A Day of Coffee and Missiles (We Call it Monday)

I've been busy. Today was one of the top 5 scary days for me since living in Ukraine for the last three years. Here is a journal entry from today. 

We went to the beach last weekend. It was our first family trip this summer. We went to our beach at 14th station, in between our port and Chornomorsk. Missiles and drones flew over us all day. Adelina created sand castles while smoke choked out the horizon in the distance. A shahed was shot down somewhere over the sea, the smoke appeared like a cheap magic trick, and ten seconds later the sound blew by us and disappeared onto the bluffs above.

My daughter made little frog jumps over the incoming surf, playing tag with the water while Odesa burned, and blew livelihoods and lives into the haze that drifted just miles away from us. We drank beer, played cards, and got sunburns while a war waged around us. Alerts, jet engines, drones, and explosions churned with sea, laughter, and songs of the sea birds. The butterfly effects of the smoke sailing to Turkey won't be felt while our toes are in the sand and our backs take on the lobsteresque pigment. Those worries will be for later. When someone learns their house or place of employment has been destroyed. That their family members were killed or they will have to carry pint sized coffins in a funeral procession in a few days.

Today I was at the warehouse with Andre. I didn't want to look at Telegram. I already knew we were under attack. I could hear the fucking machine guns yakking at some russian death machine in the sky. We were in the upper level of the tin roofed warehouse when I heard the jet. I wasn't sure what it was, a rocket, rocket propelled shahed. Maybe one of our jets. Pop. I heard the jet launch a missile, at what I wasn't sure, there were missiles and drones in the sky. What I did know is that I didn't want to be sitting under that tin roof if whatever was shot at blew up or decided to death dive into our cluster of warehouses. I ran my silly ass to the road in the hopes I would dodge the impending destruction of our livelihood. As I ran I thought, what if I'm running into the shrapnel. Final Destination popped into my head. A piece of shrapnel or the raspberry pi chip in the drone screaming through the air, finding a place to rest in my carotid. Pumping thick ropes of O positive into the sky, filling my nostrils with the scent of iron and dry gas as I lie on the ground with enough time to fear for my life. Dying in fear like a buck bleeding out, pissing, shitting my pants and dumping that bitter adrenaline into my muscles.

I didn't die. Not yet. It's only noon and I have already dodged death twice. I still have to go home. Work isn't over yet. Maybe I'll have to run back to the warehouse or the post office under alarm again. My two least favorite places to be when there are missiles flying all over the place. Missiles. Everything sounds like a missile, high-performance summer Bridgestones flying up my street, and electric cars and motorcycles. My brain is about to dump cortisol, but my rational side kicks in a second later like push starting a Datsun.

My daughter's daycare sends a message to the group to let us know they are safe. That's good. That's real good. We have a container of our goods sitting on a ship in Chornomorsk. The city whos port is getting bombarded with missiles. Again and again and again. At night from my balcony I can watch the bright orange flashes in the distance then count the seconds until the sound waves from the explosion rattle our windows and send a thousand dogs into a frenzy. Every explosion is a teeth nashing, nail biting experience. Is $80,000 of our war stressed capital sitting at the bottom of the Black Sea? Is this the end of our season, the domino that shutters our windows?  "I want to take the car to parking and lay down on the ground and cry," Tanya says to me. 

As I type this from the shawarma stand the air raid siren bleats, two Onyx missiles are on their way to Chornomorsk. "Suka blayat," the old man eating a hot dog next to me mutters. He shakes his head before burying his face in his hands. There are many here at this dying market who have containers waiting to be unloaded in the Chornomorsk port. There are many of us here who are holding our noses above the water after four years of war. We all know someone in this market whose shop has been shuttered and sold off because their stock went up in flames. A russian shahed hitting any warehouse can be posted online saying they destroyed some military target. In reality, it was some shop owner living on the margin, and their life savings in dog food, textiles, or teddy bears from China just went up in smoke.

I want to go on vacation. Figure out a way to do this remotely. Grow the business somewhere else. Is it possible? No. I'd like to take the family to Vietnam for the rest of the summer. Search for new producers, new products, maybe work with an ol'Army buddy, figure out how we can sell his goods here, but that would keep us here. I just want to be safe, I want to go somewhere where this is someone else's problem happening to people we don't know, never heard of, in a place we can't find on the map. We won't know what's going on with them every day because we have our own news and our own problems to worry about. A place where the war is over when I put my phone in my pocket. A place where the war isn't in my ear, head, and heart. A place where my daughter doesn't use the words alarm, shahed, or all clear. "Why is it an alarm, poppa?" "Because russians want to kill you." What? Should I lie? Well baby, sometimes when mommies and daddies hate each other they try to kill as many people that they don't like for whatever reason makes them feel comfortable doing so.

I want to go home. I want to go home so I can at least hide in my basement. It's cool down there. Have my family with me. I'll know that they are "safe," or at least we can die together. For every civilian killed, a family member of the rich elite should be put in an arena and have to fight to the death. If a civilian five-year-old is killed, then the five-year-old of the ruling class should be put on the block. A lid speculum attached to the head of the offending member so that they have to watch someone very close to them fight for their right to exist. A Ludovico Technique to answer an eye for an eye. The poor shouldn't be the only people to suffer. To bury children. The button pushers and the decision makers should answer. In a gala maybe, a place where they have to dress to impress. A place where they would usually huff their own farts but now breathe in the smell of blood and pain.

