Survivor Guilt, A Booney Hat, And The Things Left Behind By Fallen Friends

Gear
A typical wall in any Frogs house.
Courtesy of Chief Beck

Welcome to Gearhead Wednesday, a regular gear review column by Chief Kristin Beck (ret.), a decorated veteran of the Naval Special Warfare Development Group and all-around badass. Send pitches and suggestions to gear@taskandpurpose.com


I returned and sometimes I wish I didn’t.

I am awake at 0300, drinking beer and writing this little page of shit. I am supposed to be writing about gear. I am supposed to be doing a review on the latest 5.11 cargo pants with Bluetooth adapters and integrated battery packs. I am supposed to be writing a review on some Rambo-style combat knife that weighs 5 pounds and no grunt would dream of humping around in real life.  

But it’s 0300 and I am trying to make sense of everything. There are many of us returning veterans who wonder why we didn’t die in Afghanistan or Iraq and I’ve heard the same story from Vietnam veterans. The freedom bird brings us home, but that homecoming isn’t always parades. I flew back on a plane full of body bags and flags. Literally, a flight bringing home my comrades who perished in a fight, in a desert, far from home. Freedom bird … the hell it was.

I didn’t just return home with body bags. I have a gas mask bag, a booney hat, a ruck, and a belt, all of which have names inscribed in black marker or paint. These same names are on white stones that line the rows at Arlington. I have gear that belonged to friends, and I will never forget them and how they gave their lives protecting others, even when those others didn’t know and don’t care.

A wall of Chief Beck's home.Courtesy of Chief Beck

Sometimes I wish I never came home. I always wish I could replace one of those guys. We all go over and see and do terrible things. Ambushes and house to house sweeps or just parakeet into a village to grab that one guy. The missions seem endless in the “Endless War.” We all have scars deep in our hearts that will never be healed. The politicians that send us should just punch our tickets as “spent,” because they will never know they left us over there. We don’t ever really come home; we all die some kind of death over there for the freedom we will never see ourselves.

It’s 0400 now. I drink some more beer and get lost in thought. I look down at the Sig 226 sitting on the table; we all do it and wonder if it would be better to be gone. I look over at a photo of the platoon and then I get pissed at that weak thought and the easy way out.

Submarine operations with Australian SAS. Chief Beck is second from the rightCourtesy of Chief Beck

I look at the gear, the booney hat with ‘JP’ inscribed on its brim. I think about that helo flight, his last flight. JP was SAS; there was a huge rivalry between the SEALs and SAS operators, and we competed on even the dumbest stuff. I remember distinctly that they won the biggest turd contest. I mean, that thing was like a foot long and huge. None of us wanted to go through four days of eating like a pig and holding it in to increase that record. I try to remember him and that loud laugh and quick wit; all I can see is that helo exploding in mid-air — exploding in my mind.

I think of Hound Dog, his gas mask pouch hanging just over there on a wall. All it says is “Rah H-Dog” in faded marker; I don’t think anyone else in the world would know what that means. 

Hound Dog's gas mask pouchCourtesy of Chief Beck

We were in Malaysia once, and Hound Dog was singing a song about fish heads and rice. Dang, we ate a lot of fish and rice for a month straight. Hound Dog had a monkey that sat near him and ate our leftovers. That monkey hung around our compound for a few weeks, maybe the only good-tempered monkey in the whole jungle. I see this stuff and think about more missions and a few laughs.

Hound Dog and I were roommates on and off for a couple years, both stateside and on deployment. There was an apartment which was mostly Mac and Mike’s place, but it was also a crash pad for many of us. It had cardboard boxes for furniture and a thousand beer caps above the TV stand that Mac and H-Dog send whizzing back there from between their thumb and fingers (I never got that trick and I would just throw the caps at the TV). Hound Dog loved his beer and he was a political junkie, watching C-SPAN for hours on end. We held Hound Dogs last party at that apartment and we all toasted how great a SEAL he was, taken too early.

