make these declarations seem to have something in their practice of religion that I could never figure out, and in part perhaps because I used to make the same kind of statements but feel that I was being dishonest with myself when I was making them. My beliefs are a personal matter to me, and unless people are feeding the hungry or caring for the sick, I wish people would keep their beliefs as a personal matter to themselves.

I am not offended when someone brings a matter of religion to me privately. My brother recently asked me about what I believed and expressed his desire that I make a decision because it was something that was very important to him. I do not agree with his approach, but I am grateful that he loves me enough to ask. (Brother--I'm sorry that I don't have a better answer for you!)


I don't have a good definition of what I believe right now. This is the way I put it to a friend just over a year ago, prior to my hike: "I honestly couldn't tell you if God exists or not, although I do have an ongoing conversation with him regarding who he is, what exactly he does around here, and why I should really care. Is that irreverent? Maybe. But that's my honest attempt to figure things out. Is it inconsistent? Of course, but I've learned to accept some uncertainty and inconsistency when it comes to religious issues." I am okay with not knowing. I am okay with having questions. I am okay with doubts. My state of not knowing and having questions and doubts is much more fulfilling and real to me than what I had when I said that I knew.

The most important thing is that I am honest with myself. Just like I decided several years ago, I will not force myself to believe something because someone else says that's what I must believe. I believe that God would rather have my honesty than a complete declaration of theology. If that's not true, then he's not a God that I want to believe in.

I won't call myself a Christian. I can't because I won't make the statement that I believe that Jesus died for my sins. I disagree with C. S. Lewis' characterization of Christ and am perfectly comfortable saying that he was a Jewish prophet but not the Son of God. I am perfectly willing to say that he was a radical figure that challenged the religious authorities of his time, who loved people that society treated like dirt, and gave of himself sacrificially. I believe the world would be a better place if we tried to live like him, and although I do not do so as extensively as I used to, I do try to pattern my life after his.

I don't believe that the Bible is the word of God. (I warned you at the beginning that there would be heresy.) I believe that it was written by men and that it describes their perception and knowledge of God. Occasionally I'll open mine, but I don't need to open it to know the parts that are most important to me: "For faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." "We walk by faith, and not by sight."

Bad Guy

They don't tell you about this part when you walk into your recruiter's office and tell the Marine sitting behind the desk that you want to be a Marine Officer. I spent a good portion of my time this weekend sitting on an Administrative Separation (AdSep ["ad sep"]) board. An AdSep board is a panel of officers that recommends to the Commanding General whether a Marine be separated from the Marine Corps for administrative reasons. Also, if the board recommends separation, they recommend a characterization of service--whether the Marine should receive an honorable, general, or other than honorable discharge.

An administrative separation does not always imply wrong-doing on the part of the Marine--for example, a Marine that is injured is administratively separated. However, many times Marines don't uphold the standards they are expected to uphold. These Marines might have minor punishment administered--loss of rank, loss of pay, loss of liberty privileges, etc. There might be no punishment--an overweight Marine will certainly not enjoy the PT and the weigh-ins and the inability to be promoted, but that Marine is never formally punished.

Under certain circumstances, Marines are also be separated from the Marine Corps. If an overweight Marine refuses to lose weight for a long period of time, they will be AdSepped. Until recently, Marines that were homosexual were AdSepped. And Marines that are caught using drugs on a urinalysis are AdSepped.

I have sat on two AdSep boards so far. They followed some amount of legal proceedings--there is a prosecutor called the recorder, the Marine typically has a Navy lawyer representing them, and three officers outside the Marine's chain of command serve as the judge and jury. The first one I did several months ago was not too difficult. The Marine admitted to using marijuana, and the focus of the board was to determine his characterization of service. However, in the board I sat on this past weekend, the Marine insisted that the marijuana in his system was innocently ingested. He brought in a friend with a medical marijuana card that claims the drug was his, his fiance came to explain that she would never allow drugs in their home, and another Marine testified as a character witness.

I have many thoughts about the process and this board that I would love to explain in detail, but I don't have time. The one thing I do want to discuss: at one point during the board, while listening to the Marines' fiance testify, I realized that I was the bad guy. A situation that had happened inside their home had been brought up on a public website, and she was explaining to the board that it was slander. As she talked, discussion broke out between the other board members, the recorder, and the Navy lawyer over the general topic. Since no one else was listening to her, and I was sitting closest to her, she turned to me, looked me in the eye, and continued with her explanation. She looked almost desperate, and I realized: in her eyes I was the judgmental, unfeeling authority that wouldn't care about what had actually happened, wouldn't care about the fact that they had two small children to support, and would have no mercy. Of course, that wasn't true, but sitting there in my uniform and refusing to show any empathy, that is more than likely how I appeared to her.

