Author’s Note
Hello, and welcome! Come on in, we’ve got meat on the grill and enough beer to last us all night. Don’t be shy; have a seat out back. The view of our valley is fabulous. All our guests remark on it. We’ve got every shade of green you can imagine. The lush grass, the tall firs stippling the hills . . . well, nothing beats it in my book.
You’ve got to know up front that our valley isn’t the Silicon Valley. We don’t drive Beamers and Benzes to work. We’re an SUV and pick-up kind of place—the bigger the better. Out here, we’ve got the bedrock types who built this country and made it great. We are Middle America, the heartland in our chunk of Oregon. We’re old school. We don’t judge by job or vehicle. We look into each other’s eyes and measure the man by the content of his character.
Relax—kick your shoes off. I’ve got much to tell you, but first I need to introduce you to my neighbors. Sure, you’ve probably seen them before. Vinni Jacques was on CNN. So was Pete Wood. Chris Bailey made the front page of the New York Times. Sean Davis and Ray Byrne were interviewed on 60 Minutes. Luke Wilson made the cover of Field and Stream in November ’05. Matt Zedwick has his own action figure now. Jim MacMillan’s photo of Shad Thomas won the Pulitzer Prize. In one memorable issue, Pete Salerno’s narrow mug graced the cover of the National Enquirer. You can’t buy that kind of love.
If you’ve been watching the news a lot, you probably saw some of my neighbors die.
Yes, I’m sure you’ve seen them before, but now I want you to really get to know them. Tonight, I’m going to fill you in on a bunch of guys, and one woman, who happened to be the most ribald, feral, loyal, and dedicated humans I’ve ever encountered. I love them like I love my own kin. Don’t ask me to talk trash about them; don’t ask me to get into politics. Neither mean much to them, so they mean nothing to me.
They’re a deceptive bunch. Head into the Wal-Mart, or one of the mills around here and you’ll find them hard at work. Drop by the HP printer factory a ways down the road in Corvallis. You’ll find a handful of them there in button-down shirts stuffed away in cubical land. They look like any other nine-to-five Joe just trying to make ends meet. They don’t stand out, not at first glance, anyway. They pass through their days in average obscurity, raising their families and doing the best they can in this crazy world.
Truth be told, they are a different breed of cat. Once a month and two weeks out of every summer, they strap on their gear and go learn how to kill people. My neighbors, you see, are citizen-soldiers. They call themselves “Joes” or “Pot-bellied steely-eyed killers.” They say the latter half in jest. While some of them are a bit saggy around the midsection, most could make any Bowflex ad look good. They are the infantrymen—Joes—of the 2nd Battalion, 162nd Infantry, Oregon National Guard.
Fate threw them into the middle of the most important battles in the Iraq War during 2004–05, a period the army refers to as Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF), Part II. Now, as we sit on this porch, the army’s up to its fifth sequel and some of my pals are heading back into the fight. You see, they are a committed bunch. They love this country. They’ve seen our enemies firsthand and know the ruthless evil that resides in their cause. They know that should we falter in Iraq, the War on Terror will surely be lost.
During OIF II, the Iraq War morphed into something greater than itself. It became a titanic test of wills between America and the forces of Islamic fascism. The battlefields in Iraq became our generation’s Guadalcanal and Stalingrad. Both sides have invested everything they’ve got. Now, the battle has outgrown its strategic significance into something larger: a crucible of resolve.
My neighbors saw this transformation firsthand. And, if you’ll pardon the bragging, they helped shape it during their time in the Sandbox. These average work-a-day stiffs helped beat down the two Al Sadr uprisings. They fought the Battle of Najaf. They fought the Battle of Fallujah. They called the Sunni Triangle home.
When they returned to a hero’s welcome here in Oregon, they discovered the marines had hogged their glory. Every book, every documentary on the History Channel failed to recognize their achievements. They even got dissed by the local politicos, who during their demobilization ceremony extolled their service without a clue of their accomplishments.
You’re on my back porch tonight to fix all that. Please, sit back and take this in. I’ll tell you about their goofy humor and ridiculous pranks. I can’t help that; I’ve been victimized by their devious plots. You’ve got to watch these neighbors of mine. They’ll tie you to your cot quicker than you can say, “Buddy Fucker.”
We’ll have some fun, and I’ll use foul language. It is their language, and to discard it for propriety’s sake does them an injustice. I want you to get to know them, not some sanitized image the feint of heart can handle. Friend, if you can’t handle the f-bomb, then my porch is not for you tonight. If you can, stick around; we’re going to have a hell of a ride.
Just don’t let the goofy stuff take your eye off the ball. There is a larger, more poignant story beneath their antics that you’ll hear in my tale tonight. That aspect of these men (and one woman) deserves your attention. They earned that with the blood they spilled and the brothers they buried.
In many ways, the National Guard has eaten a shit sandwich since the Battle of Bunker Hill. The Continental soldiers looked down their noses at the Minutemen and their militia brethren. They remarked on all of their defeats and celebrated none of their victories. But who has fought and won America’s wars? Our citizen-soldiers.
Take the Civil War. The regular army was too small and too fractured to win that war on its own. No, the regulars didn’t win it, the farm boys and city folk who flocked to Lincoln’s call for militia levies won that one. And when the flood of volunteers dried up after the bloodbaths of Antietam and Gettysburg, the draftees finished the job in the Wilderness, Atlanta, and Petersburg.
What’s that? Okay, sure, that’s just one example, but the militia gave birth to the National Guard. The Guard units formed the cornerstone of America’s war effort in World War I. In World War II, Guard divisions fought side-by-side with the regular divisions. These weekend warriors had their moments of glory: Tennessee’s 30th Division became the elite infantry outfit in western Europe. The “Blue and Gray” Division from Virginia, Maryland and Washington, D.C., stormed Omaha Beach. Oregon’s Sunsetters served as MacArthur’s mailed fist for his island-hopping campaign back to the Philippines.
The National Guard has always been there in the thick of the fight. At key moments, they’ve changed the course of history. They’ve protected all that we find of value in our two-hundred-year experiment in freedom and democracy.
Nobody remembers that. Instead, they remember the slip-shod units, the elected officers, the weekends of drill that were little more than an excuse to binge drink with the boys. Kent State? Yeah, that’s remembered. But who recalls Biak or Palawan or the Crossing of the Roer? Since its inception, the Guard has been stigmatized as “Big Army’s”...
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. 
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