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The Reno Gazette-Journal ran a story about a local Civil War reenactor’s group educating grade school students. In the article, one of the reenactor’s made the comment that there were no African-American’s fighting for the Confederacy during that war.

Knowing this to be inaccurate, I penned a letter-to-the-editor pointing out this mistaken belief. I truly believe that if a person forgets their personal history, their collective history will soon be lost and then, humanities history is doomed to the same loss.

Contrary to popular historical education, there is much evidence that African-American’s served their country not only in the Union army but also in the Confederate army and navy. This evidence is found in the diaries, journals, newspaper articles and documents written by soldiers, officers and politicians.

Many institutions have set about to dismantle these findings by declaring them as ‘revisionist,’ however the proof that these written accounts exist at all shows that slaves were present in the service of their state and country.

It was the commanders in the field who saw the greatest potential in the use of the African-American slave long before the politicians would admit their value.  On January 2^nd, 1864 Major General Patrick Cleburne of the Army of Tennessee, circulated a petition among several officers calling for the enrolling and arming of slaves into the Southern Army.

The petition read in part, “As between the loss of independence and the loss of slavery, we assume that every patriot will freely give up the latter — give up the Negro slaves rather than become a slave himself.”  It was signed by three other generals, four colonels, three majors, one captain, and two lieutenants.

Politicians were horrified by the idea.  Confederate Major General and political advisor to Jefferson Davis, Howell Cobb pointed out, “If slaves will make good soldiers our whole theory of slavery is wrong.”  Davis had Cleburne’s petition suppressed, yet the idea would not go away.

In February 1865, General Robert E. Lee wrote to Confederate President Jefferson Davis requesting authorization to fill his ranks with slaves, saying that they were already physically fit, and mentally conditioned to be well-disciplined.  In March, the Confederated Congress passed a bill that when to Davis’ desk.

While it was awaiting his signature General Lee wrote the President again, “I do not know whether the law authorizing the use of Negro troops has received your sanction, but I respectfully recommend the measures be taken to carry it into effect as soon as practicable.”

It was signed on March 13th and by the first of April, Colonel Otey, 11^th Virginia Infantry, was assigned to duty in Lynchburg, VA, to recruit, muster and organize black units for the Confederate army.

Although this unit saw no action according to official accounts other records indicate they were drilling and standing by to defend the city.  There are also historical documents indicating that thousands of slaves served in the Southern army as non-combatants in roles like cooks, teamsters and musicians.

And when called upon they would fight alongside ‘freemen’ who served in such outstanding state-militias like the 1^st Louisiana Native Guard; Company  A and F, 14^th Mississippi Confederate Calvary; Company D, 35^th Texas Calvary;  or the 1,150 black sailors who served in the Confederate navy.

Finally, the first military monument in the US Capitol which honors African-American soldiers is the Confederate monument, erected in 1914.  It depicts “a black Confederate soldier marching in step with white Confederate soldiers.”  Also shown is a white soldier giving his child to a black woman for safety.

We may never understand everything about those five remarkable years, but we cannot ever stop trying.  And it is time to realize that the historical record has been obscured to the truth on the part of the African-American’s role in the Southern Army as a soldier and to bring these facts to light as both a matter of pride and education.

The entire camp alerted once the initial radio call was made, “Taking incoming fire, one possible KIA, need assistance.”

It was a 30 man patrol that had left the general safety of the concertina wired compound the night before. They had maintained the two-hour report schedule, until they encountered an ambush. The attack was less than a click from the camp, so it was a complete surprise to the men in the field.

“Saddle up,” ordered the Major as Doc’s unit moved into the staging area.

It was obvious that there would be a rescue affected to repel the enemy and to bring the ambushed troops back to the camp. Quickly and quietly Company ‘C’ formed, each man carrying his Alice-pack on his shoulders and his rifle un-slung and ready to engage the enemy in the coming life and death battle.

The sun was starting to set as the unit picked its way through the high desert. Each Marine knew that behind each rock or every dip in the landscape could hold the possibility of another ambush.

It was within the hour that they made contact with the scouting party. The patrol had remained pinned down on a slight rise. They appeared to be surrounded by still higher rises that prevented movement from their location.

Several men were wounded and supplies from the Hospital Corpsman assigned to the patrol had long been extinguished. It was obvious to the major that it would be up to the relief patrol that they would have to send up medical aid.

He directed Doc to move to his position near the base of the rise. It was also the place that the major has selected as his command point. The Major was never one willing to send others to face the

danger of dying, unless he was presenting himself with the same danger.

“Okay, Sarge,” he said. “We’ll lay down cover fire but it’s up to you to pick your route.”