It was a difficult case to hear. The board doesn't actually make the final decision to separate the Marine--we just make a recommendation to the Commanding General, and those recommendations are not infrequently overturned. However, when it came down to deliberations, there was one board member who decided that the Marine was guilty fairly quickly, one board member who was very reluctant to do so, and then there was me. I was the swing vote. And I made the recommendation, based on the evidence and testimony that was presented and in accordance with the appropriate orders, that the Marine should be separated from the Marine Corps.

It wasn't an easy decision to make. Was the Marine telling the truth, or was he lying? Was it a single mistake he'd made, or had he finally been caught at something he'd been doing for a long time? Did a single mistake after 10 years of service to the Marine Corps or the possibility that he was telling the truth mean that we should give him an extra few months in the Marine Corps (his contract was finished in several months regardless) to figure out what he would do afterwards? Did his misconduct warrant an other than honorable discharge or only a general discharge? What would happen to his family if he was separated from the Marine Corps with little time to prepare? The decisions I made could potentially have a huge impact on his life.

They don't tell you about this when you're an officer candidate. We expect to be responsible for lives in a war zone. They don't tell you that you'll end up sitting on a board, looking a woman in the eyes and realizing that you're about to destroy her livelihood.

One of the Marine Corps' leadership principles is "Seek responsibility and take responsibility for your actions." I will take responsibility for my decision--I believe it was the right decision. However, I hope that the General who will read our recommendation will decide that there is room for mercy, too.

Stubbe Springs

Adventures are rarely fun while you are having them. Actually, you don't typically think of an adventure as an "adventure" while you're having one. You're more likely to think of it as--"it's pouring rain and my tent is flooded," or "the road is mostly washed out and I don't know if I will be able to get my car down the mountain and back onto pavement," or "uhh...where did the trail go?" It's not until later that you realize it was a real adventure.

Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.

New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.

It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.

I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.

I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".

I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.

Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.

As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail  again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.

The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.

The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.

I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.

I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.

I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.

Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)

I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.

Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.

Ten Years

I'm sure all of you who are old enough to remember do remember what you were doing on September 11th, where you were when you found out, the horror of the rest of the day as we watched endless loops on cable news of towers burning and falling, people jumping, people running. The clean-up effort afterward, the way our nation pulled together, the beginning of the war, airport security tightened, the Department of Homeland Security was created, Americans joined the military in droves.

I spent last September 11th in Afghanistan, fighting the war that continues to this today. This year I'll also have the pleasure of wearing the uniform on September 11th, as my unit holds their monthly Inactive Duty Training (IDT), or what most reservists just call "drill". It's part of the "one weekend a month, two weeks a year" that I signed up for. I doubt I'll have a chance to return to Afghanistan, but I'm proud to continue to wear the uniform and make a contribution towards the safety and security of our country.

I stopped in the PX after drill today and was walking through the aisles when a gentlemen pointed at me. As I stopped, he said, "thank you". Since I was the only person in uniform in that section of the store, I assumed he was thanking me for serving, so I said, "you're welcome". "I slept safely last night," he explained. "Someone had to stand watch." You're welcome, sir, and thanks for your appreciation. I am truly grateful that the VFW throws parties for us and random people stop me and that I don't have to go through what the Vietnam-era veterans experienced.

Security on the base is tight, as it should be, and it will likely remain that way for a while. That's fine. The war is not over, and our fight against extremists who will go to any measure to hurt us is not done. Be vigilant. Look up "Operation Gratitude" or "Operation Shoebox" and send a care package to service members who are currently overseas. (Or, if you wait a week and send me an e-mail, I'll send you the address of a friend of mine who just left--he can easily distribute things to his unit.) Things that are good to send: baby wipes, chap stick, trial-size toiletries, individually packaged snacks/candy, gum, a deck of cards, cheap paperback novels, and those Starbucks "via" instant coffee packets (yes, they're expensive, but they're like gold over there).

For all those who died that day, and for all the Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, and Airmen who have given their lives to provide justice: we will not forget.