Hound Dog chilling with a beer and watching C-SPAN, two of his favorite things, circa 1994Courtesy of Chief Beck

It’s 0500. I could just have another beer and maybe fall asleep. But none of us sleep and none of us dream; we just lay there thinking of how we could have done better. We lay awake all night and think. How could I have done something different? We think of how we got out of that room with brain matter splattered on our face and going into the next room to trade some lead.

I still feel that guilt, a deep pang in the gut. I wish I could go back over and join the fight. I feel like I never left. I will never forget and never give up hope that some kind of good will come of all this. Maybe some peace or goodness will magically happen. In the end, wishing for something and shouldering survivor guilt doesn’t really help much, but it’s hard to shake. It always lingers just out of reach.

We all have the gear around our houses from our battle buddies; we all have the memories and the broken dreams. But we also have a mission to stand up and fight for some kind of peace, something, anything — but mostly so that the next generation never has to ride that freedom bird full of body bags.

It’s 0600. I think I’ll wear that booney hat today. It’s time to start fresh; I have a mission.

If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (800-273-8255) to reach a trained counselor. Use that same number and press “1” to reach the Veterans Crisis Line.

World War II veteran and Purple Heart recipient Maj. Bill White, who at 104 is believed to be the oldest living Marine, has received a remarkable outpouring of cards and support from around the world after asking the public for Valentine's Day cards. "It hit me like a ton of bricks. I still can't get over it," he said. (CLIFFORD OTO/THE RECORD)

STOCKTON — Diane Wright opened the door of an apartment at The Oaks at Inglewood, the assisted care facility in Stockton where she is the executive director. Inside, three people busily went through postal trays crammed with envelopes near a table heaped with handmade gifts, military memorabilia, blankets, quilts, candy and the like.

Operation Valentine has generated a remarkable outpouring of support from around the world for retired United States Marine, Maj. Bill White. Earlier this month, a resident at The Oaks, Tony Walker, posted a request on social media to send Valentine's Day cards to the 104-year-old World War II veteran and recipient of the Purple Heart.

Walker believed Maj. White would enjoy adding the cards to his collection of memorabilia. The response has been greater than anyone ever thought possible.

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Editor's Note: This article originally appeared on Radio Free Europe/Radio Free Liberty.

A spokesman for the Taliban has told a Pakistani newspaper that the militant group is hoping to reach an Afghan peace deal with U.S negotiators by the end of January.

The comments by Suhail Shaheen on January 18 to the Dawn newspaper come after negotiators from the Taliban and the United States met for two days of talks in Qatar.

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The three Americans killed in a C-130 crash in Australia on Thursday were all veterans (left to right) Ian H. McBeth, of the Wyoming and Montana Air National Guard; Paul Clyde Hudson, of the Marine Corps; and Rick A. DeMorgan Jr., of the Air Force. (Coulson Aviation courtesy photo)

The three Americans killed in a C-130 air tanker crash while fighting Australian bushfires on Thursday were all identified as military veterans, according to a statement released by their employer, Coulson Aviation.

The oldest of the three fallen veterans was Ian H. McBeth, a 44-year-old pilot who served with the Wyoming Air National Guard and was an active member of the Montana Air National Guard. McBeth "spent his entire career flying C-130s and was a qualified Instructor and Evaluator pilot," said Coulson Aviation. He's survived by his wife Bowdie and three children Abigail, Calvin and Ella.

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MIAMI/JERUSALEM (Reuters) - U.S. President Donald Trump said on Thursday he will release details of his long-delayed peace plan for the Middle East before Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his election rival Benny Gantz visit the White House next week.

The political aspects of the peace initiative have been closely guarded. Only the economic proposals have been unveiled.

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c1.staticflickr.com

The Pentagon moved a total of $35 trillion among its various budget accounts in 2019, Tony Capaccio of Bloomberg first reported.

That does not mean that the Defense Department spent, lost, or could not account for $35 trillion, said Bryan Clark, a senior fellow with the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments think tank in Washington, D.C.

"It means money that DoD moved from one part of the budget to another," Clark explained to Task & Purpose. "So, like in your household budget: It would be like moving money from checking, to savings, to your 401K, to your credit card, and then back."

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