I first posted this on Obama's campaign website, back on 19 Feb 2007. I was thinking about Elvis tonight. Thought I would put it here.

I was proper drunk when I wrote it, but I would like to think that my heart was in the right place, even if my sentence structure could have used some work. I have made a few edits to make it a bit less drunken and a bit more readable:

"Generally speaking, I consider blogs to be an echo chamber of self-indulgence. Having said that, please indulge me while I say this. Tonight, I learned that someone killed SSGT Elvis Bourdon. He died in Baghdad on September 6, 2004. Because he cannot, I write this for him.

After we attended Mother Benning's School for Boys, he and I (and other assorted reprobates) served together in C 1/9th, 7th Inf. Div. (light). You should know, Iraq was not Elvis's first war.

So, here I am, almost 20 years after I saw him last, drinking Jameson's (Irish Whiskey) at 3 am, listening to the saddest of songs, writing some meaningless words that I know that nobody will ever read, struggling to honor his memory in my own stupid way, wondering what to do now, and hoping like hell that Senator Obama can help make sure Elvis didn't die for nothing.

It is not without some trepidation that I also wonder how many more of my brothers have died in this stupid, fugging war. Who will I hear about tomorrow? For the love of Christ, we need to bring our boys home safely and with deliberate speed.

Being bat-shit crazy (a technical term) notwithstanding, I am, even now, trying to reach out to the men with whom I was once honored to serve. It is my fervent hope that they can help me to help our brothers coming back from this new nightmare.

Ten to fifteen years down the road, when those guys start to fall apart like we did, they are going to need other vets to be there for them.

The government that sent them to war clearly lacks the will to bring them all the way home. I just keep trying to believe that the Senator means what he says on veteran issues. Sir, if at any time you think that you might not have the strength for this job, you MUST grow stronger.

Oh, by the way, the Senator might also want to look into the practice of sending out VA Form 21-0781 to vets reaching out for help. The person that thought it was appropriate to send that wicked instrument to vets alone and in distress should be punished for his sins. Might I suggest an extended visit to Room 101? It is a sad fact that I happen to know that VA 21-0781 has killed at least one man and his dog. If the Senator doesn't know why, he really should get a further education in the horrors of war. If he does know about that form, I sure hope he does something fast.

That's enough drunken babble from a broken warrior-poet for one night, or even one lifetime. Sorry Elvis, I really shouldn't drink while I am a designated writer.

Um, one more thing, Senator Obama, I assume that you joined the Veteran's Committee on purpose. I would hate to think that you only ended up there because all the other cool committees were taken. Assuming that you are as righteous as you seem to be, please know, if you don't already, that we left a lot of good men dead and dying out in the wilderness.

My Great-Grandma used to say, "if it's not bleeding, it doesn't hurt." Well, not all wounds bleed on the outside. If you have not already, read Catch-22. It will help to remind you to always look for the exit wound. They are walking around and holding down jobs, but war robbed them of the men they could have been. It's time to get serious about helping these men.

Well, good night Elvis, wherever you are tonight. You are not a statistic. You will be missed. This one is for you, my brother. This is Radio Free California, signing off.

P.S. If Elvis actually HAD written this . . . it would have been funnier and it would have made more sense. Sorry brother, I'll try harder next time.

These are not my words, but they are beautiful.

Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here."

http://projects.washingtonpost.com/fallen/dates/2004/sep/06/elvis-bourdon/

http://www.legacy.com/OrlandoSentinel/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonId=2620827

http://www.amazon.com/Wish-Were-Here-Pink-Floyd/dp/B000024D4S

Why blog monster, why? Why must there be yet another of your offspring for the world to fight? Oh right, the sins.

Call me Murphy. Once upon a time, I served as a foot soldier. A few thrilling moments, and twenty years later, and I ended up a 100-percent service-connected disabled combat-veteran with industrial-strength Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Try and say that three times fast.  Go ahead and try; I’ll go grab a cup of tea while I’m waiting.
 
Recently, it occurred to me that passing along some of the things that I have learned about dealing with both the Veteran’s Administration and life after wartime might be good for my soul. That thing really could use a good scrubbing. Deadly sin stains are hell to shift, get them out right away or they set and stay forever.
 
What with these endless wars and all, I’m sure we will have no shortage of soldiers struggling with their wartime experiences in the next few decades. I would like to think that some of them might find their way here. Don’t laugh, it could happen. If anyone does, I want to tell you that there is some good news.
 
Old vets help young vets. They always have, and I hope they always will. Lord knows I wouldn’t be where I am now without a lot of help from a lot of old warriors. Once you leave the military, if you have any kind of problem, the system seems to be working against you.

There are, however, some tricks to navigating these shark infested waters. We have to pass on the knowing from one to another. I’ll try to post anything that I think might be helpful to either someone just back from the wars or to someone who is about to head downrange.
 
Please know that if you are a wounded warrior, you have brothers that want to help. You may feel like you are lost in an endless swamp inside your mind. You are really just wandering in a wilderness that the soldiers who came before you have walked through since the beginning of time. Did you think you were the first person to feel bad about killing a whole bunch of people?
 
For the ground pounder, war never changes. Killing is killing. Take weapon, find bad guy, kill same, rinse and repeat.

Once you hang up your tools and try to re-enter polite society, you are bound to stumble a bit. Some of us don’t so much stumble as fall off a cliff. Did I mention that at the bottom of the cliff is a pit full of fire and alligators? No, I don’t know who put the alligators in the pit or why they don’t burn up in the fire, just go with it.

It might take ten years or more, but the ghosts catch up with everyone eventually.
 
Well, enough of this stuff and fluff. Without further ado; please to be welcome to this blog. Come on down and sit a spell. Maybe I can help you avoid some of the mistakes that I made. I have heard it said that smart people learn from their mistakes; wise people learn from other people’s mistakes. You can then go out and make all new ones.
 

George Carlin saved my life. In those times when all was darkness. In those times when it seemed like nobody understood what I thought I understood. George was always there with just enough wisdom to get me down the road for just one more mile.

George had this to say on PTSD. It bears repeating here:

”There's a condition in combat. Most people know about it. It's when a fighting person's nervous system has been stressed to its absolute peak and maximum; it can't take any more input. The nervous system has either snapped or is about to snap.

In the First World War that condition was called “Shell Shock.” Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell Shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves.

That was seventy years ago. Then a whole generation went by, and the Second World War came along. The very same combat condition was called “Battle Fatigue.” Four syllables now. Takes a little longer to say. Doesn't seem to hurt as much. Fatigue is a nicer word than shock. Shell shock . . . battle fatigue.

Then we had the war in Korea in 1950. Madison Avenue was riding high by that time. And the very same combat condition was called “Operational Exhaustion.” Hey, we're up to eight syllables now! And the humanity has been squeezed completely out of the phrase. It's totally sterile now. Operational Exhaustion: sounds like something that might happen to your car.

Then of course came the war in Vietnam, which has only been over for about 16 or 17 years. And thanks to the lies and deceit surrounding that war, I guess it's no surprise that the very same condition is now called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Still eight syllables, but we've added a hyphen, and the pain is completely buried under jargon. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I bet you, if we'd still been calling it Shell Shock, some of those Vietnam veterans might have gotten the attention they needed at the time. I’ll bet you that. I'll betcha.

But it didn't happen. And one of the reasons is because we were using that soft language, that language that takes out the life out of life.”

Truer words were never spoken. Rest well tonight, sir.