Thank You

I know this post is about a month late in coming, but I owe you all a huge thank you for the support you gave me when I announced my impending separation from active duty and unemployment, and then again when I announced this exciting new opportunity I have at TRAX. Many of you e-mailed me privately to express your sympathy and understanding with the disappointment I expressed a month ago, and I very much appreciated every single one of those e-mails, something I should have but did not express by replying to your e-mails. So if I disappointed you by failing to respond, I sincerely apologize, and do know that your e-mails did not go unfelt.

I started my blog almost two years ago now as an easy way to let everyone know how I was doing while deployed. It has clearly out-lived that purpose, and yet because I enjoy writing so much and believe that I will have additional adventures that are worth telling, either in the Marine Corps or in my new job, I do not plan on ending my blogging any time soon.

So, again, thank you, and I look forward the new exciting stories I'll have to share with you all.

Left at the Cannons, Right at the Cobra

It was definitely not the interview question I was expecting. "So what do you look for when you look for a place to live?" the hiring manager asked me to kick off my first interview of the day. I did what I normally do when I have no clue how to answer a question: I said nothing. I know she could tell from my facial expressions that I was trying to think of an answer to the question, but as normal, it took a while to assemble my thoughts. She beat me to the punch, and started talking before I could answer the question, but fortunately it was probably my worst answer of the day.

Two weeks prior, I had learned that the orders I had been hoping for were unlikely. This was, in fact, my last blog post, and I appreciated the support I received from you all. My second-to-last day at TTECG, I had walked over to another building to discuss the situation with Maj B, who had been responsible for trying to my orders worked out. I am quite grateful for his help, even though it hadn't worked out in the end, and as I told him about what I was interested in doing next, he suddenly pushed his chair back from his desk. "I have the perfect job for you. Let me talk to someone..."

The company was TRAX International, and the job was a test engineer for military equipment. It sounded like a neat opportunity--a chance to use my technical background, something I have really missed since joining the Marine Corps, while still having the opportunity to make a difference for the Marine on the ground. Most of my friends from school are involved in the tech world, developing all the cool products and technologies that Americans consume at an ever-increasing rate. I very much enjoy the fruits of their efforts, but it's not for me. But tell me you've got something that'll help a squad leader see around the next corner, and you want to make sure it works right? I'm all over it.

The next morning I had an e-mail from Maj B asking for my resume. (Fortunately, someone else had prompted me to re-do my resume nearly two months before, so it was ready, even though I wasn't off orders yet.) Later that morning, as I was trying to wrap up everything I was doing and get my turn-over materials put together, I received a call from him. He had spoken with his contact, and had said so many nice things about me that they were already more or less convinced that they wanted to interview me. They wanted to talk to me for a few minutes that afternoon. "It'll probably be one-sided, but I mean that in a good way. They're probably going to want to talk to you about living in Yuma."

Sure enough, when I spoke with the HR rep a couple hours later, her two main questions for me were: "What do you know about Yuma?" and, "What is it about Yuma that would make you not want to live there?" Most of what I knew about Yuma I had learned at OCS. We were getting ready for family day, and our platoon commander was warning us not to be surprised when we saw her marksmanship badges on her service uniform, because she hadn't qualified as an expert rifleman the last time she'd shot. She had been stationed in Yuma, she told us, then said, "It was 110 that day...no, that's an excuse." I learned two things from her comment that day: first, that Marine officers expected themselves to qualify as experts on the range, and second, that it was hot in Yuma.

So when the HR rep called, I didn't know much about Yuma, but given that it was a small town in the desert (I had googled it the night before), I had some concerns that we discussed. When we were done talking about Yuma she asked me if I had any questions for her. Since Maj B's warning a couple hours before, I had taken five minutes to do a quick google search on "questions to ask during an interview" and had come up with a couple intelligent questions. I asked away, and when I was done, the HR rep told me that I had probably asked more questions than anyone else she had recruited, and that she had been at her job for a while. I assumed this was a good thing. Before we hung up, she had one more question for me: based on our discussion, did I think I might be able to live in Yuma? I told her that I wasn't totally sold, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility. Unsurprisingly, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from her telling me that they wanted to bring me out to the Yuma Proving Grounds for an on-site interview. Among other coordinating instructions, she gave me directions to the test facilities. I was to drive out of town; after about 20 minutes out I would left at the big cannons, and then a mile later turn right at the Cobra helicopter that marked the entrance to the test facilities. The gate guards would probably search my car. (I showed them my military ID. They didn't.)