La Vie en Budapest

 “You should leave now!”

“I don’t know, are you sure? Russia always does this, people here are saying that nothing will happen.”

“No, this is different. Russia has their military on the northern and eastern borders. You need to go now!”

Tanya didn’t seem worried, and that scared the shit out of me. She, like millions of other Ukrainians, couldn’t fathom that Russia would start launching ballistic missiles and come over the border with guns blazing, like how Americans could never imagine Canada coming over the border to take New York.

The first time I ever talked to the woman who would later be my wife was in February 2014. Russia had sent little green men into Crimea and seized key sites within the country. At the time I couldn’t believe what I was seeing on the news — that Russia had annexed the territory of a sovereign nation. I wasn’t seeing a lot of coverage of the event on U.S. news outlets. I thought we would go to war for sure over this blatant violation of the Budapest Memorandum. I was honestly a bit excited to go fight the Russians. Wolverines!!!

I had visited Odesa, Ukraine in 1998, with the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit, in support of Operation Sea Breeze. I remembered how proud Ukrainians were of their independence. The country was on shaky ground with their newfound freedom. They were happy to finally be recognized as a singular nation with their own identity.

I got on Facebook and messaged some people from Odesa to find out what was going on. Tanya was the only person to message me back. She says its because I looked handsome and figured it would be a good way to practice her English.

Back then she was scared that her country was going to go to war. I would check in with her every day to see how the situation was developing, to find out how Ukrainians felt about Russia stealing a piece of their land. The daily, ”Hey, how are you” eventually evolved into a long distance relationship. We talked as if there wasn’t a language barrier and thousands of miles of ocean, land, and culture between us.

“I’m scared. The city is burning.”

That was the message I woke up to on May 2nd, 2014.

Pro-Russian and Pro-Ukrainians clashed in the streets of Odesa. The vapors of the violence of the Maidan in Kyiv had made it’s way to Odesa fueled by the Russian incursion into Donbas that took place in April. The tinder box hit its ignition point on the 2nd of May when the House of Trade Unions caught fire and 42 people died.

She told me she was afraid to leave the house, that the war was going to come from Donbas into Odesa. There was nothing I could do. I was in the Army and had recently been stationed at West Point. I gave her the standard terrorism brief; avoid populated areas, infrastructure, and large gatherings. Stock up on non-perishables and water.

Almost ten years later I was surprised that she wasn’t worried about an impending invasion. Holy shit woman! Take the kids and get the hell out of there is what I wanted to say. I had read somewhere that a unit of Chechens was deployed somewhere to the North of Ukraine. My mind ran wild with what they would do to women and children. Thankfully her brother and her father were also encouraging her to leave. She was waiting for her former sister-in-law and her niece to arrive from Kharkiv. They were having difficulty getting out as millions started to make their way west. Every day I would check in with her, and on the 24th the unthinkable happened. They sat glued to their phones watching images of buildings being destroyed as Russia flowed over the border.

As she was getting ready to drive to the border, her car broke down. It took a few days to get fixed. Five days later she finally drove out of Odesa with her 12-year-old son, her brother’s ex-wife, her niece, a little dog, and four suitcases.

While I was in Poland she had stopped in Moldova, like many Ukrainians. At the time, many people — including her brother — were scared of Russia using a nuclear weapon. Her brother told her to get out and keep going. She had some friends in Poland who told her to come and stay with them. As I was preparing to leave for Romania, she stopped in Budapest to rest for a few days before continuing the drive. It just so happens that I had never been to Budapest.

I took the bus from Krakow to Budapest. I was one of three men on the bus. The rest were Ukrainian women with children in tow. I sat on the bus for six hours trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life. I didn’t want to go back to the states, and had nowhere to go back to. No one talked. It was mostly sobs and babies crying. I sat near the window, and a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, sat in the seat next to me. She fell asleep on my shoulder and stayed that way until we arrived in Hungary’s capital.

Tanya and I had a relationship online for months. When I ended it, it never truly ended. We stayed in touch for nearly ten years. She was that one woman who was always on my mind. She was my what if. When we met in real life for the first time before the war, I realized she was my always will be.

We spent the next two days sightseeing in Budapest. We would walk past little playgrounds where her niece would want to play. The playgrounds were filled with children who had also fled Ukraine. Everywhere we went, we met other Ukrainians who had stuffed what life they could fit in a suitcase and ran. At that time, over two million people had left Ukraine. It was hard to visualize that kind of human migration. So many of them had no place to go home to, communities like Mariupol, Volnovakha, and villages across the country had been completely wiped off the map. No schools, hospitals, homes, running water, nothing.

Her niece was only six. Her pockets were full of treasures scooped up along her travels. She had yet to sit in a classroom to start school. COVID had closed the schools. War made sure they stayed that way.

At one point we found ourselves walking along the Danube her rainbow mittened hand in mine and stopped near the Jewish Shoe Memorial. During WWII, Hungarian Jews had been lined up along the river at gunpoint, told to step out of their shoes, shot, then dumped into the Danube. Myraslava was tired from walking all day. Half a century later this little girl rested her head in the same place where evil men murdered other girls who wore the same size shoe as she did.

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The next day I helped the little band of displaced persons load up what they had taken from Ukraine. There was no room for me to go with them. I kissed my Tanushka goodbye and walked to the train station.

This is part of an ongoing series. If you missed the first installment, start with A Rolling Stoner Gathers No Moss.

Delusions of Insurgency

 “We have to do something!”