Doc looked up the hillside and realized that he might not survive as he selected which direction to proceed. He also knew that the men trapped up top without medical help might not survive if he didn’t try.

“Straight up,” Doc replied to the officer.

There had been enough time for the relief troops to spread out around the base of the hill. They had received fire, but proved to be the better marksmen. For each shot fired on them, they returned with five or six shots into the position from which they were attacked.

Doc lifted the three packs of first aid materials and draped them across his body. He left his M-16 at the CP and chose instead to arm himself with his 45 caliber.

“Hooyah,” he shouted to help steel his courage and evoke an adrenalin rush as he jumped over the boulder that led up the hill.

Several voices cried back, “Semper Fi!”

Behind him he heard those same men open up on every known position that surrounded him, laying down the cover fire promised by the Major. Doc didn’t dare look back; instead he pumped his legs as hard as he could up the sandy rise.

It was a matter of seconds before he discovered the first of the pinned down unit. All three men were wounded, having been shot close to where they now lay waiting for help. Doc stopped to provide each man with a personal first aid pack.

Now that he stopped, his cover fire ceased. Doc had to move in a crawl from rock to crag to avoid becoming a hard target for a sniper. The going was very slow.

It was less than a minute later that he realized he was being lined up for a clear shot from the hill rise to his left. The sand erupted near his face as he slipped between two large rocks.

Doc flicked two shots back in the direction from where the sniper had fired. He knew that there wasn’t a prayer in Hades that he’d hit the shooter, but rather he wanted to get the message across to the sniper that he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The medic sprang up from his position of concealment and raced up the hill. He was approaching the summit when he heard a shout from his right side.

“Over here,” cried the voice.

It was the Hospital Corpsman. He was shot through the middle of his right calf and had managed to find shelter in a small cliff of rocks. Doc turned hard as if to avoid an oncoming tackler in a football game. He dove hard against the corpsman’s body seeking safety too.

The two medics quickly exchanged information and Doc removed one of the bags of first aid packets, giving it to the wounded sailor. He told Doc that he would distribute the first aid kits to the positions he knew about.

“Take care of yourself, first,” the Sergeant directed the corpsman as he rolled out of the low out cropping of rocks.

Doc was back on his feet and heading to the position where the majority of the unit had been pinned down and shot up. He only made 15 or 16 steps before he found what he was looking for; eighteen Marines, all wounded and dug in for a lengthy fire-fight.

He distributed the first aid supplies among the wounded and gave aid to those who were the most seriously injured. He quietly drew the Sign of the Cross on the forehead of three youths who had left the fight, fighting back.

“What the hell happened here?” Doc asked a Lance Corporal.

“The Gunny is on the other side of the hill, shot to shit and we’ve been trying to get to him,” the Lance Corporal answered.

Doc understood immediately the call to recover a fallen Marine. He felt certain that all branches of the military had the same standing order to not leave a man down, but he had never failed to see the Marine’s fight to the death over a body of any servicemen. The thought momentarily choked him as he asked for direction to the body.

“What, do you think you can get to him when we couldn’t?” one of the wounded men asked.

“Either that or die trying,” replied Doc.

Doc picked up a rifle and filled an empty ammo pouch with as many magazines of ammo as it would hold. He slipped the pack over his head and slid out of the communal fighting hole towards the other side of the hill.

The rise was less than 30 feet from where he had lain and then fell sharply away. He peeked between two large rocks and down the hillside. The Gunnery Sergeant’s body was no farther than 10 feet from him.

Further down the hill though Doc caught the faint hint of movement. It was an enemy shooter all set up to snipe any movement towards the body.

Doc rolled over on his back and double checked the M-16 he was holding. He then rolled back onto his stomach and slipped the muzzle of the rifle out from between the two rocks.

Slowly and methodically he lined up the sniper over the end of his weapon. Doc waited for the sniper to expose himself again. The wait was less than two minutes, yet felt like a life time to the Sergeant.

Then it happened, the target showed himself. Doc squeezed the trigger and the rifle let lose three rounds. There was a sudden pink mist that filled the air where the enemy had been positioned.

Doc could see movement as the sniper was suddenly dragged from his emplacement. In this instant Doc squeezed the trigger again. And once again there was a mist of pink, showing that he had hit an enemy defender.

He took advantage of the momentary confusion that he hoped the enemy was feeling, to jump up from where he had been laying and rushed to the body of the Marine. He grabbed the fallen man’s Alice webbing and hauled on him as hard as he could. The body jerked loose from the rocky ground it had fallen into.

The surrounding earth erupted around Doc as he struggled to lift the Marine over the rocks that he had used as a place of concealment. The dead man’s body exploded from the impact of bullets as the enemy tried to kill Doc.