A couple weeks later I drove down the night before the interview and had dinner with a former TRAX employee and a couple of his friends that are very active in the Yuma community. They, more than anyone else, convinced me that Yuma might actually be a fun place to live. Yes, it's hot during the summer, about like 29 Palms. The winters are very mild (average high 70, anyone?), and I'm told that most (>90%; I heard a couple different numbers) of the lettuce sold in the US during the winter is grown in Yuma. It's surprisingly green from all the agriculture, and it's definitely a small-town feel. There will not be enough rain or snow for me, but it will not have SoCal traffic, which is essential.

So when the hiring manager kicked off my interview the next morning by asking what I was looking for in a place to live, I wasn't sure whether to talk about the traffic, rain, housing prices, or the presence of coffee shops that did not bear the Starbucks logo. We actually hit it off pretty well. She is a Mudd grad as well and retired Army officer, so our backgrounds are very similar. I spoke with other test engineers, visited test facilities, saw a giant parachute hanging from their silo (the department tests air delivery systems), saw an MRAP with training wheels and was told it was undergoing rollover testing, told them about the time my MRAP decided it would be most comfortable lying in a ditch without consulting me.

I think the question I got most often that day was, "what questions do you have?" and it was a constant struggle throughout the day to think of something intelligent to ask, but I'll take that over grilling about the details of what I worked on five years ago. The hiring manager made it a point throughout the day to ask the people I met about the outdoors and athletic activities in Yuma, which I appreciated. After lunch I met with a group that asked me about my experience doing data analysis and used the magic word "matlab" (shiny!). By the end of the day, I was convinced that Maj B hadn't known how right he had been two weeks prior when he'd said he had the perfect job for me.

I knew when I walked out the door late in the afternoon that they were going to offer me the job, and I was reasonably sure I was going to take it. The one hitch? When I got back to my car after the interview I checked my phone for messages before I drove back into town. Two e-mails, one voice message, one text message. TTECG had finally figured out a way to get funding for me to stay there for a year--two weeks after I had checked out of the unit. I took a minute to beat my head against the dashboard of my car in frustration.

I spent the next day hanging out in the city, went to the historic quartermaster's depot and learned about the 10 miles of wooden road that used to cross the dunes east of Yuma, visited a local coffee shop, and had dinner at a really yummy hibachi restaurant. (Yes, they have a Cold Stone's, and yes, I tested it. It passed inspection.) When I received the offer letter a week later, the terms were quite agreeable.

So tonight I am excited to announce that I have accepted a position as a test officer with TRAX International at the Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona. This was definitely not where I saw myself when I joined the Marine Corps, and it's definitely not the long-term goal I've been working towards during my last few months at TTECG. But over the past couple months, I've come realize and accept that what I have wanted to do has just not been practical under the contract I signed. I've come to terms with the fact that even if I do eventually make it on to active duty, I'm going to have to return to civilian life before that happens. Like it or not, that's how it works. And if that's the case, then I'm really just doing myself a disservice by postponing the inevitable, continuing to try to remain on active duty, wasting my time and others' time fighting the system.

That's the Marine Corps. So now I'm a civilian.

That's not entirely true. I'm still a member of the Selected Marine Corps Reserve, and as I write this I have just returned from a weekend of my first paid drill as a Reservist. Friday we qualified on the pistol, and I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out how I fit into the unit. My position is the Headquarters & Service Company Executive Officer and Training Officer, something that I think will be fun and that I will be good at. I suspect it will take a couple months to figure out how to split duties with the Company Commanding Officer and take things off his plate, but I enjoyed meeting the Marines this weekend and figuring out where everything was.

At this point I don't know what's going to happen with my Marine Corps career. I may drill out my obligation and then get out. I could drill out my contract and apply for an active commission. I could stay in the Reserves for 20 years--the retirement benefits are still pretty nice. But at this point...? I really don't know.

And the Experiment Comes to a Close

Since I returned from Afghanistan last year, I have been running an experiment with my life, trying to see if I could stay on active duty long enough to get on another deployment. I have no desire to bounce back and forth between the engineering world and the Marine Corps world. The engineering world is tough enough to keep up with without unnecessary year-long breaks in the middle. So the solution to deploy again was stay on active duty in the Marine Corps long enough to get some down time, then get my second deployment in.

That was my motivation for coming down to 29 Palms. They had a place for me, said they had everything worked out. I would have a year to figure out where my next deployment was coming from, or if I needed to revert to civilian life. Shortly after I arrived, we discovered it would be a significant battle to keep me on. And we've fought that battle for the past four going on five months now. But the battle appears to be over, and we've lost.