I’d been thinking the same thing as I was watching the news reports of the Russian military buildup on the northern border of Ukraine. For a week, most news outlets and the president of the United States were saying that Russia would not invade. This was different. On February 24th, 2022, they rolled over the border and the war in Ukraine began a new chapter.

“We can’t just do nothing. I’m going to go with or without you.”

My friend Dean pleaded with me to go with him to Ukraine. Dean was my brother from Afghanistan — the one who had dragged me onto a motorcycle in Vietnam a few years earlier and opened the world back up to me. I needed some time to think. After an hour I called back and told him we would go, but I wasn’t going to join a military. I would not don a uniform and be at the mercy of chickenshit politicians like I had been during my deployments in support of the war on terror.

We would go as trainers and, if we could, as partisans or insurgents if you will. I would rather utilize tactics taught to me by the Taliban and Mahdi militia than be confined to the rules of engagement and shortsightedness that the U.S. military had taught me. Wow, was my brain fried. If you are thinking, what an idiot, I hope that you add a few more demeaning words to my mental state at the time.

The escape hatch had been opened. The reason was there, plane ticket bought, and I left with no plans of returning to the land of milk and ridiculous health care premiums. I packed my travel backpack and took nothing that would identify me as a potential combatant. I saw on the website for Ukraine’s International Legion that they were only taking people that could bring their own gear. I left with three changes of clothes.

I flew into Portugal, then boarded my flight to Poland. I sat next to a Ukrainian who had been working abroad, now headed back to defend his country from Russia. The plane was filled with Ukrainian men heading back. At one point during the flight, the man sitting next to me stood up and shouted Slava Ukraini, and the plane suddenly echoed with a deafening Heroiam Slava. My hair stood on end. The plane landed in Warsaw, and I don’t remember being scanned into Poland.

I met up with Dean, we stayed the night in Warsaw, and we drank a bit to take the edge off. He was in contact with a guy that could get us over the border in Medyka. We took the train to Krakow and set up a base of operations there while we waited. It was difficult to find lodging as the hotels were quickly filling up with refugees. We met some Ukrainian volunteers who were working with their church in Krakow, collecting donations for refugees as well as medicine and equipment for the military.

Dean’s contact wouldn’t be able to come get us for a few days. We decided to go to the border and see how we could help. We got up the next morning and took the train to the border. I’ve served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. The side of war I had never seen was a mass human exit from a country being invaded.

The train station in Przemyśl Główny was being used as a hub to receive the refugees coming in fifteen minutes down the road in Medyka. The place was packed with women and children. There were warming tents, and there was even a pet park set up for the families that fled with their furry friends. This wasn’t led by the government, this was a rally of the Polish people. They took the initiative, scrounged together tents, blankets, and food and worked around the clock as thousands of women and children poured through the border with little or no support from the Polish government at the beginning of the war.

We met up with another volunteer from the U.S. He told us they had more volunteers than they knew what to do with but found us some work distributing food to the families. Later we helped tired mothers carry backpacks, suitcases, and kids to the train back to Krakow all day long. Most of the men I saw coming out of Ukraine were not Ukrainian. They were foreigners, Chinese, Africans, and Indians. The few Ukrainian men I saw had many children, had elderly parents or special needs children in tow. Maybe there were more. I didn’t see them.

After moving bags and people all day long, Dean and I hopped on the last train back to Krakow. We had arrived at Przemyśl Główny on a nearly empty train; now there was no room to stand. Every carriage was full. The walkways were full. There was hardly any chatter that usually fills an evening train, just the crying of babies and cooing of mothers that filled the silence between the rhythmic violence of steel on steel carrying Dean and I back to a hotel, and hundreds of others into uncertainty.

When we got back to Krakow, Dean and I showered and went straight to the bar. It took a few drinks to get the conversation going. Dean chatted up a German lady that spoke English. She was there with two business colleagues. We sang some karaoke and the night seemed to be going in the right direction. At some point the Ukraine conversation came up. One of the German guys started saying some foul things about Ukraine. Dean and him squared off. I tried to talk Dean down and get out of that place but he is the type of guy that won’t back down once provoked. As I paid the tab the two had started making their way out of the bar. The other man stood up to exit, and I assured him it wasn’t in his best interest to follow. I raced up the stairs and before the German asshole could step out of the door, I grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him back into the bar onto his ass. Dean wheeled around to pounce but I pushed him back out into the street and we made our way back to the hotel.

We were getting antsy. I had to reiterate to him that we weren’t joining the military. It became a point of friction between us. The next day we took a break from each other as we thought about the next move. I was dealing with personal shit on two fronts — the closing out of my past and the beginning of my future.

Dean lost contact with his guy in Ukraine. Nobody was coming to get us. I wouldn’t budge on my standpoint of joining the military. I was also delusional about my pursuit of being a freedom fighter. Knowing what I know about the Russian military, it was the right call. Through Facebook I found out that a guy I served with in Iraq in 2007–2008 was doing humanitarian work at the Romanian-Ukrainian border. Dean and I reconciled before we parted ways. I was out of options and running low on funds. There was no place to stay in Krakow anymore, and everyday there were more and more people trying to find a place to land in Europe.

There was something I needed to do before I went to Romania by way of Budapest.

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The only picture I took in Poland after landing in Warsaw.

This is part of an ongoing series. If you missed the first installment, start with A Rolling Stoner Gathers No Moss.

