Shadow on the Sun

[MikeF]

I'm finally ready to begin telling my story.

SHADOW ON THE SUN

CHAPTER ONE- Fort Bragg

"Is everybody happy?" cried the Sergeant looking up, Our Hero feebly answered "Yes," and then they stood him up; He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked, And he ain't gonna jump no more. - Blood on the Risers

“Green light, Go”

January 2006. The brisk southeastern wind zipped into the unpressured cabin of the C-130 as the Air Force Loadmaster turned control over to the Jumpmaster, “Army- your door.” Through the eerie green candescent light, I watched First Sergeant (1Sgt) Royce Manis begin the intricate task of inspecting the door for any imperfections or obstacles that could impede the jumpers exit. During his fifteen years in the elite Army Ranger Regiment, Royce perfected this task through endless repetition, and his body swept the door gracefully in calm, fluid precision as delicate and accurate as the San Francisco symphony conducting Beethoven’s Fifth. Later, in my darkest hour, Royce would assist me in fighting through Dante’s seventh level of hell with the quiet professionalism that embodies the best mantra of the non-commissioned officer corps.

Next, Royce thrust his upper body into the night to inspect the outside of the aircraft ensuring that nothing protruded to obstruct our descent and confirming the pilot's navigation by identifying terrain features marking the distance from the drop zone (DZ). Satisfied that the right door was kosher, he pulled himself back into the bird, spun 180 degrees clockwise, extended a thumbs up, and waited for Sergeant First Class (SFC) John Coomer to finish checking the left door.

John is another mild mannered quiet professional: a father, brother, husband, and leader. John is a guy you want to follow in any situation. His calm demeanor would later prevail in the worst of circumstances. Ten seconds later, Coomer and Manis gave a silent nod, turned towards the jumpers, extending their arms parallel with index and middle fingers pointing forward, arched an imaginary ‘M’, and sounded off in unison,

“Stand-by.”

With all inspections complete, the Air Force pilots navigated towards the DZ slowing to 130 knots preparing to unload 64 paratroopers into the darkness of this calm North Carolina night.

As the plane approached the DZ, 1Sgt Andrew Coy walked towards me. For this JFEX (Joint Forcible Entry exercise), Andy served as a safety. He would not jump. Working in conjunction with the Air Force loadmaster, his tasks were to inspect the safety of the aircraft prior to take-off, accept all static lines as jumpers exit the door, and retrieve the discarded static lines and parachute straps back into the aircraft. Then, he returned with the crew to the corresponding airfield. It is an important job, but outside of about three minutes of high adventure, it is rather boring and mundane.

Andy was one of the few multiple tour Iraq and Afghanistan veterans in my new unit. He and I quickly hit things off when I transferred to Fort Bragg in June 2006. We transcended past the “Old” 1990’s Army of parades, inspections, cutting grass that didn’t grow, and superficial training exercises against a Russian Army dismantled sixteen years prior. We focused on real combat learned through years of blunt trauma, brothers lost, and costly mistakes. We did not have any answers, but we clearly understood that business as usual was not working

"One minute!!!!"

Andy continued to walk towards me in the bird. Tonight was my first mission as a company commander. Conversely, this jump was his last as a first sergeant. The irony of the situation was not lost on us. He had a son in college and a daughter entering her senior year in high school His duty was at home. Before he walked away, he wanted to impart one last piece of wisdom to his young friend.

“Mike, this is your first mission. I know you are nervous and scared. Let it go and have fun. Command goes by way too fast. Just enjoy it. I know you will do well. Now, go take care of your boys.”

I nodded a knowing nod. I glanced back at my troops. I observed the wide-eyes of Jason Nunez and Jason Swiger preparing for the jump. Nunez, my driver, nuclear/biological/chemcal specialist, and radioman, was a product of Puerto Rico. Swiger, a scout, was the product of New Hampshire. I smiled considering that he was only waiting to land so that he could have a cigarette. I loved both of them to no end. Neither one would return from the valley.

Royce Manis and John Coomer sounded off with a thunderous boom,

“30 SECONDS!!!”

Andy walked back towards the door. Jumpers shook their static lines. It was time. The exit light flashed from red to green.

“GO!!!”

