I'm a very difficult man to make angry. Bad things tend to happen when I'm angry, so I don't let it happen very often.
Over the past few years, I've had a few guys I served with killed. I lost two friends on flight 175. 16 people I had worked with, and several clients were killed in the towers.
My friends, and my brothers are getting killed, and I'm sitting here getting fatter.
I can't tell you how guilty, and how angry I feel right now.
I left the Air Force because I didn't like what my career prospects looked like under Clinton. I know it was the right choice, but it doesnt make it any easier.
Something really got me a few weeks ago. The first Rescue Officers are now out with the teams. If that option had been open when I was commissioned, instead of facing some bullshit intel billet, I would have gone rescue officer all the way. I would have stayed in and fuck Clinton.
It made me feel even more guilty to see that though.
I'm feeling very Kipling right now. My comment below about Prag Tewari is from Kiplings "The Grave of the Hundred Head".
More in the extended entry...
"The Grave of the Hundred Head" - Rudyard Kipling
There's a widow in sleepy Chester who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River, a grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri who tells how the work was done.
A Snider squibbed in the jungle, somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead and the back blown out of his head.
Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemadar Hira Lal,
Took command of the party, twenty rifles in all,
Marched them down to the river as the day was beginning to fall.
They buried the boy by the river, a blanket over his face—
They wept for their dead Lieutenant, the men of an alien race—
They made a samadh in his honour, a mark for his resting-place.
For they swore by the Holy Water, they swore by the salt they ate,
That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib should go to his God in state;
With fifty file of Burman to open him Heaven's gate.
The men of the First Shikaris marched till the break of day,
Till they came to the rebel village, the village of Pabengmay—
A jingal covered the clearing, caltrops hampered the way.
Subadar Prag Tewarri, bidding them load with ball,
Halted a dozen rifles under the village wall;
Sent out a flanking-party with Jemadar Hira Lal.
The men of the First Shikaris shouted and smote and slew,
Turning the grinning jingal on to the howling crew.
The Jemadar's flanking-party butchered the folk who flew.
Long was the morn of slaughter, long was the list of slain,
Five score heads were taken, five score heads and twain;
And the men of the First Shikaris went back to their grave again,
Each man bearing a basket red as his palms that day,
Red as the blazing village—the village of Pabengmay,
And the drip-drip-drip from the baskets reddened the grass by the way.
They made a pile of their trophies high as a tall man's chin,
Head upon head distorted, set in a sightless grin,
Anger and pain and terror stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.
Subadar Prag Tewarri put the head of the Boh
On the top of the mound of triumph, the head of his son below,
With the sword and the peacock-banner that the world might behold and know.
Thus the samadh was perfect, thus was the lesson plain
Of the wrath of the First Shikaris—the price of a white man slain;
And the men of the First Shikaris went back into camp again.
Then a silence came to the river, a hush fell over the shore,
And Bohs that were brave departed, and Sniders squibbed no more;
For the Burmans said
That a kullah's head
Must be paid for with heads five score.
There's a widow in sleepy Chester who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River, a grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri who tells how the work was done.