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

How my tranisition from service to civilian looked like.

 

The first time I crossed the pond and visited Europe, I was twenty-one years old and on a booze cruise with an organization that had been born in a pub in 1775. Back then, I never imagined that I would live overseas. The second time I was stationed overseas in Germany, I was a little older and dumber, separated from my first wife and in love with Europe. I say in love with Europe, but I can fall in love with almost any place I visit. Except for New York. Fuck New York.

The Grand Staircase, in Odesa, circa 1998.

I started to imagine living abroad during my time in Germany. Initially, I only wanted to get stationed in Germany because the unit in Baumholder was about to go to Afghanistan. That is where I really wanted to go because I heard the fighting was nice there. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. I lived in Germany for three short months, which I mainly spent on military exercises in the icy timbers of the Black Forest. Those short months had a long-lasting impact on me. Once I got used to the slower way of life in Germany, I fell in love with her. The people, the architecture, the food, beer, the weather, everything. At the end of my deployment, I tried to stay in Germany, but the Army had other plans for me. So I spent what little time I had left in Germany driving and drinking all over Europe.

The Rockies as seen from the roof of my house in Florence, Colorado.

Fast forward five years, I retired, living in Colorado on a beautiful 30-acre spread of land in a small town near Pueblo. I was surrounded by three mountain ranges and had land to play and shoot on. A month after retiring, I had lost my sense of purpose. I’d cut back on my binge drinking and replaced it with Colorado’s unofficial state flower. I slowly fell into a deep depression during the next several months. In July 2018, a friend suggested we go backpacking through China or ride motorcycles through Vietnam. Vietnam has always been my dream destination for reasons I will clear up in another post. I hopped on a plane, then on a motorcycle, and rode from Hanoi to Da Nang. I fell in love with Da Nang and went back several times. I wanted to live there. The people were awesome, the weather was amazing, and traveling from Da Nang to other destinations was not expensive. My future ex-wife was climbing the corporate ladder, and eventually, my delusions of becoming an expat disappeared.

The author cresting the Hai Van pass on the way to DaNang.

After my trip to Da Nang, I had no desire to pay for a house and a car and be anchored down. I told my ex I didn’t want to buy a house again. I wanted to travel and see the world. My disability from the Army was more than enough to live comfortably in Vietnam, with plenty left over to travel the world for two people. The idea of working just to pay for a house and car was stifling to me. Time ticked by, and the ex kept getting promoted, which was a good thing. It was her time. I told her that when we got married, it was her time. My time in the Army was over, and now it was my job to support her career. We moved to Ohio and lived on Lake Erie. I took a trip back to Hanoi and taught English as a volunteer for three months. The pandemic happened, I enrolled in art school, and we bought a half-million-dollar home with a pool in Akron.

Having dinner with the pyramids from the roof of my hotel in Giza.

At the end of my first year at the Cleveland Institute of Art, I took a trip to Europe, where I visited Albania, Serbia, Ukraine, Egypt, and Morocco. I had the bug again. The house in Akron had been a sticking point for me. In a moment of weakness, or last ditch effort to salvage our relationship I caved to my wife's desire for the home. It was a house built by an architect with many oddities. It was one thing after another — the pool needed a retaining wall before it slid down the hill into the neighbor's house, the cedar siding on the house was rotting, and before I left for Europe it snowed, causing a huge leak in the downstairs bedroom. It quickly turned into a money pit. A beautiful money pit. Ohio was nice, but my head and my heart were somewhere else. I had my own home gym, dream motorcycle, Audi A5, and pool, but they were only things. What I wanted were experiences. Not that I couldn't have them from time to time, but access to travel in the United States is expensive, and even more so now. The future ex and I weren't happy, and I think that had been going on for about three years, but neither one of us was ready to admit it.

The country was changing. People were disappearing into their algorithms and going mad. Not even the Waffle House was open before 7am. What the fuck, America. I needed to get out. I needed to do something real. When the Russians crossed the border into Ukraine, I had my reason. Onward to the great perhaps.

The author on The Grand Staircase 20 years later with my boy in the background.

Almost Died While I Was Almost Dying

 “Call emergency.” I told my wife as I sat at the table doing my breathing exercises. My chest was tight, my blood pressure 147/97. Nothing to alarming other than my chest feeling weird and my body telling me something was wrong. 

My dad died from a heart attack only five months earlier. I didn’t know what was going on but I didn’t feel good and I was getting scared. I told my wife to move my daughter to my sons room with him as I took my shirt off and loosened up my clothing and laid on the couch. 

Garrison who just got his temp stay visa rushed over from across the street. The paramedics showed up a few minutes later. The emergency doctor took my pulse and knew right away it was arrythmia, ran an ekg to confirm then put me in the ambulance and took me to the hospital. 

The on call cardiologist gave me some medication that was supposed to even out my heartbeat. After fifteen minutes, I still didn’t feel well so they moved my wife and I into a room to sleep and said they would be back at 3am to check on me. 

At 1am the alarm sounded. My phone was dead and I couldn’t check Telegram. My wife called Garrison to make sure he was up, he moved the kids to the corridor. I sat up in the bed as the ZSU anti-aircraft guns belched out flak into the sky. They were close. Hospitals being a target of opportunity to Russian drone operators wasn’t making me feel any better. I could hear the Shaheds getting closer. 