He dropped the dead Marine and retreated back over the same rocks that held him up from recovering the man’s body. Doc realized his surprise attack had worn off and the enemy’s confusion was now refocused on him.

The fire-fight continued long after the sun had set as Doc moved from place to place firing into the half-dozen enemy positions. He was soon joined by four members of his own company. Doc directed their fire into the enemy.

It didn’t take long for Doc to take advantage of the added fire power. He moved around the outside right of the rocks that had prevented his success in the initial recovery of the dead man.

He quickly lifted the man up and over his shoulder and packed him back over the ridge to the site where the 15 surviving Marines had holed up in defense of their own lives. He laid the Gunny next to the three men who had died earlier in the ambush.

Doc wasn’t certain as too what he had expected when he returned to the surviving Marines, but the jubilation he had felt was short lived as the men looked on the body of the dead sergeant with a sadness he had never witnessed before. He stopped long enough to look to their wounds, then return to the defensive position he had just left.

Then to the east and north the rocky hills exploded as artillery shells dropped from 13 miles away. The bright flashes left Doc blinded momentarily, yet he proceeded to the two rocks he had used to defend the body of the Marine sergeant.

It was quickly realized that the enemy, who had held them at bay for nearly 18 hours, had melted into the darkness. Unfortunately for them, they were forced to leave behind the bodies of their fallen.

The following day, after the area with its hilly terrain was secured, it was found that 27 enemy soldiers had been killed while attempting to retrieve the dead Marine’s body; 23 had died in the area of the sniper’s nest. Four Marines had lost their lives in the ambush and 25 had been wounded. Only one Marine, a corporal had fought through the ambush without physical harm.

It was also the first time that Doc had picked up a weapon against the enemy. However it would not be the last time. He had broken the oath of the Gorpsman and he couldn’t go back.

My wife handed me the Reno-Sparks section of the Gazette-Journal on Friday, February 18th. She directed my attention to an article about a Civil War reenactor giving a living history presentation to a home school co-op.

I thought it was a good article, except the part where the fellow giving the presentation was misquoted. I happen to be involved in Civil War reenactment and I love history, so when I saw the misquote I had to write a letter to the editor to correct the mistake.

What I wrote I felt was a very thought provoking piece correcting their mis-quote. With my name, address, telephone number and such the letter was over 380 words. After all of this, I received a letter back from the editorial desk: “Thank you for writing. However, your letter exceeds the 200-word limit. If you could reduce it to that length, we would be happy to consider it for publication.”

Personally, I felt this to be a bit of an insult so I shot off a reply to the editorial desk. I don’t like to mix my words up when I get nasty with someone, yet I fear that the person sitting on the desk reading the letters hasn’t the understanding of a common house fly.

Anyway this is the letter I returned, “It is a sad state of affairs when the voice of the common person is limited to a standard of two-hundred words. Obviously your editorial review board maintains a liberal bias that is akin to a wolf hiding in sheep’s skin. So much for redressing an error, especially one that reflects as it does during Black History Month. Shame on you.”

Surprisingly, I received a response. Whoever wrote this letter attempted to explain to me that “one size fits all” so everything is fair and equal.

“The rule is in place to simply allow more writers an opportunity to have their voices heard, not to stifle anyone. Space is limited, unfortunately, and your 400-word letter would knock someone else’s letter out. Since all writers are subject to the same limitations, it is difficult to understand how that constitutes bias, either liberal or conservative.”

Now I am not one to buy into the “one size fits all” theory. If the theory worked properly then I should be able to go to the newspaper right now and not be able to find an opinion written into what should be a hard-news story.

The Reno Gazette-Journal has writers on staff that gets to say whatever they want as long as it fits into the mold that the paper has set forth. The idea smacks of socialism in my mind but I didn’t go that far in my letter to the person on the other end of my terminal.

“It is not that simple. You have an article that clearly states the facts incorrectly during Black History Month. I wrote a nice piece correcting that misquote with facts and I backed them up. Rarely do I see your staff or readers backing their pieces up with historical quotes or facts and documentation that can be easily researched. That in my mind places your paper in the position of being liberally biased. Your paper is willing to accept a piece that appears factual as long as it fits neatly into a set of ‘rules.”

What I have written is of importance to all Americans in my humble opinion. The debate still rages on as to which side was right in the Civil War.

People still stand up and shout at each other because their Great-grand pappy fought for this side or that side. Men died and some never have received credit for their sacrifice.

So my op-ed bumps a letter or two, aren’t the historical facts worth the space? If not, it really is a shame.

“American role was to the Southern army. Still shame on the newspaper for making you stick to these petty rules on such an important issue especially during Black History Month.”