This Friday is my last day in my current position with the Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group, the crazy Marines I've been hanging out with that refer to each other with numbers and letters rather than names. The Marines who motivated me throw myself back into the job when I was more than burnt out after my deployment. The Marines who made 14-hour days in 90-degree temperatures wearing a flak jacket and kevlar helmet bearable. The Marines who've taken care of me, who've fought to keep me, who've welcomed me into their lives and homes, who've modeled leadership for me.

It's a matter of money. The people who want to keep me are not the people who control the purse strings. My job is not important enough to pay me to do it. Once the money runs out at the end of the week, that's it. As of Sunday, I am looking for a new job.

I'm not about to starve or go homeless any time soon. A different unit has mentioned the possibility of bringing me on for a month of two--that would give me a little breathing room to get a job search going. I'm going to approach this very carefully; consider my options; try to figure out a long-term career path. One that involves me staying in one place for more than a few months.

At this point, I'm really not sure if I'll ever return to regular active duty with the Marine Corps. I love being a Marine, but after doing this for almost three years now, I easily see the problems in the system that make young officers and young Marines decide to seek a life elsewhere.

What's next for me? No clue.

Desert Rain

We've been having some pretty crazy weather here for the past couple of days. Yesterday, a thunderstorm rolled through Yucca Valley and 29 Palms, but managed to miss the main portion of the base entirely. Yes, there was lightening! As I drove home, I encountered highway construction signs that said "flooded" and water running across the road 2"-3" deep. To top it off, I awoke this morning at 0430 to the sound of rain. Yes, for the first time since I arrived in late February, it has rained here in Yucca Valley! I drove to work dodging sand on the road, puddles spanning two lanes, and a dog who decided my car was a deer and jumped into my front passenger door as I drove by. Fortunately, he was standing tall and healthy after his encounter with what was decidedly not a deer.

One of the reasons I hated living in LA was the concrete covering everything. Here, everything is covered with sand. When it rains, or even when the wind blows too hard, the sand covers the road, creating a hazard for motorists. This photo was taken from my driveway and shows sand blocking a nearby road.


What this means is that the day after a rain, all the city's heavy equipment comes out.
I have NO CLUE where the sand dump is, but there's a lot of it. I don't even want to think about how much money the city spends on road maintenance. It's not just the rains, too. At least once every couple of weeks I come home to find water running down the street (taking sand with it, of course) and a utilities truck putting out signs on the road so they can repair the latest damage. The quickest way to get down to Palm Springs is not infrequently closed off because high winds blow sand across the road.

The desert is an inhospitable place. I was marveling over this National Geographic special a few days ago, showing animals battling it out over the last few drops of water in a pond:

We're not quite that bad here in southeastern California, but it takes a lot of work to live in the desert.

Direct Fire

Just over a year ago, I write about my experience on a training exercise where I dismounted and moved up to a vehicle that just had a simulated IED hit. For the past four months, I have been working with the Marine run this exercise, known as Combat Logistics Patrol Exercise, or CLPEX ("clip-ex") for short. Sunday we had a special treat--we got to watch direct fire by an artillery battery. Typically, the Marines in the training (we call the the Exercise Force, or EXFOR--"ex-fore") are from a Combat Logistics Battalion, or CLB ("see-el-bee"). However, one day of each Mojave Viper is dedicated to the Artillery Battery.

On that day, their mission is to move to a patrol base and set up a support position with their Howitzers. Along the way (this is part of the exercise), they are attacked by an entire platoon of insurgents that they cannot suppress with the weapons they have in the patrol. Typically the CLB will stop and request artillery fire. Today, since the patrol had heavy guns with them, they dropped their guns, or took them off their wheels, and shot directly at the targets. Howitzers are designed to fire from a long way off--a Howitzer can be located up 24km away from the target it is shooting at. Today, the targets were in sight just off to our left, less than 3km away.

As the patrol rolled towards the end of its exercise, the call came over my coyote radio--one coyote would detonate the explosives he had set on the side of the road, and the rest of us would tell our EXFOR that they were taking fire from the pre-designated target. I heard the explosion and picked up my radio to the EXFOR truck in front of me. They pulled off the road so they could start engaging the enemy I had just told them about with the heavy weapon on their truck. All through the rest of the patrol, the rest of the trucks were doing the same, and the trucks hauling the Howitzers were dropping the guns.