My wife and I moved out into the corridor. She made the sign of the cross on the windows before we stepped out. I also forgot to mention I broke my foot two weeks earlier so I was in a jump boot and on crutches. Spring hasn’t been my season. Here we were sitting in the corridor of the hospital because of my heart problems unsure whether I was going to have a heart attack or a stroke while my kids were back home hiding from suicide drones. I thought about who would look after them. I tried to push out the intrusive thoughts of a Shahed hitting my apartment that night. Anytime I’m away from my family and drones are flying over the city the images of previous attacks pop into mind. The ones of mothers under rubble holding the broken bodies of their kids in their pajamas.

Machine guns blasted, drones blew up. Apartment buildings were hit. After an hour we got the all clear. I laid on the hospital bed in the triage room and wondered if we would be having any visitors. Thankfully we did not. The doctor came in at 3am ran the EKG on me, told me I was fine to check out after curfew lifted. At 0500 we caught a cab back home as the city slowly crept back to life.

I'm Back

 Welcome back to the Angry American. A blog that started a month after me and my guys were nearly killed in an ambush in Samarra, Iraq in 2005. The continuity of the blog was often measured in millimeters and minutes. Thankfully I'm still here and not the subject of a tap on the table with a shot glass wielded by bearded trigger pullers.

A lot of life was lived and mistakes were made in those empty spaces. I didn't want to blog about the war at home with myself — depression, divorce. Who the hell would want to read that? Real life wasn't the same as normal life, which for me was being on patrol with my guys, not taking kids to dance classes in a minivan. I let the blog die. On occasion I would post something, get zero views and be done with it until the next time whiskey and survivor's guilt made me feel sentimental. 

So yeah, I'm back… I went from serving in combat in the U.S. Army to living in combat as a father and husband in Ukraine. It's been one hell of an interesting transition, to say the least. I'm a bit older, a little slower, maybe a little wiser… I don't know if I'm the same guy that started this blog 20 years ago. That will be for both of us to find out since we have a lot of catching up to do.

Going Home: A Blended Family's Journey Home

 I wrote the following story on May 23, 2023. We were preparing to move from Romania back to Odesa Ukraine. 

The walls are white and barren. It doesn’t seem like we have lived here for over a year. We have done nothing to make the space our own except for a couple of Lego cars and a Lego White House on one of the built-in bland black shelves. The pickle jar overflowing with wine corks tells its own story.Those are just the corks that we started saving. The other three bottles of wine a night we never bothered to save.

We always knew deep down that this place would be a placeholder for us. A temporary home while we waited for some kind of turn in the war. The day we moved in, it was like coming home from a vacation. No boxes were being delivered or waiting for us to unpack years of life tucked away in cardboard; this was not our home. I carried up three suitcases and my backpack from the car. All of our belongings.

When I read the news of Russian troops massing on the border of Belarus, I knew an invasion was imminent. I called her and told her to leave Ukraine. She brushed aside my concerns much like many of the prominent politicians and newscasters did. Alleging it was just a show of force or an exercise and that Russia had done this in the past. Ignoring the fact that Russia had also invaded and destroyed three other countries while Putin was at the wheel. I told her to pack, take her son, and head to the border.

Days after the invasion, I left for Poland; she was safely at the border, waiting to cross. She waited for over forty hours with thousands of people in line. Some abandoned their cars and walked through the frigid winter weather to escape the oncoming Russian hordes. The world was unprepared for the millions of women and children seeking refuge. The citizens of the countries bordering Ukraine sprang into action. I say again, the citizens. The government sat on their hands. The citizens moved in mass to greet the people fleeing Ukraine. They set up warming tents and donated food, water, and clothes. It was one of the most incredible things I had ever witnessed in my life. Volunteers even set up dog parks and donated pet food for the people that were escaping with their furry friends. Yes, these “Nazis” were also trying to save their pets from the Russians.

We have had an amazing time in Romania. Yet, blended into that time is the uncertainty of the future of our lives and livelihood. She left a family business that her parents had built after the Soviet Union collapsed. She left behind her brother, father, her city, and her life. She would stay up late reading about Russia’s atrocities against her people. One night she cried into my arms after seeing the pictures of Ukrainian children with their parent’s information written in black permanent marker on their fragile young backs.

We made lifelong friends, attended weddings, barbecues, dinners, and camping trips. Trying to fill a void of belonging and togetherness. Her mind would drift home. Everyone had advice for us on how to start a business or what we could do. To them, they felt that Romania was our new home and that the home in Ukraine was lost. My wife didn’t want to move from her home. She was forced out. Forced out by a country that has long sought to erase Ukraine and absorb it as Russia. So much so that the phrase “Little Russia” was coined to cover up the ongoing genocide. 
We have one month left in Romania. We will pack up what we have accumulated over the last year, and we will head east. We will head home.

When I tell people we are moving back to Ukraine, I get a mix of answers depending on who I’m talking to about the move.

“Is it safe?”
“Why.”
“Why don’t you stay- or move to X country?”

The list is long, and some people are pro-Russian. Mostly the people from the U.S. that are right-leaning. Who feel personally slighted that the U.S. has invested billions in a proxy war. They don’t see the human value of the Ukrainian people. They are the ones that had their freedom bought and paid for three-hundred years ago. They have suckled from the big fat government tit for years, and claim freedom is their right to own guns. They have never had to step up and defend their “freedom.”

Odesa is relatively safe. We have to worry about ballistic missiles and drone strikes. Hopefully, Ukraine will continue to push the Russians out, and the taste of this war will sour in the mouths of the Russians, and they will take back their sons and focus on rebuilding the mess of the country they reside in today.