My last letter to the editor’s desk must have done something, because all of a sudden I received an invite to increase my wordage and resubmit for a column. Talk about being surprised.

“You are more than welcome to submit a ‘Your Turn’ column on the subject, if you’d like. To fit our format the length must be approximately 550 words. At 357 words, your original submission is in no-man’s-land, too long for a letter but too short for a column. If you would prefer to do that, you may submit the revised piece directly to me and I will take care of it.”

I wish someone would have offered that to me in the beginning as I hate eating crow, for being so nasty.

So I sat down and rewrote my piece and I came away with exactly the word count asked for. I really don’t expect to see it in the Reno Gazette-Journal after the way I treated this editor. Maybe one day I will learn not to be so arrogant.

Oops, I’ve exceeded my word limit.

A narrow band of sunshine pushed its way between the two curtain halves and into the small one room flat. It was enough to cause James to blink slightly then wake up.

He looked around the room for a moment, puzzled by his surroundings then remembered he was now a civilian, living in the civilian world. He rolled over slightly and picked up the half full pack of Marlboros and his lighter.

As he worked to light one of the cigarettes, he slipped his legs over the edge of his bed and drew in on the cigarette. He blew out the smoke and thought, “I need to quit these things.”

James recalled that he started smoking as a response to the stress he felt out in the arid desert of Iraq. He needed something to do with his hands after that first fire-fight and one of his buddies offered him a smoke.

“That’s been a long time ago,” he thought. James realized that he’d no longer need them as he wasn’t in a place where 10 to a 100 people got killed everyday by snipers or car bombs.

He smiled, knowing he had survived all that. ”Today’s a perfect day,” he James thought.

Now that James realized that he was back in the World, he relaxed a little and snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers. He resolved that this cigarette would be his last one.

He looked around his room and reached for his jeans.

After getting dressed, James walked to the window and peered outside. He still felt a small reservation about standing directly in front of the large piece of glass. His combat instinct always came on strong as he approached the window.

“After three weeks,” he thought, “You’d think I’d shake that whole idea.”

The street was busy; cars, truck and buses driving by. He could see the corner market from his place and a he decided to go over and buy a cup of coffee.

James had come to enjoy the sweet taste of a French-vanilla cappuccino. He had drunk the stuff the Army tries to pass off as coffee for much too long. The cappuccino was a benefit of being a civilian once again.

He grabbed up his camera, draped it over his shoulder and stepped out of his room and into the hallway.

Down stairs he stood on the sidewalk watching as people walked by completely unconcerned with the activities going on around them. It was something he had never paid much attention to when he was younger.

He was just 18 years old when he joined and after three tours in Iraq, he was the old man of the outfitted when he mustered out four years later. He saw that a number of things in the World had changed since he had been away or perhaps it was he who had changed.

Either way James was now a free man to pursue his dream of being a photographer. That’s why he was living in New York City rather than returning home to the farm in Nebraska.

The decision had been met as a scandal by his folks and friends back home. However James knew that he couldn’t return directly to a quiet life of farming after the three and a half years he had spent in the Middle East. He needed the excitement of a large city like New York, besides that is where his school was located.

He waited for the little green man to appear on the crosswalk light across the street. When it did, he moved with the mob of humanity from one corner to the next. He repeated the action again to get to the market.

James poured his coffee and paid the clerk for the hot brew. He stepped outside and wondered what he would do with the remainder of his day.

“I think I’ll just walk around and snap some photos for the hell of it,” James thought.

It was about that time that a young white man walked up to him and asked, “Hey buddy, you got a light?

James placed his cup of coffee on a yellow pole that was employed by the market to prevent vehicles from driving through the large glass doors and windows and reached into his shirt pocket, searching for the book of matches only to realize he had left them on his nightstand in his room.

Then he awful realization came to him; he was about to be mugged by the white man asking for a match. This realization was too late.

Without warning, he was facing a pistol and the man was yanking his camera from his shoulder. James grabbed the strap, hoping to hold onto his prized-possession.

James saw the flash of the gun barrel but never heard the report. He felt a heavy punch to his chest and that the punch had knocked him down. James was surprised by the lack of pain.

When he awoke, he was looking down on an ashen-colored black man. It was his body, laying flat across the sidewalk as a small crowd had formed around him.

James recognized himself. He was confused by the sight of his lifeless body. He saw a small wisp of steam rising from his cup of coffee as it was still resting on the top of the yellow pole. In the distance was the sound of sirens.

James felt a warm sensation envelope him as he floated ever higher. Then suddenly his view went dark and knew he was dead.

It was the ending of a perfect day.