The live fire events go fast and furious--some times the radio traffic is so busy that it is difficult to get the correct calls in over the radio to the coyote running the exercise. We all heard the call over the radio from the coyote next to the Howitzers that they had fired a shot, but his next call was something no coyote wants to hear: "Emergency, stop exercise! We have a casualty!" Throughout our exercises, we very carefully avoid using the word "casualty". When we simulate injuries to Marines so they can practice their first and and medevac procedures, we call those Marines "cherrypickers". If a coyote accidentally calls a "cherrypicker" a "casualty", he owes every coyote on the range that day a beer. This wasn't a simulated injury. I couldn't see what was going on at the guns, so I had no idea how serious the situation was.

Seconds later, the lead coyote was calling over the radio "hold exercise force in place and go clear, cold, condition four on all weapons systems"--everybody stay where you are, and make sure there is no live ammunition in any of the weapons. A few seconds later, we all breathed a sigh of relief when we heard the primary injury was a broken foot. We waited to resume the exercise as corpsmen assessed the injury and arranged a ground medevac to the hospital on mainside.

We resumed the exercise about half an hour later, once the injured Marine was safely on his way to the hospital. The Howitzers resumed firing at the targets with two different types of rounds. The first type detonated as soon as the round hit the ground. They created a brown poof as they hit the deck and were easy to see once they were down range, but the explosion was contained and not that exciting. The second type of round is designed to explode above the ground and send shrapnel down on troops not under cover. When they exploded, they created a small black mushroom cloud and a gigantic circular brown cloud beneath them as the pressure wave hit the ground.

We watched as the battery shot off all the rounds it was carrying and then told our EXFOR that the target had been destroyed and the exercise was over. We waited as they double-checked that all their weapons were unloaded, then gathered back at the rally point to debrief and get ready for the next run.

Angel

I wrote this one night while I was in Marjeh, but held off on posting it while I was in country. Then, obviously, my priority on my blog has been just about zero since I got back, but I've finally decided maybe some of you would appreciate these thoughts (and have decided to be Not Lazy enough to actually post).

I drifted out of sleep the first time, the buzz of the chopper seeping into my consciousness and slowly waking me to the point where I realized what I was listening to. The buzz faded: the chopper had left. I checked my watch. 0330. Earlier in the day I had been sitting at a conference table, getting some work done, while a squad briefing was held around me. When it was done, the Lt asked if anyone had seen the warning order for what was happening tonight. One Marine had—a cordon and search.

What that means is that the Marines had reasonable intelligence that someone they were looking for was going to be in a particular house that night. In order to nab the guy they were looking for, they would set up a cordon around the compound, then search every room of the house until they’d found someone. The cordon would prevent him from escaping. Right before I went to bed, that same Lt had stuck his head in the female billeting room to talk to the FET team about the operation. He’d mentioned that they’d be assembling at 0130.

That had been two hours ago, and I hadn’t heard them leave. If they’d stepped off at 0130, probably more like 0200, they would be well into their operation by now. And you don’t call in choppers to evacuate bad guys in the middle of the night; you hold them, question them, and then take them in the next day. A chopper landing in the middle of the night meant one thing, and one thing only. Medevac.

I lay there, and before too long I heard a second chopper coming in. I wanted to go into the COC, the Combat Operations Center, where they would be coordinating the medevac birds. Assure myself that it was just a flesh wound. That the young men I had seen sitting around the table earlier that day would still live long, healthy lives with their families. But you don’t need extraneous people milling around in your COC when you’re trying to get Marines medevaced. Instead I got up to go outside and use the head.

The main room right outside our door was filled with dust, which was not unexpected. This COP is covered with moon dust, and the buildings around here aren’t even close to air tight. I got outside to find it even dustier, the hum of the chopper even louder. The dust in the air reminded me of the dust storms we had right after we got here. It blows everywhere, and the chunks are large enough that you can feel the dirt hitting your arms and your face. I stood on a stool underneath the pull-up bars, hoping it would let me see into the LZ that is set up out back. It was too dusty to see anything, so I gave up and walked to the head.

When I was done, the dust had mostly settled, and I could see the stars again. I realized that because the LZ was covered in gravel, the dust I had initially seen was just from the landing. I stood on the stool again and looked down into the LZ. The bird was a CH-53, a pretty standard piece of gear the Marine Corps uses for combat support. The buzz grew louder, signifying that the bird was about to take off. I closed my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, hoping to avoid breathing the dust in, even though I could feel it on my arms and face again.

I made my way back inside and lay down again.

