I focused on my nose. Knowing I would get familiar with the smell of gunpowder, the stench of blood, rotting bodies…DEATH! The strong aroma of sweat after days on end with no shower going from mission to mission. Fear. Would I experience the smell of fear? The fear of my enemy if I got close enough. The fear that I might emit? I looked at my mouth. Savoring the flavors of my last home-cooked meal & already looking forward to my first home-cooked meal upon returning. Knowing that I would eat many field rations. Would food ever taste the same again? Would it taste better? Would I even care? I knew my mouth would scream out my battle cry. Would it hunger for blood? Would I then taste blood? Would I know what fear tastes like? Would I ever be able to speak words of love after war, or just words of pain? It was time now to look myself square in the eyes. They were filled with wonder & curiosity, but as I looked deeper, I saw a speck of fear from the uncertainties I would witness. Mangled bodies that had been shot, blown up, & burned were in the future of my mind’s eye. The atrocities that mankind is capable of inflicting on each other were something I was about to be exposed to. Will these eyes ever bring sleep again, or will they just see the images of war every time they close? Will they ever be able to see innocence afterward? Or will they only see evil, & look at every person with suspicion? Will they ever again hold that spark of life, or will they be dead like the darkness of battle? I looked at my head, where my mind lives. I knew it would be tragically altered during this deployment. How long can it last in battle before it breaks? Will it contain horrific thoughts that can never be spoken of? Will it be able to wrap itself around the things I will witness & do? What will it convince me of as I sit alone with my thoughts? Will it transport me back home? Or will it embrace the chaos & feed me strength? I was now done. As I took a final look, I wondered, if I would recognize myself when I saw my reflection after returning home. I smiled one last smile, looked deep into my own eyes, whispered goodbye to myself. And then I went to war. Post 3/3.

I then began a physical inventory. I looked down at my feet that filled my boots. Crisp, clean desert boots. I thought of the final steps I would take on American soil. The steps I would have to take in defense of my brothers and sisters. The steps I would have to take in defense of the innocent and the steps to defend my nation. I observed my knees. I hoped they were calloused enough after the many times I was on them in prayer. Wondering how many times war would bring me to my knees in fear, in sadness, in sorrow, in pain, and in guilt. Would I have the strength to rise again to my feet? The ones that now wore dusty boots? I studied my hands. I envisioned them gripping my weapon tightly. The power they would soon hold to end a life, to save a life. Would they tremble when the time came to pull the trigger? Or would that come afterward? How many times will they be stained with the blood of my enemy, my comrades, my own? Would they hold my face at the end of a mission, catching my tears? Would they clench in fists of anger? I looked at my chest, which caged my heart. I wondered if my chest could keep it contained while facing the enemy. Or would it beat so fast in the midst of chaos, that it would leap from my body? Would it still have the capacity to hold all the things in those boxes when I return? Or would it become so hardened and scarred that it could only hold rage? I walked to a mirror and stared at my reflection. I looked at my ears. I wondered if I would be able to handle hearing the God-awful screams of anguish, the deafening explosions, the sound of bullets. When I return, will music sound the same? What about the cries of a baby, the laughter of a child? The voices of my loved ones. Or will any sound I hear only bring irritation, overrun by the sounds of battle? Post 2 of 3. Or hit the link in our bio to read the rest. Written by Cleo D. 📸: George Hand #battleofmogadishu #havokjournal #perspective