We will leave beautiful and kind Romania. It will always be a home for us but not our home. Someone has to go back to Ukraine. We have to rebuild and raise children there. Ukraine is not lost. Ukraine is not Little Russia. Ukraine is Ukraine.

As shared on Medium:

Ahoy

[This is an interesting snapshot of where my life was when I wrote this post.]

This will be my last post here as I transition to a different blog and a new stage of life.  

https://tristanwruark.com/

The last post I made here was in 2014. I made some posts prior to that then I went back in and pulled them from the blog.  I started this blog back in 2005. It's now 2022. Wow, have things changed. Who am I?  A lot has changed in the last eight years. A lot of life has passed through the Angry American. I'm a completely different person between the Angry American and the man I am now. I don't think I was so angry when I first started the blog over fifteen years ago. Wow. A decade and a half. I'm thinking how crazy it would have been for me to start a blog back in 1990. 1990 was the ending of 7th grade and the beginning of eighth grade for me. I would have been 13 years old. Thirty-two, 32 years ago, I would've been able to keep my own blog because I would've been 13 years old. What is the comparison? 

Here's a tik tokker who is 13 at the time of this post

https://www.tiktok.com/@stayflyooo/video/7046536814118653231?is_copy_url=1&is_from_webapp=v1

This young lady has a YouTube channel at 13

https://youtu.be/tiNqhOds9l8

In comparison, I didn't have social media until I was 28 years old in 2005. This blog was my first social media. I started it because I was in Iraq, and my buddy had a blog. I didn't even know what a blog was. I just wanted a spot to share my experiences in Iraq with my family. The blog ended up taking a form of its own during my deployment in 2007. I quickly learned that people only give a shit about you when your life is in danger. 

So why am I coming back in 2022? Because I haven't really seen anything through in a year for a while. 

[I didn't see this through either.]

Many reasons really. I'm enthralled with the ability to be able to keep a diary through the years in almost real-time. Imagine if Anne Frank had a vlog or blog. Anne Frank would be the most recent time I could think of; I imagine the ancient humans being able to show us pictures of the time they lived in. What a perspective we would have for the times that history has forgot. 

Anyway, I'm back. For how long, I don't really know. This is more of a New Years' challenge than anything. Obviously, we need to cover ground, and I'll do whatever, however, until I get some reader feedback unless no one is reading this. You let me know what you want to know about.

 A lot of time has passed, and we have lost a lot of people on this journey. In a separate post/post, I will name the people because they are special to me. I think that people should know their history and learn from their mistakes and honor their legacy. For now, I'm late on this post. We have more to come. It's a history of my life. I'm hopeful that it will reflect the years I lived for the person I chose to be during my short stint here in life. 

I'm not the best version of me through a lot of this life. Shit though. I had a fucking blast, literally. It has been a huge learning curve and also a blessing. I have lived through some shit but nothing in comparison to others. I would be remised if I didn't admit that it has been a wild ride. My favorite quote in this life isa quote from Hunter S. Thompson: Buy the ticket, take the ride. 

It means what it means. Life is a ride. Participate.

Anyway, I'm back. I want to tell my story. It's been tame yet crazy to me. I'm a lucky fucker. I want to thank the beautiful people who have crossed my path to make my adventure so amazing. 

Brothers means that I will always come for you. No Matter what the cost.

September is the month that is synonymous with the end of summer, the beginning of school, and the transition into fall.  For others as August draws near September looms over them like thick Iraqi moon dust stirred up by a couple hundred pounds of hidden explosives.  September is a time where grizzled veterans drink a little bit more with those that can't be with us.  To the untrained eye those men look like they're drinking alone but I can assure you, they are not.
In September of 2007, 2/16IN REG lost 6 Soldiers.  The butterfly effect from that month spans life times.  On September 4th, 2007 the 2nd Platoon of Charlie Company would leave FOB Rustamiyah and return later in the evening, one truck and five soldiers short of what they left with.  Those on that patrol will never forget how hot it was on that day.  The 7th anniversary of that day passed recently.  I had no idea what to write or what to say.  I saw several posts on different media sites.  I lurked back read and said nothing.  I wondered about the families.  I thought about the men who were there.  I thought about what ISIS is doing in that country right now.  I thought about how the war in Iraq had been officially been over now for 3 years.
My biggest fear is that those men will be forgotten and that younger generations won't know who they are or their sacrifice.  Their personalities are so much more than a name on a stone or a wall.  I believe that as one of the people that was influenced by them that I try to infuse their legacy into the Soldiers that I encounter.  That lessons learned on that day will never be repeated.  That the bravery that was displayed on that day will never be forgotten.  When asked why I do it I will always tell the new Soldiers, I do it because I get to serve with real heroes everyday.  On that day I served with Joel Lee Murray, Duncan Crookston, Randol Shelton, David Lane, and Joseph Mixon, as they road in the deadliest position in the convoy, lead.
I always tell my Soldiers that the only reason why we do what we do is because of the bond that we share.  Because you know no matter what that they will come for you.  On Sept 4th they did.  I watched Soldiers brave a blazing inferno of a truck with ammunition cooking off to get to their brothers and pull them to safety.  They didn't care about anything but getting them out of the truck.  Although it was too late for some of the guys it didn't matter.  They will come for you.  No matter what!  Real life heroes gave their lives and limbs that day, real life heroes risked everything to save them.
September is a reminder for the families who had uniformed men knock on their door to tell them their son was not coming home.  September is a month where a widow finds out that her son or daughter will grow up with out a father.  I think about those kids.  I hope they know and will always know how great their dads were.  Young Jerry I can tell you that your dad was a lion.  One of the smartest men I knew.  He loved you so much.  Isabelle your daddy carried around a stuffed animal of yours all the time and he was one of the funniest people that I ever met.  All of us loved your fathers and we carry around their memories with us.
To the parents, your sons had an incredible impact on all of us.  When this month rolls around we try to keep their memory alive.  As leaders we do it on a daily basis.  It's not just this month it's all of the time.  All of us have certain triggers that take us back to that day.  Your loved ones will never be forgotten.
Til Valhalla Gents until we can serve again.  We miss you.  You'll never be forgotten.

