About Me

The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale, and the lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps – Eleanor Roosevelt

My name is Michael, and I’m a Marine Corps veteran who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a kid, I spent a lot of time writing short stories about fictional military campaigns with imaginary battles and generals. I fanatically watched any war movies I could get my hands on and grew up idolizing John Wayne, but I knew him as Sgt. Striker from “Sands of Iwo Jima.” I memorized everything Sgt. Striker said and regurgitated it back to anyone who would listen. It was an obsession. 

As I got older, my priorities shifted to things more age-appropriate: sports, the beach, girls, and a lot of partying. There was some good old American education somewhere in between. Sgt. Striker phased out, and Jeff Lebowski slipped in. 

Time saw interests and hobbies come and go, but my interest in military history stayed the same. It may stem from growing up on or near military bases and living around military personnel for the better part of my life. I have what you could call a unique, extended military family.

My grandpa Danny, on my father’s side, was a career Air Force pilot who served in the Korean and Vietnam War. My grandpa Benjamin, on my mother’s side, was a Filipino guerrilla fighter against the Japanese during World War II and earned citizenship in the US by enlisting in the Navy. He was career Navy, and later served in Korea and Vietnam. Two of my uncles, Army and Marine, served in Vietnam. All my uncles and an aunt have served in the military at some point in time.  And I have cousins who currently serve in the Army, Air Force, and Marine Corps.

My father was a career Navy fighter pilot, and his squadron became our second family wherever we found ourselves. I called my dad’s buddies ‘Uncle’ and their wives ‘Aunt’. I thought it was the coolest thing to hang around fighter pilots. They had catchy call signs like “Spanky” and “Ichabod”. My dad’s call sign was “Ninja,” always accompanied by an outrageous backstory. I began wearing my dad’s uniforms, and he occasionally took me to work with him. Exploring the hangars and ready rooms exposed me to the unrivaled strength of the American military. 

Our family moved around every three to four years, sometimes shorter. I was born in Yokosuka, Japan, and my brother was born eighteen months later in San Diego, CA. From there, we lived in Pensacola, FL, San Diego again, Durham, NC,  and then shot over the Atlantic for a three-year tour in Gaeta, Italy.

The day I met Major Joe Malovsky was the day I knew I wanted to be a Marine. At the time, we lived in Durham, NC, and Major Malovsky worked with my dad. I noticed how he carried himself and the crisp look of his uniform. He looked every part of a US Marine. He was deployed during the First Gulf War with Recon Battalion and wore a “Puller stack“ of ribbons. He’d been around.

At the time, I was wearing my dad’s oversized khaki uniform and ‘piss cover.’ He approached me with no smile to be found. He stopped one arm’s distance from me and began inspecting my uniform. He looked disgusted. Maybe I expected another pat on the head and a “Good Job, Mikey!” like my dad’s Navy buddies did. He proved different. He thumped my lackluster ribbon stack and told me they were out of order and crooked to ‘fuck all.’ He looked me hard in the eyes and said with a quiet but deep, authoritative voice, “You’ll have to earn those, brother.”

I felt crushed and motivated at the same time. After my work day, I ditched the ribbons and didn’t wear them again until I enlisted in 2004. From that day on, my life objective was to become a Marine, like Major Malovsky. I wanted to be one of the Few, the Proud. 

Europe Bound

Our deployment to Italy was the most challenging move our family made. The culture shock, language barrier, and distance from friends and family were all challenging. We lived in an apartment complex in the city because the closest US base with housing was Naples or Aviano, too far from the USS Lasalle. That made our experience that much more real. We had to learn Italian to pay bills, get groceries, and go out and eat. We adjusted and made the best of our time there.  My fascination with military history expanded exponentially during our three-year tour. We explored battlefields in France, Britain, Germany, Austria, etc. Battles that changed history. Normandy Beach was the most impactful. It was humbling making the long walk up Omaha Beach, the scene of savage fighting between the Allies and Nazis during World War II. We also had the opportunity to walk through the enormous Normandy Cemetery and memorial. 9,385 American servicemen are buried there, most of whom were killed during the D-Day landings and ensuing operations. I felt damn proud to be an American.

Priorities shifted through the years, but one date eliminated any doubt about joining the Marine Corps. September 11, 2001

The Island

I graduated high school in Pensacola, FL, around May of 2004. Shortly after graduation, I left for Tallahassee with my buddies to give college a try. It was a half-assed effort, and I failed miserably.  I ditched the books and left for basic training in December. Destination: MCRD (Marine Corps Recruit Depot) Parris Island, SC. There, I was assigned to 2nd Battalion, Echo Company, Platoon 2016. My senior drill instructor was SSgt Driver, and he put the fear of God into me. Under SSgt Driver were three of his devilish henchmen or ‘Green Hat’ drill instructors. Sgt Ostas, SSgt Smith, and Sgt Lewis all were experts in their craft. Their craft being: the destruction of recruits physically and mentally from dusk till dawn for three months.