If I could turn back time to 12 January 1993, the day I deployed to Somalia… the last time I saw myself… In preparation for my first deployment, I took the time to say goodbye to myself. I gathered some small boxes. Each one had a label. Saying goodbye to yourself… -Hope -Dreams -Smiles -Laughter -Compassion -Faith Upon my return, I would be able to open each box and take what I needed of that which I would lose. The box of Hope contained… A paper clip…representing that hope could hold everything back together. An empty water bottle…representing the emptiness I will feel, knowing that it could be refilled as many times as I wanted with anything I wanted. A lighter…representing the eternal flame of the human spirit The box of Dreams contained… A picture of a sunrise…reminding me that every day is a new chance at life. An opportunity that many of my brothers and sisters would no longer have. A picture of a sunset…reminding that if I choose not to live, the light will eventually go away, leaving me in darkness The box of Smiles contained… Many pictures of me and my loved ones. Everyone is smiling. On the back of each photo, a description of the captured moment. The box of Laughter contained… Old recordings of my favorite comedians. The box of Compassion contained… A broken egg shell. To remind me when I touched it, how fragile the human heart and soul are, that they need to be treated with sensitivity and understanding. How fragile life is, and how it can be crushed in a moment. The box of Faith contained… The Holy Bible and a wooden cross. The words of my Lord that will guide me through my life. The cross where Jesus gave his life for me like my brothers and sisters gave their life for me and our country. Post 1 of 3. Or hit the link in our bio to read the rest. 📸: Unknown #battleofmogadishu #havokjournal #perspective

I’m torn Torn between two worlds, two emotions Two paradigms Cut in two by my past, and the healing that offered me solace and a new beginning Memories of it all, Like dancing shadows Appear and disappear at a whim, Too momentary to grasp and too fragile to remember I see the small green-eyed girl Full of life and happiness as I gave her a small gift I see the dark-eyed little boy Afraid I gave him a Chem-light as we destroyed his family’s home I see the streams, full of vibrance The mountains bursting with splendor I can smell the fresh bread And hear the bustling of the market, always bargaining, bargaining I see the white-toothed smile of the man Who sold me the painting of Kandarhar I hear the laughter of the mischievous children Grasping for small bags of American candy But now, beautiful moments remembered are only shadows and dust There is no more Of what once was I’m torn between Rage and Sadness Some days, one outweighs the other, Yet, they are still there Turmoil Like a deep, deep ocean in my soul Rages, Rages- Could I have done more? Can I do more? What Can I Do? The man that I used to be wants to emerge, reborn The anger and purpose The righteous hatred The malevolence Some days I want to become the angel of death that I was, To visit the iron hand of destruction on those that have earned it But I look in my son’s eyes I see Hope Promise Future Legacy Love I am torn Between Rage and Sadness I am torn because I cannot be what I once was I am torn because I cannot change what I once did I am torn between two worlds The sadness I have for Afghans that I’ve known, That are now abandoned Will not be sated by platitudes or empty promises I will feel this sadness for the rest of my life To my brothers who gave their bodies Their lives Know that this is not over We who love you will never forget, And will never let the world forget You gave everything you had for us, and we are eternally grateful Rage, and Sadness We will not forget. #havokjournal #perspective

Night Stalkers landed Blackhawks then Little Birds on the tarmac at Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) during the early “Shock and Awe” phase of the Iraqi invasion. First, their skids touched down, and then our boots made contact moments later. They dropped us off and then hurried to circle above. We established a foothold on Omaha Beach during a melee of Navy Hellfire missiles while pearls of Iraqi tracers scarred the night sky. Our initial night in our new home left me silent. A speechless author and a quiet professional. Waves of explosions shook the Earth below my feet while the distant overpressure captured my still breath. A platoon of Rangers stood silent in the threshold of the massive airplane hangar entrance to watch the Starry Night sky. I drifted through thoughts and felt isolated over my insignificance. My night vision amplified the brilliant flash of distant detonations the same way Hubble gathers photons from far-away galaxies. Heat from this Martian landscape filled my lungs while the dust baptized me anew. My armor became weightless. My heart pulsed in cadence with the “Shock” and my breath synced with the “Awe.” I stood steadfast with wonder over the horror before my eyes. I realize a version of me never returned home after we survived that first night. Forever fractured from a single perspective to drift among a sea of infinite possibilities. Written by @scottchapman.author 📸: unknown #havokjournal #perspective #gwot