A friend of mine let me know that a former employer of ours died a couple of days ago. His name is Bill Stamps.

He worked at radio station KPOD in Crescent City, California. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead but his dying has opened a nasty wound in me that I need to let heal now.

Here’s the back story…

In 1984, I was in between gigs and hoping that Stamps was going to hire me back. He had sold KPOD and when the guy who bought it went bankrupt Bill got it back.

Cathy was hired right away. In the meantime I did whatever BS jobs came around for KPOD like setting up remote equipment and announcing parades over PA systems, etc.

Anyway, I had also worked as a stunt double and stand in on the movie “Return of the Jedi” in the Smith River location and I got to know a guy by the name of Toomey. It would later turn out that Toomey would end up working at KCRE the cross town rival to KPOD.

As it is I never had much use for Toomey as a jock or as a person. I had found out early on that he had a thing for ‘younger men’ and was very forceful and direct about it.

Terry and I had words when he made a pass at me. Then while getting a haircut, I spoke of the incident to the sister-in-law of the morning show host of KCRE.

Crescent City is a small town. Word travels fast.

Before I realized it Cathy called me and chewed me a new one. Come to find out she was called on the carpet by Bill Stamps and told, “If Tom doesn’t go over there and apologize, you’re fired!”

Needless to say, I marched my butt over to KCRE and apologized to that man. And I hated Bill Stamps for it ever since.

Now the front story…

In 2002, Toomey was sentenced to prison for having had sex with a 12-year young boy. Bill Stamps forced me to apologize to a pedophile!

Toomey used radio to lure his youthful victims to his side. And he was given a pass to do it.

Meanwhile hard working and decent people like Cathy had to feel fear for their jobs because guys like me couldn’t leave the small town truths alone or keep their big mouths shut. I’m sorry about the hell you had to go through for that Cathy.

Now I hear the town of Crescent City is giving Bill Stamps a parade to honor his passing. They are calling him “a great and caring man.”

I have a much different memory of him.

My wife says “Let it be buried with him.” That means I would have to learn to operate a backhoe.

Perhaps I’m just too hard on Bill Stamps and the fact that he forced me to apologize to a pedophile to save a girlfriends job. But I just am not sure how else I was supposed to feel at the time.

When I look back on that entire time period it was a real confusing time. I was finishing up my military service time and working in radio and not getting along with my family and I had been working as a volunteer in law enforcement until I got in trouble with the law.

Need I go any farther?

My ultimate goal was to get back on the air at one of the two radio stations there in Crescent City or get a job writing for the newspaper. None of these things ever seemed to happen and I found myself for ever frustrated.

I blame it on my stupidity.

Looking back I see that it was small town politics. A game of likes and dislikes and I was on the list of dislikes.

In the long run I can see now that their ‘politics’ benefited me because it forced me to move away, first to Arcata then Reno, Nevada. I have been here in the Silver State for over 20-years and I’ve never regretted it.

In fact I spent eighteen years in radio because of it and that probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed on the Northcoast. Now I’m hoping to parlay my radio career into a writing career.

As of yet that hasn’t happened because I seem to be too conservative for the likes of the publications in our area. But then again I could be reading between the lines.

Sitting at my computer, I find myself mulling over some of the more recent words I have heard preached via the radio. I enjoy listening to the preachers as I drive around town.

It tends to cause me to slow down and think. While I am listening and driving and thinking, I am also examining my inner self and responses to the message as a Christian.

Being a Christian is not easy. Jesus never promised me an easy life.

He did give me the Bible to study and preachers to listen too as I drive. What the preachers say, I sometimes will take or leave.

It depends on how much Biblical truth I find in their words. I realize that this is a judgment call.

We are all prone to judgment calls. This is what I believe is having a discerning spirit.

One broadcast had a speaker who talked about how secular music was filled with satanic messages. I have no doubt that this does exist as I spent a quarter of a century in the music industry.

It is filled with persons trying to live up to that type of life style. One of his statements was that secular music could lead to premarital and extramarital sex, which leads to abortion.

It has long been agreed upon that abortion is not a Christian act. This is something that I do not wish to argue about.

However it has caused me to think about a Biblical truth that I have discovered and wish to explore further. How many times have you heard the standard science question, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

God’s word is the undisputed truth. Then the answer is given to us in Genesis 1:20, which reads in part, “…and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the Sky.”

There is not one mention on an egg.

Here is another Biblical truth. It deals directly with answering when life begins, “The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7)

Fetuses do not breathe air, but rather absorb oxygen through the mother’s placenta. Therefore, I humbly submit to you that life does not start until breath is formed in the nostrils of the baby.

There is not one mention of a fetus.

And no — I am not for abortion. Rather I want to shift the argument to the heart of the matter.