Stars n Stripes Article

Christmas in Kunduz

Another Christmas away from home. They started back in 1995 my first military Christmas was in MCRD San Diego. On Christmas eve we moved all the bunks to the back of the bay to set up the "grinder" so that we could practice our close order drill. Punishment for poorly performed rifle manual and drill were swift and hard. If you couldn't get right you were invited to the "quarter deck" and you were put through a myriad of physical punishment while everyone else continued to drill. There were usually only just a few people on the quarter deck while the rest of watched out of the peripheral, paying special attention to the commands being given and hopefully not ending up in the little circle of pain. The majority of the performance was satisfactory, and our reward was to eat all of the cookies that had been sent from our families, the catch was we had 15 minutes to eat all of the cookies. Failure to eat all the cookies would've resulted in a "quarter deck" smoking that would bring the cookies right back up.
On Christmas day I remember we went to theatre and watched Desperado. We were 1st Phase recruits, the lowest of the low. The top button of our cammies buttoned to the top, and our trousers un-bloused, and rolled so that you could recognize how nasty and undisciplined we were.
We were sat in the theatre with our company, all around us the 3rd Phase recruits with their name tapes, and the coveted Marine tape over their hearts, uniforms pressed to perfection and trousers bloused over highly spit shined boots, they gorged theirselves with "pogey bait" purchased at the snack shop in the theatre. We hadn't been told there would be snacks, so we watched them eat, we must have looked pretty pitiful. I enjoyed that movie, the most memorable part of the day because I got to see Selma Hayeks beautiful breasts, she made my whole Christmas. I really can't remember anything after that. I don't think we got to call home either. It was the first of many that I would spend away from home.
This Christmas I got to spend it with my brother. He arrived in country on the 23rd. The last Christmas we spent together was in 1998, after my first deployment with the Marine Corps. Christmas eve we hung out most of the night, since it had been a year since I had seen him last. On Christmas day we ate lunch together. It was pretty nice to spend the holiday with him. When we were kids we were pretty lucky we got to celebrate at least 4 times, we were constantly on the go. It was pretty busy but it was nice to spend it with the whole family.
This year I watched my own family enjoy Christmas through my wife's pictures on the internet. We had a secret Santa here, I think everyone liked the gifts I presented the best which were 2 Mylie Cyrus blow up dolls. I know what people like.
I hope everyone got to spend good time with their families. You shouldn't ever take it for granted.
The Brigade did a little story on my brother and I. Here is the link http://170infantry.armylive.dodlive.mil/2011/12/25/for-brothers-christmas-in-kunduz/.

At the Check Point

Last week was my first time at the check point that my Platoon occupies. My first couple of days there were enjoyable as we had a generator that powered the AC in our tent and the MWR where our SPAWARE computers and phones are. Well the generator shit the bed and so we spent the remaining time without creature features. I actually had to start reading again. I actually like to read believe it or not. I finished 2 great books and started another. I read Legion of the Lost by Jaime Salzaar about a guy tired of corporate America and he joins the Legion and quites later, good read though. The other book I read was SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper by Howard Wasdin. It was a really great read as well about Seals in Mogadishu. I'm reading a Hunter S. Thompson book now volume one of the Fear and Loathing letters. I love HST.- What am I boring you, I was just explaining that I could actually read- losing interest? Fuck you.
Anyway it was really routine for the most part as routine as you can get with driving down a crater layden road known for blowing up. The kids around the check point call us John Cena. I think that is pretty cool and I'm appreciative that they recognize me as a desiel handsome WWE athlete. Though it gets fucking annoying. They kept finding wires in the road. We reward them with MRE's and shit is why they keep finding these. We went to investigate one of the sites and it actually looked legit so we called in EOD to come and clear it. We set up security and waited. They arrived and blew a charge, it turned out to be nothing. Better safe than sorry though. The most fun we had which wasn't really fun was the check point manned by Afghans took fire. We rallied up and were chomping at the bit to assist and kill bad guys. Our Battalion told us to squat hold and drink water until they could get the eye in the sky to check it out. Funny thing is they call back and say they can't see anything, meanstwhile (I know its not a word)RPK and AK are ripping up the night with rounds cracking over head and the insurgent and Afghan security slinging RPGs at eachother. No the eye in the sky can't see shit, and it sounded like the command doubted that this was really going on. My men were ready like pitbulls at Mike Vicks house. It made me proud that my men were willing to run to the sounds of a fire fight, standing ready to engage these Taliban shit bags and assist our Afghan security friends down the street. Alas the fire died down, and we just went back to bed. The men were let down, the command thought that we just wanted to willy nilly jump into a fight. Yes we were ready to scrap but no I would never rush wildly into a situation like that, I had a plan, just wanted to make sure we could move to assist if they needed us.
I'm confused still as to what were doing here. We are supposed to do partnered patrols, and find out what our counterparts need to accomplish there mission. They mainly need to be paid and also ask for supplies to build up there check points. We can't get them paid and not allowed to give them our scrap wood. They want them to utilize the "system", the "system" is obviously broke and we can't fix it at our level. Its frustrating to the Soldiers and to the Afghans. We know what you need and what you want but we can't do shit to get it to you so where does that leave us? Then people back at the big base watch a T.V. screen (the eye in the sky) and determine that there is nothing going on, they can't confirm that there is small arms fire going on and believe that the enemy only let off a couple of pop shots, and the Afghan security started lighting up the area. When we on the ground are watching a volley of fucking RPG fire. Man WTF?
Our PL did have a dinner for some of the local Afghan security guys, they actually showed up and we cooked some steaks and chicken and bought some bread and drinks off of the economy. My men set up a nice area and even made tiki torches out of pickets, soda cans, sand, and diesel fuel. I was really impressed and damned proud. The men really like the dinner and chalked it up to a pretty big success to the end of a frustrating week.
Right now I smell like 6 days of funk and I'm hankering for a strawberry Fanta. Until next time, I'll try not to bore you.
Deuce Deuce