The third bird came in. Three in a matter of about twenty minutes, and you can fit multiple casualties on a bird. Something had gone very wrong in their operation that night. Or maybe it hadn’t gone wrong, and their operation had been a success. Hopefully they had gotten the guy they were looking for. The operation was just following Hawkeye’s Rule #1: In war, young men die. I fervently hoped that the medevac birds meant that Hawkeye was wrong about Rule #2: Doctors can’t change rule #1.

I lay there for a few more minutes, then got up to write. As I wrote the first few paragraphs, the fourth bird came in. But right now we’re still at four.

We periodically get messages sent out to all hands aboard Camp Leatherneck. They are usually short, only two lines, and read something like this:

At [time] ([date]), there will be a Ramp Ceremony for an Angel from [unit]. The ceremony will be conducted at the FW ADACG Loop* at Bastion Airfield. Please ensure widest dissemination of this information. All available personnel are encouraged to attend. Arrive early for the ceremony.

Unfortunately we usually only get a couple hours’ notice, and the ceremony is a couple miles across base. I haven’t attended a Ramp Ceremony yet, but I have seen pictures. Two long lines of Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen and civilians standing at attention, facing each other. At the end is the transport plane that will take the casket from here to Dover Air Force Base. I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversy surrounding whether pictures taken at those ceremonies are released to the press. Maybe you’ve seen some of the pictures. (Pictures of President Obama attending a ceremony were released last year; google Obama and Dover and you’ll find it pretty quickly.)

A couple thoughts. I feel somewhat conflicted about the policy against releasing the pictures. Not that I think that the families should be identified, but I think regularly seeing pictures of our fallen Marines and soldiers would make the war much more real to the American public. I remember the first few years of the war (OIF) before I had decided to join the Marine Corps, feeling disconnected from the war. Reading about it, learning about what was going on, but not having a personal connection to it. Seeing the pictures would change that.

But I think there would also be two other (somewhat conflicting) effects. One, the public would grow desensitized to seeing the pictures. Two, they would quickly lose their tolerance for casualties, and thus for the war. Pressure would build to end it, now, and we would leave, probably sooner rather than later.

Let me say again: the things we do here matter.

In the last week I have had more interaction with Afghans than in the previous four and a half months that I’ve been here. The dirt we have been using to fortify the COP we are building was brought in from another part of the city by a civilian contractors, with 82 trucks coming in over a span of three days. The narrow ECP, or entry control point, and deep moon dust created a logistical nightmare--the heavy vehicles would beat up the surface of the ECP, and following vehicles would get stuck. We used our heavy equipment to smooth out the ECP and scrape away some of the moon dust, but it took several hours to offload the fill each day.

The second day, while we were waiting for the last trucks to offload, I stood around talking to some of the drivers. They knew only a couple words of English, and I didn’t know any of their language. But we managed to communicate. One of them told me he was 25; I told them I was 28, and the two others fessed up to being 28 and 22. (The one thought it was cool that we were the same age. I was amused.) One of them joked with pantomime and very broken English that his friend was chubby because he ate a lot and didn’t spend much time working out. He explained that he was skinny because he did a lot of running, and we talked about what we liked to do at the gym. One of them asked me if I wanted to trade my watch for his ring (no!).

These young men are particularly brave. The Taliban likes to target civilian convoys that provide support for Americans because they aren’t as well guarded as convoys solely made of American logistical vehicles. They are just as likely to hit an IED as we are, and their trucks don’t have the armor that saves American lives. They frequently own their own trucks, so if the truck is damaged the money to repair it comes out of their pocket. If they or their families live in the area, they likely receive death threats from the Taliban.

These men and all of the children that crowded around me a few nights ago after dinner deserve a better life than what the Taliban offers to them. They will not have that if we leave now. We, working with Afghan forces, can and will defeat the Taliban. But they still need our help.

When I return from this mission, I know I will have many e-mails piled up. The one I hope not to see: a Ramp Ceremony invitation sent out some time tomorrow for an Angel from G 2/6. Our Doctors are very, very good, and if a Marine can make it to a medevac bird, he has an excellent chance of living. Here’s hoping.

*The airport here on base.

My Marines told me the next day that only one chopper ever landed, but they also told me that it only passed over the COP three times. I don't know for a fact that the chopper landed because of a medevac, but that's the most probable thing.

On Cauliflower Curry and the Government Shutdown

Two great topics that go great together? Maybe not, but that's what's on the agenda for today. I guess we'll start with cauliflower curry since that's what I named first.