Our true responsibility is to be open to the woman whatever her decision maybe, because as Jesus said in Matthew 7:1, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”

Shortly after moving into our new home, I decided to take up the art of leather crafting. It is something that I had been accustomed to doing as a younger man when I worked for my Grandfather-rancher.

Seems as if we were always tearing up a saddle fender or a pair of chaps, so learning to mend these items was of some importance especially when we were miles away from the main house and town.

My first order of business was to go out and search the leather shops around the county for the ‘perfect’ piece of hide. I wanted to cover my personal journal in bull-hide.

Rough, strong, manly.

While I searched I also purchased the needed tools and supplies. This did not take me very long. I opted not to use one of those ‘cookie-cutter’ kits that a person can buy.

Instead I vowed to measure, mark, and cut and stitch my rawhide journal cover from scratch. The entire process took me two evenings after work to complete. I even managed to eat dinner and watch television and still accomplish my goal. I was very proud of myself. I showed it to my wife. She was properly impressed by my skill.

My son liked it so much that he wanted the cover for himself.

Needless to say I would not surrender my craftsmanship to him no matter how much I love him. The true test came when I placed it on my journal. I like to use the composition books that can be purchased for a little bit of nothing come the start of the school year.

It was a snug fit, but I told myself that it would stretch out with a little more time and use. The following morning I sat down at my desk to start my first entry and I discovered a serious flaw in my new cover.

The leather edge inside the journal created a noticeable bump that was difficult to write over. It gradually went away as I filled the pages.

That was at the front of the journal. The same problem made itself known as I came to the end of the journal.

I was dismayed at my lack of planning for such an occurrence.

Within days I had run out of ideas on how to alleviate the situation. I used a piece of discarded leather as a backstop, but lost it to the dog that found it to be a rather enjoyable chew toy.

I used a piece of cardboard stripped from a box. This simply looked cheesy and would not do.

Eventually, I stopped using my leather journal cover. I placed in a box and marked it for storage. Then I simply forgot about it.

Just after the attack on the World Trade Center Towers, I concluded that I should return to church. My faith in life seemed shaken. I watched in horror as those buildings crumbled into dense clouds of dust with the knowledge that very few people would survive the carnage.

My life seemed to parallel this event. I had turned my life into a garbage dump, wreaking havoc with my family and friends. I searched for my long forgotten bible. I discovered that it was gone, lost and I had to purchase a new one.

Every Sunday, I sit in church and listened for new meaning. Slowly I have reemerged and discovered that under the rubble I had created was a brand new man. I started sitting down and reading my bible on a daily basis.

It is enjoyable.

However my new bible’s cover was getting thrashed. So I decided I would see about buying one of those fancy canvass covers. But as life would have it, I did not get around to it as quickly as I could have.

Instead I found my time better used at getting rid of all the junk I have saved up like treasure in my garage. That meant going through box after box of stuff. That’s when I found my old hand-made, good for nothing leather journal cover.

I looked at it and decided to toss it in the ‘too go’ box.

Later that night my son came to me and said he wanted to show me something. I followed him to his room.

There on the computer table was a handsomely bound bible. I open it up and discover that it was my bible.

Curious to where he came up with the cover, I asked him. He told me that it was in one of the many boxes I had set out to be carried away to the Sally Ann Store.

Right then and there I realized that there is always new life even amid the garbage of living. God had to teach me that with an old piece of leather.

It’s time to confess a little about what I think is happening regarding my insomnia. I have bi-polar disorder along with and PTSD. I’ve had it for many years and it was never treated. Now it is being treated with both visits to an VHMC-MHP and medication.

And as I was laying next to my wife thinking about it, the idea occurred to me that my cold and coughing and lack of sleep has triggered an up-cycle in my disorder.

When I was a radio disc jockey this used to happen to me all the time but I usually paid it no mind because I worked the overnight shifts. My actions were always tempered with a lack of sleep due to sleeping in shifts. (That’s where I would sleep for a few hours, get up a few hours, and then sleep another few hours.) I never had a restful sleep.

Now that I am retired from radio and don’t work overnights, I can really see the pattern as my moods start to shift. I just need to remember to be aware of watching for this to happen …especially under stress. I think being sick with a cold and a cough that hurts an already injured back and not getting enough sleep has been a stressor.

It is literally like being on a train that rolls up a hill slowly into happiness, then at the peak it takes off wildly, racing downhill into depression, bottoming out, only to start the long process of chugging up the hill again. Left untreated it can leave a person believing they are insane.

Soon I will slow down and my mind will allow my body to rest. I will be able to sleep then.

I just wish my train came with a sleeper car.