DRIVEN ON! (Shitty Roads)

Routine is a word that we use to describe or daily rituals. Most everyday starts out routine then evols in to a good day, or a shitty day. On Facebook people FML all the time, i.e. "My car won't start. FML.", "My baby daddy got a new bitch and don't pay me my money. FML."- so on and so forth.
Mostly the day starts out the same, I wake up in the small plywood room in a hard stand building, an upgrade from a tent? Maybe. Question my existance and motive. Evaluate all the shit I have to do, conduct personal hygiene and the rest of my morning ritual. Roll to the CP get the scoop on anything else I have to do. Go to the trucks where my men are getting ready for the days mission, conduct inspections and commos checks and roll out the gate. On this day we decided to take a different route since the purpose of the mission is "Route Recon". It was a shitty road, as most are in the Stan. Someone in the department of defense decided to purchase vehicles almost to wide and way to heavy for the shitty dirt roads that spiderweb all over this place. I get it, they want to protect us from IED's and such but in the thinking of the new vehicles why didn't they consider who we were chasing and what they get around in i.e. dirtbikes, bongo trucks, ford rangers, donkeys.
We stopped at one village out in the middle of no where, which is everywhere. On the way there we got stuck, then during a brown out my driver almost took us into a unforgiving hole, we avoided a couple roll overs, but hey its a route recon. At this particular village we speak to some Pashtuns, and start talking about a school and how they set aside land for a school but the government won't give them the money for the school. Well in the village there is already a building for the school but due to some crazy lost in translation shit, the kids don't go there. Well we walk down the road to the school to talk to the people that reside in the school. Its a residence that is supposed to be a school. There is an imaginary line in which the Pashtuns don't cross. We get to talking to a fellow that knows about the school, he is Tajik, his brother was the principle and the Pashtuns killed him for one reason or another. I'm still pretty confused as to the Tajiks (which are fewer in population than the Pashtuns in this village). There are tons of kids and as we leave they follow us up the road and once again they stop at the imaginary line.
We talk to the Pashtuns again and I'm outside with the guys pulling security when my driver tells me about a guy who crawled 400m up the side road outside his window. The medic and I go to check it out and it was about a 18 year male who had horrible birth defects which limite him to scooting and crawling. I tried to give him some water and he swung at me, but when doc checked him out he let the doc touch him. There was nothing we could do for him. He kinda looked like the chick from the Grudge, the men said that he was a zombie and a bad omen.
Well he was.
We drove up the road a little ways and passed over a colvert that looked very sketchy we turned the trucks around and headed back over the same colvert, first and second vehicle made it over, but the third in front of me the right tire bounced the giant truck shifted, then in slow motion the truck slid right and rolled off into a 15ft ditch. I was terrified, the truck landed on the turret completely upside down. I called on the radio that the truck rolled, I ran and jumped into the ditch as the driver was eggressing. I asked if everyone was ok and they assured me they were, I asked again, they confirmed everyone was alright. Unbelievable lady and gents seatbelts save lives. 5 Soldiers rolled over upside down off a 15 foot road and nobody was hurt not even the gunner. We waited for 6 or so hours for QRF and recovery assets to make it out to us. I set in an OP on top of a hill while the rest of the men pulled security on the truck below. I believe that the Russians dug the op we were sitting in because it was perfect. 360 degrees and upto 3km vis in every direction. Had the Taliban decided to descend on us in our weakend state they would've got their asses handed to them. They didn't (unfortuanately)the wrecker driver was amazing and picked the truck out of the ditch and then towed it across those shitty roads we passed earlier. We all felt very relieved when we got back on the hard-ball road (paved road). Any slight jerk to the right or left though on the way back freaked us all out in my truck at least. We talked in length about our sighting of the man from the grudge.
Routine, sometimes routine turns into holy shit, and FML. I got back and saw the usual facebook posts. I laughed at the FMLs that were posted, and thought that had something been a little different someone might have been killed or seriously injured, in the routine day to day life, on a "route recon" a mundane and boring mission. Routine.
FML
J/K
LOL
DEUCE DEUCE OUT!!!