After three months on the island, I received my Eagle, Globe, and Anchor and left to go home on ten days’ leave. It was like I blinked, and the ten days were over. I said goodbye to my family again and jumped on the first Greyhound bus headed northbound. Destination: Camp Geiger’s Marine Corps School of the Infantry.

I looked like a boot Marine. High and tight haircut, wide-eyed, uniform jacked up, responding to everyone I encountered with loud noises, and one ribbon to my name. That one ribbon being, the National Defense ribbon, given to anyone with a pulse after boot camp.  I hadn’t communicated with a human being, in a normal way, in three or so months. In boot camp, you communicate with loud noises, usually by yelling at the top of your lungs. You answer with “Aye Sir” or “No Sir” and always in the third person. There’s not much discussion time in boot camp. 

It was challenging to go back to regular human communication. Everything was still “Aye Sir!” and “No Sir!” even to the PFCs, Lance Corporals, civilian lawnkeepers, the milkman, basically anyone I encountered. And then I’d look at them weirdly if they didn’t insult me.  I was instructed on multiple occasions not to call enlisted Sir. That title was reserved for officers, who don’t work for a living. Or so I was told. It wasn’t the smoothest transition. “Don’t call me sir, you little shit; I work for a living,” was a typical response to my shenanigans. 

School of the Infantry was demanding but exciting. I learned a lot and met some of this country’s finest young men. We were motivated and hungry for a fight. But to fight, I had to learn to shoot. I became familiar with the various weapons systems of the Marine Corps arsenal. The infantry has fascinated me since I was a kid. I always wondered what living in a foxhole surrounded by a platoon of Marines patrolling and probing for the enemy in a tree line would be like. Well, I did just that. There was nothing I could compare in my other life with assaulting a mock enemy position, with 240Bs shooting over our heads and flares lighting up the sky. I felt like I was where I was supposed to be.

After a few months, I received my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) as a 0311 Infantry rifleman. The coveted 0311. I was elated with pride. But with that pride, there was a sober reality of what the job meant. Just how demanding it would be. The war was in full swing at this point. The job of a Marine rifleman is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy. I was young, and at the time, I thought I was bulletproof. We all did. A few days before graduation, we overheard a group of instructors discussing the casualties coming out of Iraq. It was a Marine unit from Ohio, and I remember feeling for the first time a general sense of unease that bordered on fear. But I was also excited for the future, to get in there and do my part. That future would lead me on Drug Interdiction missions on the border and tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I’ve had the privilege of serving with some of America’s best. The Marine Corps taught me how to be a man and instilled traits I didn’t have before. They taught me how to operate, survive, and thrive in a dangerous environment and look cool doing it. I learned the importance of the Team. There being, of course, no “I” in team. Being an individual on the battlefield is lonely and dangerous. During my time in Parris Island, it was drilled into my head that we were only as strong as the weakest link. If one Marine out of seventy screwed up, everyone got fucked up. At the time, I thought punishing everyone for one guy’s mistake was barbaric. But it all made sense when we started conducting missions down range.

I served in Iraq and Afghanistan and saw enough combat to understand its seriousness. I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome), TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), and a gnarly seizure disorder that has plagued me on and off through the years. Combat changed my life in several ways. I learned that life is precious. You can be there one second and gone the next. It happens that quickly. Gotta learn to accept mortality. The mindset I carried into combat stays with me today, for better or worse.

Life got more difficult, not easier after I got out of the service. I thought the worst was behind me, like it was the beginning of some post-war, stress-free life. It was a cruel mirage. I slowly realized that something remained from the dusty banks of the Helmand River. The post-war years haven’t been pleasant for the world in general. Afghanistan fell to the Taliban in August 2021, in what I can only describe as FUBAR. Thirteen US service members, including eleven Marines, were senselessly killed in a suicide bomb attack at Abbey Gate. We also left close to seven billion dollars worth of military equipment to the Taliban. And yet, no one has been held accountable. Well, our enemies see this. The effects of the fall of Afghanistan have been felt around the world. I believe the fall emboldened the Russians to conduct their “Special Military Operation” in February 2022 and the increase of attacks on US forces in the Middle East. Pray for peace, but prepare for war.