The forward observer signaled that the remainder of the squad could move ahead to the base of the hill. It was from there that they would attempt to stage a surprise attack on the three Soviet T-64 tanks on the other side of the hill.

The squad had been divided up into too two teams, each making their way to the rendezvous point before morning light. According to the squad’s commander, the unit’s goal was to knock out the tanks and free the inhabitants living in the cliffs above the valley.

Doc flopped down and wanted to pull all his gear off, but he knew that they’d be pushing forward in a few minutes time. Instead he refreshed himself with a mouthful of water from his canteen.

It didn’t take long for the order to comedown to move out. As if one body all 24 men stood and started scaling the sandy slope in front of them. Within half an hour both squads squatted just below the ridge which was line with a thick row of trees, only the lieutenant and a sergeant were in among the tree to have a look into the area below.

“We’re closer than I figured,” the lieutenant whispered to the sergeant. “We’ll have to creep in there one at a time.”

The sergeant made no reply.

Without warning one of the T-64’s coughed to life. It was deep rumbling sound that sent an unseen goat herd into a slight panic. There was the unruly bray of a donkey somewhere in the distance as well.

“Crap,” remarked the sergeant as he slipped over onto his back and pulled his field map from his vest. Then he added, “No way can we get in between them and the cliffs now with the camp stirring.”

He studied the map a few more seconds than repositioned himself on the ridgeline. Another tank’s engine chugged to life. It was shortly followed by the third.

“Where do you think they’re heading?” the lieutenant asked.

The sergeant waited a couple seconds before answering, “I don’t know but they’re moving off.”

Within a few minutes all three tanks rumbled off to the south of their original positions, disappearing around the bend of the poorly carved and heavily rutted trail. Soon the sound of the tanks faded away.

Two by two each team member cleared the ridgeline and proceeded towards the cliffs. The foreword teams encounter nothing of a camp as Intel had described. There was a small campfire that looked as if it had been used to cook on and to get warm by, other than that all that remained were some empty gas cans.

The remainder of the squads hurried through the site and soon found themselves at the base of the cliff, huddled under the immense carvings of three Buddha. It was obvious that these three statues, which were carved from the cliff itself, were part of a religious venue, much like a church or synagogue.

It also became clear that the reported village nestled in the cliffs surrounding the Buddha’s were almost uninhabited. There came a slight murmur from members of the two squads that “something didn’t feel right.”

Doc had learned to listen half-heartedly to these whisperings. Sometimes they meant something, other times they were nothing. It all depended on what Doc was feeling at that moment as well.

Currently, he was having a very difficult time hauling himself and the medical gear up the cliff, which seemed to be pock-marked with foot and hand holds. It fatigued him and made him curse under his breath, wishing he didn’t have the extra 70 pounds to lug around.

Doc finally found an open passage and scrambled inside. He flipped on his flashlight, what Marines referred to as a moonbeam, the red light showing an extraordinary amount of religious art work on the walls and ceiling.

After a quick look around, Doc unslung his gear, leaving only his butt-pack on as he knew it contained the most important medical gear. The rest was supplemental to the two squads. His back ached as he headed out the low doorway and into the early morning light.

The men had all found positions that offered both protections from enemy sight and the coming daytime heat. There, they waited to see what the next action would be in what many of them were say was a SNAFU’d operation, which was slang for, “Situation, normal, all fouled up.”

About ten hours later, there came a low rumbling sound that echoed loudly inside the many caves along the cliff. The three Soviet tanks were moving back into their previous night’s position.

Everyone laid still and watched as the tanks rolled into their camp and took up defensive positions below the Buddha’s. Two of the tanks turned themselves to face the heavily rutted roadway in either direct. The third faced the hilly slope the two squads had moved down earlier.

They formed a ringing defense and reminded Doc of the American Bison he had seen while stationed in Wyoming. The bison, commonly referred to as buffalo would backup into each other and form a defensive circle to protect their offspring and themselves at night from wildcats and wolves.

It was obvious that taking the tanks would not be hard once the crews slipped out of the heavy fighting machines and joined each other around the light of the fire they had built. It would be easy to creep up on the unsuspecting soldiers and dispatch them and their tanks.

However the order to move failed to arrive that night. Nor did it come the following two nights. Tempers were getting short and so were the c-rations as the 24 men waited to carry out whatever order their higher-ups gave.

It was the middle of the fourth morning when there arose a surprising amount of gun fire from the encamped tankers below. There was very little light and it was next to impossible to see what was occurring inside the encircled machines.

Every man had his weapon at the ready, expecting the fight to suddenly shift from down below to the high points in the cliffs. Then, just as suddenly as the shooting had started, it stopped. And it grew quiet again.