Where I met the ghosts of the living, but not of the dead Arlington National Cemetery is a place that exists only in the imagination or deep memory of most civilians; at best, we maybe once visited on a school trip as a child, or perhaps long ago with our parents. The last time I was there was before the war. Before all of this came to be. It’s been a lifetime since then. I’ve seen the pictures. I’ve seen the families. I’ve seen the somber, solemn, courageous spouses held up by some invisible superhuman force as they receive the folded flag from the white-gloved hands while they undoubtedly feel like crumbling to the ground. But for me, this visit was a long time coming. In what has now grown to a near decade of civilian service to the military & Special Operations communities—as writer, editor, scholar, & strategic communications professional—my winding path finally led me back to Arlington, where the ultimate chapter of so many servicemembers’ stories is written. But in my case, I went to see my friends. And the strange thing about it is, I had never met a one of the men I am about to mention in person. The reason I know them & know their stories is because of the ones they left behind—the keepers of their flames. The ones who still speak their names & stories, fuel their legacies, & fight to ensure that their sacrifices are known in a context that imbues them with meaning. These are not poor souls who died in vain, which I know from the living loved ones who have been left to carry on in their absence. I do know the living. & those are my friends. It all feels like a coming-full-circle, & stands as a testament to the truth that one torch-bearing human can—when fueled by tenacious love—rob death of some of its finality. When I walked through this field of sleeping warriors, under the cool but pristine Sept. sun, the grass plush under my bare feet, I felt—for them—an all-encompassing sense of peace. They were at rest with one another, heroes among heroes, having died warrior’s deaths & laying among their brothers & sisters. Still, in the air,I felt something else: the energy disrupted by restless ghosts. Read the rest in our bio. Follow @docatalanta

I struggle to escape the relenting pressure to fight for my life or to take flight. The lofty notion of “doing things for myself” is an alien concept in my square-framed universe. Longing to soften those razor edges and caress the smooth, illusive soft corners, I’ve turned to the only outlet obtainable in my powerless position. I rearrange words on paper to unlock the cipher to my soul. It’s what I ‘do for myself.’ Naked sentences devoid of ego expressed on virgin paper. Seductive words painted with emotion that lead you to enlightenment is my primary outlet for fulfillment. #RLTW Follow @scottchapman.author #havokjournal #perspective

There I stood, yet again, in an all too familiar place. I stood in the haunting echoes of Taps. I watched the flawless motions of the well-rehearsed tan berets. I watched those who could speak search for the impossible words to describe a life so full. I watched those who could not speak reflect upon the life lost. I watched yet another flag get folded. I watched yet another. There I stood, yet again, in an all too familiar place. I stood in the haunting echoes of Taps. I watched the flawless motions of the well-rehearsed tan berets. I watched those who could speak search for the impossible words to describe a life so full. I watched those who could not speak reflect upon the life lost. I watched yet another flag get folded. I watched yet another heart-wrenching solute to a wife without a husband. I needed not hear the words shared. They were already all too familiar. To thank a family for their dedication and sacrifice to our country. There I stood. Yet again. The all too familiar. solute to a wife without a husband. I needed not hear the words shared. They were already all too familiar. To thank a family for their dedication and sacrifice to our country. There I stood. Yet again. The all too familiar. #havokjournal #perspective

Charles Faint currently serves as the Chair for the Study of Special Operations and an assistant professor in the Defense and Strategic Studies program at the Modern War Institute at West Point. A retired military intelligence officer, he served as an intelligence officer in a variety of units, including the 2nd Infantry Division, the 5th Special Forces Group, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, and the Joint Special Operations Command. He earned his doctorate in business administration through Temple University. He also holds five undergraduate and graduate degrees, the most recent of which is from Yale University. Over the course of his career, Charlie earned the Defense Meritorious Service Medal, the Bronze Star Medal (4 awards), the Meritorious Service Medal (six awards), the Combat Action Badge, and the pathfinder, airborne, and air assault badges. He has earned seven combat stripes for his service in Iraq and Afghanistan and also served in Egypt, Korea, and the Philippines. Early in his career, he served a six-month peacekeeping tour with the Multinational Force and Observers in Sinai, Egypt, an experience that began a career-long interest in the region. Published in a number of blogs and professional journals, his most significant publication is coauthorship of the book Violence of Action: The Untold Stories of the 75th Ranger Regiment in the War on Terror. He was also the editor-in-chief of West Point’s Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities, is the owner of The Havok Journal, and is the executive director of The Second Mission Foundation, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. Listen at ProfilesInHavok.captivate.fm or wherever you get your podcasts. #profilesinhavok #havokjournalpodcast #secondmissionfoundation #SpecialOperations #WestPoint #MilitaryIntelligence #DefenseandStrategicStudies #ModernWarInstitute #YaleUniversity #combatveteran

