Memoirs From the Edge of Chaos

….because I was at a tactical disadvantage if a “blow and go” went down. First, my roommate was an accomplished Special Forces member and one of the President’s 100…an elite shooting team where less than 1% of even the best marksman qualify. Second, unlike my roomie, my weapon was holstered, in a Serpa level 3 tactical leg holster. This provided greatest protection from takeaways and release in a fall, but sucked for fast draws. Drawing a Beretta M9 required a two-step procedure, first to roll forward the levered clasp, then to withdraw the weapon. Third, my M9 was status “green”, meaning no magazine inserted and safety on. I “cleared” the weapon prior to entering the compound, as a standard safety procedure. So, even in my body armor, though roomie might hit me center mass the first time, I would not be able to withdraw my M9, pull a magazine from my pouch, insert it, release the safety, aim true and defend myself. Well, sh*t… I’m a much better conversationalist anyway.

“So, what the f*ck you mopin’ about?” I inquire.

A minute passes. The digital clock beside my bible on my nightstand indicates a second minute passing. Almost involuntarily, my thumb depresses the lever clasp and rolls it forward. Draw step one completed.

An almost inaudible mumble, “I f*ckin’ hate it here. Things just not right at home. The kid’s grades suck. Mom is frustrated, and I’m just here, waiting for the next “incoming” alarm. Just like some sheep in a slaughter yard. Just not f*ckin’ right.”

I relaxed, and begin to understand. There was no “Dear, John” letter, nor intent to harm himself. His wife simply unloaded her pain and misery in a letter to him, and he was coping. This was about not having control, where he was trained to control and manipulate all aspects of a plan or situation when it arrived. Holding his M9 was merely a unconcious coping action, as he could control the actions of it and direct its consequences better than only a rare few. I had seen it often in the combat zone, where despite the low ratio and odds of conflict, some would elect to carry the heavier Colt M16A4 slung across their shoulders…its weight and 550 ft maximum effective range a comfort. I move the holster lever back into place and move forward.

“Yeah, it’s paradise, ain’t it,” I reply low tone. “But you have less than a month here, and doing something stupid will only hurt everyone. You’re gonna make it out of here.” The last sentence said as a directive.

“I know. We got any Coors left?”

“Yeah, let me get us both one,” I said more audibly and relaxed. I began doffing my gear and removing my holster. “And what the hell was the nonsense with your M9? Are you at ‘red’?”

“Nah, I’m at ‘amber.’ I’m getting ready for a competition after I get back, so I was practicing aim. The magazine gives it the right weight.”

“Oh…yeah.”

“So that’s why you went quick draw?”  my roomie asked.

“Oh, you saw that?” I responded.

“Yeah.  Too obvious,”  he replied.  After a pause, ”Nothing more about this, right?”

“Cool, “  I said, handing over a chilled non-alcoholic Coors.  “I’m going outside.”

“Cigar?”

“Nah,” I quipped.  “Just going out to enjoy the tracers.”

Harris

Next - Installment 5: “Concussion Wave”

Day 170…late evening, 93 degrees.  Another 14 hour day ends.  With a workout, shower and de-stressing period, another 3 hours until bed.  In six hours, another "groundhog" day begins.  I show my badge and pass by the armed guards into the compound…200 meters until my trailer.  In the distance, an eruption of small arms gunfire echoes.  I know the sounds…clattering hammer means AK-47, counterfire pop means M-16, staccato booms indicate either SAW-240 or 50 cal…depending on tempo.  I look up and see red tracer fire illuminating the darkened and dusty sky.  Just another quiet night.  At least its a dry heat. 

"What’s going on?!" asks a male compound resident as I pass.

"I think Iraq won its World Cup soccer tune-up…celebratory fire," I mutter.

"You sure? It’s pretty close."

"Yeah.  Don’t worry, it’s not the revolution.  I’ll knock when it happens.  You should go inside before the rounds come down."

He obeys and retreats to his trailer.  Several others overhearing do the same.  I’m at my trailer, and amazed at the heat generated within my body armor in such a short walk.  The sweat forms on my brow under my hat, as I check the handle to go inside.  Unlocked?!  Hmmm, my roommate is in.  Cool, no digging for keys under my body armor and shirt.

I enter and close the door.  I see him to my right across the room, sitting on the bottom bunk of his two stack.  "Whew, long day, long night,"  I say, expecting a response.  I set down my briefcase and look at my roommate, still quiet.  Still motionless.  I’m instantly alerted to the Beretta M-9 standard issue in his hand.  My eyes do a quick scan…by the safety latch, a clearly distinct red dot.  Safety is off.  "Be calm," my inner monologue whispers.  Intuitively, my hand floats across my own Beretta, stowed in my attached tactical leg holster. 

On my body armor and belt I carry five M-9 magazines, 15 rounds per mag.  So does he.  I only see four of his mags.  My mind ponders in milliseconds, "Where’s the last one?" Oh yeah, right there, conveniently in the M-9.  But is the weapon "amber" hot status (mag in, round not chambered) or "red" hot status (mag in, round chambered)?  Sweeet.  Well, this’ll make one interesting night.

"Uhhh…long day, buddy?  You just cleaned, Martina," I venture.  Most of us pet name our weapons.   Mine was named "Wheezy,"  after Louise Jeffersons on "The Jeffersons" TV show.  The question really was giving me needed time to assess the environment.  There’s a letter on the floor.  Something says in my mind, "not cool…"

(Continued next week)

Harris