The lieutenant sent two men down from their perches to reconnoiter the area. It was about two hours later that they returned to report that it had been a slaughter and that all the tankers were dead and many were mutilated beyond human form.

The officer called up the radio operator to send a message back to base. He was unsure of what to do next after having waited so long in the heat of the day and the chill of the night.

Doc did his best to watch the officer’s facial expressions, but if the words he was hearing were disturbing or helpful, the lieutenant’s eyes and mouth didn’t betray his feelings. Still Doc could not tell what was happening even after the officer handed the handset back to the operator.

Instead the Lieutenant turned and in a hushed manner spoke to the sergeant. The older man looked at Doc and motioned him to his side. “You and me are going down there, got it? We’re going to assess the scene, got it?”

Doc nodded his head.

The two men scrambled down the cliff side, each groping for the next finger and toe hold. Within minutes they were approaching the tanks with great caution.

Doc could see the outline of two men laying facedown in front the now lowering flames of the fire. He was following the sergeant in between the two tanks facing the opposite ends of the roadway, when the sergeant tripped and nearly fell. Doc grabbed onto the man and pulled him back before he could topple any farther.

The sergeant pulled out his moonbeam and popped on the red glowing light. He shined it at the ground in front of himself. On the sandy soil lay what had been a living, breathing man. His face was missing, peeled off and exposing the bone underneath.

Both the Doc and the sergeant fought back the urge to vomit at the sight. The sergeant held his light up and its red beam fell on the nearly destroyed bodies of several men. Each ad been mutilated in some various way and the sight was sickening to the two men.

Quickly, they retreated back the way they had come. It was obvious that whoever had done this could still be in the area and might mistake the two as Soviet soldiers. Neither man wanted to have the same fate fall on them.

They hurried back to the position in the cliff and reported what they had seen to the Lieutenant. He called up the radio operator again and told his commanders what had happened.

It was a very tense as the two squads hurriedly prepared to make their way down the cliffs. What had happened had made the rounds to every Marine who had been lodged in the cliffs. Many of them speculated about what had gone on in the camp but no one really knew for certain.

The units skirted their ways around the encircled tanks and proceeded out of the long valley by a different route. Two men had been sent back in order to destroy the three T-64’s before the sun came up.

By the time the three reports from the explosion reached the two squads, light was starting to crest the mountains in front of them. It was time to divide and move in separate directions once again.

Doc’s squad remained behind long enough for the two demolition experts to rejoin them. It would be another four hours before the 12 men would stop and bivouac for the night.

By noon of the next day, they were back among the familiar mountains and hills in which their base was located. And though asked about what he had seen that early morning by members of his squad Doc refused to share the gruesome details.

“Its bad enough I’m scared shitless about it,” he would later write in his private journal, “that I don’t think it would be a good thing for anyone else to have to think about it.”

It is hard to believe that the Federal Government can still manage to hire ‘meat-heads’ for key positions in its cabinet positions. On second thought—no it’s not.

Jus’ yesterday I was watching the news and I actually heard the Surgeon General of the United States say that he would support a law making the use of tobacco products illegal. Mr. Surgeon General, give us a break!

There are two major flaws with the idea of outlawing tobacco, aside from the knowledge that then only outlaws would have tobacco. The first one is that the Federal and State governments rely on the taxes generated by those tobacco products.

What happens to all the school programs when those coffers dry up? The inner city children will suffer from this ban.

Secondly, if tobacco is outlawed and only outlaws have it, then where will the Federal and State governments house these outlaws turned inmates? Not in my back yard, I hope!

That has already happened to me once in this lifetime.

Can we the people afford to have our already clogged court system clogged up any further with people suffering from nicotine fits? I don’t think so.

This is making an already dangerous situation even more dangerous. My wife suggested that if the craving for nicotine is that bad then people will have to use the patch.

My response was less than intelligent. I told her that was like putting a bandage over her mother’s pie-hole.

Tonight, I sleep on the couch.

While lying here in the most uncomfortably prone position imaginable, it occurred to me that this might all be a larger scheme. It could be that the Federal Government has a plan up its illusionary sleeve?

They may have the market cornered on the patch and therefore my worrying about the inner-city children is all for not. Silly me.

Finally, while I do not smoke and as a child I detested having to go down to the corner market to get my parents cigarettes, it is the free right of every-of-age U.S. Citizen to decided for themselves what legal substance they put into their body. It is not up to my government to restrict that when they do not have the power to do so.

Please take a look at the so-called ‘War on Drugs’ and tell me if the government has the power to enforce any new laws regarding ‘substance abuse’ and that is what a ban on tobacco would be. And you and I will have to pay for it somehow.