For many, silence is peace, and the sound of breaking waves off the coast of Carmel California is the most relaxing sound. It brings the inner peace that we all vie for, an escape from the turbulent world we live in. An inner utopia triggered by sounds of peace and harmony. Once more we find our center and become whole, gathering the pieces that have strayed due to our day-to-day stress. The rat race of life, work, school, family, and self. I have struggled with the idea of peace and silence since before I can remember. For me, the sound of waves crashing on the shore of Pebble Beach or Carmel, rushing back into the ocean taking back the sand and rocks, is disastrous. For me, winds flushing the plains as the tall grass billows amongst it is pain. Raindrops hitting a tin roof, air satiated by the same summer night rains that bring peace to many, bring me only hate and despair. Silence is something I cannot tolerate–yet have been one with. Silence brings back the taste of blood and sweat. The moisture of the devilish godsent Hindu Kush at the start of the fighting season. The smell of spent brass and the smell of old iron willowing down the qalat peppered with death and dismay. The sound of Merels gliding across the moon dust as we move towards our target. Pebbles crunching beneath the weight of death coming to their doors. Silence is too much an agonizing truth of what I have done and become. Silence makes me see what was and can no longer be, from me to the devil in me. So rather than face the truth I drown it out with music and mundane noise. Rage music brings peace to me and allows me to see the calm. Because I love the sound of silence and what it brings. The bearded bastards, the men who come at night, the green-eyed monsters. All titles we earned and have lived with, for so long that silence is the tormentor of times past. Men we used to be and wish we could have remained. Devils in the night sky, one with silence and death. #havokjournal #perspective 📸: unknown

I reject the “Live like it’s September 12th” narrative. While I understand its intent and the call to action, I believe it addresses the symptom and not the root cause. I do not write this to be provocative or contrary; but as always , Isimply go deeper oinmy own positions. Speaking in generalities, I am sure most if not all of us, in the face of tragedy, have reached across the proverbial aisle to those not aligned with us, regardless of the scale of the tragedy. In times of great tragedy, there is an instinctive preservationist sensibility that the time for unity is greater than any singular or collective set of ideological differences. But, does it ever last? Look around. Did the unity last beyond the acute tragedy? Or did we (generally) slip back into our old patterns and positions? Are we united or are we more deeply entrenched in our differences? To that end, I reject the acute sentiment of Living like it’s 12 September” sentiment. Instead: I embrace the framing of our nation. I embrace the spirit of the greatest generation of patriots who served in WWII. Those patriots who rushed off to face an unknown foe. Those young Americans who knowingly joined after 2001 during two decades of conflict, knowing their service would result in a wartime commitment. I embrace the belief, that agnostic of tragedy, agnostic of conflict, we live in the greatest nation in the world. The most free, the most exquisite melting pot in history. I embrace the truth that those romantic sentiments require the fortitude of a nation beyond the confines of an immediate tragedy. I embrace a stalwart belief that those sentiments must be protected at all costs. Those sentiments must be paid for with the blood of its patriots and enemies alike. I embrace and believe in the foundational principles of our nation. Life. Liberty. Pursuit of happiness. Individual freedom. I reject and refuse to become myopic; I refuse to obsess and inflict today’s morality on cultures of the past. I will not allow the modern lens to pervert the intentions of the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution. Read the rest linked in our bio. Follow @our_war_experience #havokjournal

Episode 113 with Ivan F. Ingraham. Ivan is a writer, speaker, and storyteller. He served 24-years in the United States Marine Corps, mostly in Special Operations. Ivan is the CEO of Golden Compass, LLC, a leadership consulting company. Listen at ProfilesInHavok.captivate.fm or wherever you get your podcasts. #ProfilesInHavok #HavokJournalpodcast #veteranauthor #marsoc #marineofficer #USMCwriter #IvanFIngraham