A little while ago, I asked if anyone minded if I blogged about the cooking I do, and I got a couple "yes, please do" responses, and no "I'll stop reading and purge your blog from my mind forever" responses, so the ayes have it. I've been trying recently to make a good cauliflower curry, with a good texture and a taste more interesting than "I dumped some generic curry spice in it". The first time I used my new food processor to cut up the onion and cauliflower and ended up more or less unintentionally decimating both vegetables. Then, when I went to add the coconut milk, I (a) neglected to shake the can to mix the cream with the milk, and then (b) just opened the can and started dumping it into the pan. Before I knew it, I'd dumped the majority of the cream in, and most of what was left that I intended to use for the next batch was pure milk, which was less creamy.

My last mistakes were to use a pan that was too small, so the dish was difficult to stir, and become too impatient, which means the cauliflower didn't cook all the way. The only spices I put in it were whatever is in the generic curry powder I got from the store, so the seasoning was boring. I liked the texture--somewhat pudding-like, with little crunchy bits for the uncooked cauliflower. I decided the next time, I was going to (a) not decimate the vegetables, (b) cook the cauliflower, (c) add better spices, and (d) add pecans on top to add the crunch back in. I succeeded on (a) in that I cut the onions into larger slices, and I failed again on (b) and have since bought a larger pan (most of my pans are still in storage...hopefully that will change in the next couple months). I found some better spices and think I have that dialed in, and the pecans are a good addition, although the ones I have are raw, and I think toasted/salted ones would probably be better.

Next time I'll use the big pan, decimate the vegetables, and use the right spices. Then, I might have an interesting recipe to put on the blog. Until then, it's still an experiment. In other news, today I discovered that homemade spaghetti sauce is better by itself than it is on spaghetti squash. So now I have a decent portion of spaghetti squash left over and nothing to do with it, but I'm sure I can figure something out with butter and some spices. I can also say with confidence that half an avocado mashed with greek yogurt, unsweetened cocoa, and a packet of truvia makes a pretty yummy dessert, although not as good as ice cream.

Don't worry, this will not become a cooking blog.

On to more serious matters. And before I even start, I should say that the discussion that follows is entirely my own point of view, and in no way represents the Marine Corps or DoD.

I am a federal employee. Right now, Congress is debating whether or not they're going to send out the full paychecks that normally appear in Marines', Sailor's, Soldiers', and Airmens' bank accounts in the middle of the month. Honestly, I don't really care about if I am paid on time. Do I like getting paid on time? Of course. But I've been living off my personal savings for the past month and a half due to other pay problems, and I can continue doing so for a while. I know I'll get all the back pay eventually. What bothers me is that because I'm an officer, because I'm single, and because I came into the Marine Corps later in life with significant personal assets, I'm much better off financially and more able to handle a delay in my pay than your average junior Marine or NCO.

What I think is that it's unconscionable is to tell a Corporal: hey, your wife might run up the credit cards this month or bounce a couple checks trying to feed your kids, but we need you to go on patrol and risk life and limb in service to your country. Yeah, they'll eventually get paid, but that doesn't help with this month's water bill. Fortunately, the picture is not entirely bleak. At least two credit unions popular with Marines, Navy Federal Credit Union, and Marine Federal Credit Union, have said they'll cover Marines' regular paychecks for the middle of the month. And then the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society makes loans to service members that need immediate financial assistance and don't want to run up the credit card bills.

When I got in this morning, one of my co-workers was talking about the comment he'd made on Facebook, about how we're professionals, that what we do we do in service to our country, and that selfless service is part of our Marine Corps values. He actually said it with more swear words than that, and was laughing about the number of comments he'd gotten overnight, but he is entirely correct. We don't do what we do for the money. But it's hard to support a family when your normal paycheck isn't in the mail.

There are other annoyances to the shutdown. Joshua Tree might be closed tomorrow, and I had a day off so I wanted to go hiking, but I might have to find somewhere else to go. A message came out either yesterday or early this morning that Reservists won't be allowed to begin certain types of training during the shutdown. This was forwarded in an e-mail to me explaining that because of the way my orders were written, I might be on an unpaid vacation starting on 16 April. The issue was corrected this afternoon (now I'm almost sad that I won't have some time off to go see my nephew, who is almost 9 months old and apparently growing up very quickly), but it was certainly an interesting day.

I have no tidy summary to tonight's post, except to say that a friend of mine has recently started up a blog, and that she has some very interesting and thought-provoking things to share. You can check her out at Leaning In.