The jumpers rushed out the door. As the momentum of the line sped up, Andy smiled at me, and I began my march towards the exit. I handed my static line to Andy, turned 90 degrees, planted my left foot, and surged my right leg forward. My body followed. I was officially an airborne reconnaissance commander on his first mission.
************************************************** ********

Fort Bragg-Oct 2005

Maybe there is no such thing as time. Striving for a beginning and middle and end to this story, it seems only appropriate to begin at Fort Bragg. In his grand theory of relativity, Albert Einstein proposed that time and matter are a relative function on a graph with gravity serving as the axis lines that hold it all together, an ever flowing wave in the grand ocean of the universe. Einstein went to his grave never truly solving that riddle. Maybe some things are meant to be accepted through faith alone and escape man's grasps. Maybe not. It often seems but a dream within a dream, maybe it was just our time. In that moment, in this beginning, past 9/11, past the invasions in Iraq and Afghanistan, all roads led to Bragg.

"Good night moon, Good night stars, Good night sun,"

I finished the book. My daughter Taylor was falling quickly towards sleep. "Good night moon," she whispered. Together, we said the Lord's Prayer and prayed for all the soldiers in Iraq and our friends and family. She drifted away ending another day. As her eyes closed, I stared awestruck by her angelic glow- that peaceful shining of every father's daughter. I seemed to recognize her face when I looked in the mirror. Taylor Elizabeth remains a spitting image of me. As I bid her goodnight, I promised her that I would do everything in my power to ensure that she had a safe world to grow up in, and I said my own prayer to God asking him to give me the strength to be a good father. Given the crumbling situation overseas, I had no idea if I would ever see her graduate college, get married, and live life. I guess in some ways, I just assumed that she would have to grow up without me. In that moment, as Taylor rested and I gazed, time stood still. It was the closest to heaven that I have ever felt.

I closed her door and quietly walked down the steps of that old house. Nested deep within the recesses of Haymount, the historical part of Fayetteville, the house eclipsed time. The protuding porch, the oak tree encompassing the front yard, and the vast depth of the house reminded me of southern tradition and history long forgotten.

I walked past my wife watching Desperate Housewives, American Idol, or Grey's Anatomy. To this day, in fleeing desperation, I could never understand. She chose entertainment over relationship. She chose Oprah over the faith of our fathers. She left me long ago. I still prayed for her even as our marraige crumbled. As I walk around the streets and observe, I suppose her plight is similar to many of my generation- those that choose comfort over concern, pleasure over duty, and the pursuit of happiness over joy of nation. Too many of us simply believe in nothing. I still feel distraught over the prospect.

I continued to the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee. It was a late night. There was much work to be done. LTC Poppas demanded that I shape the nature of our squadron and pick my team. The squadron just returned from New Orleans assisting in the relief from Hurricane Katrina. Time was of the essence as we prepared for Iraq. A fight brewed in the east.

That's all that I have to share right now....

[davidbfpo]

Mike,

Glad to know you can assemble the memories and commit them to paper. Maybe it's therapy as 'shrinks" often say write it down. Long journey back upwards well on it's way IMHO - very humble.

davidbfpo

[Stan]

Mike,
Thanks for sharing !

There's no other military in the world with NCOs like ours

Awaiting chapter two !

[MikeF]

Yes, I'm back. I will probably post all of Chapter One in this thread. After that, I'm going to attempt to write a book and see if I can get it published. I was attempting to write a technical paper on how my company cleared the DRV during the Surge, but I kept getting stuck. There are just to many stories to tell. Small Wars deal with people so I decided the only way to actually describe what we did was to tell the story through my vantage point.

More to Follow.

v/r

Mike

[MikeF]

Within the command group, I received the nickname of "The Professor" because I constantly read books about small wars or forwarded emails about Iraq to my fellow commanders and battalion leadership. In truth, I was simply trying to understand this war and prepare my boys for the upcoming fight. Prior to command, I conducted three deployments to the Middle East in various capacities: two to Kuwait and Iraq as a tank platoon leader and one to Iraq as a liason officer to Special Forces. With each deployment, I gathered a better appreciation of the rich culture and history, and I started to understand the competing and various tribal, ethnic, and religious factions.

During the initial invasion into Iraq, I learned to fight. Leading one battalion with the 3rd Infantry Division, we stormed from Kuwait to Baghdad quickly dismantling Saddam's military. As an advanced guard platoon, we received engineers, scouts, and infantrymen to compliment our tanks. I learned how to maneuver both mounted and dismounted forces, coordinate both artillery fire and close air support, and close with and destroy the enemy; however, after the Thunder Runs, I watched as we struggled to transition to security and stablization operations. Somehow, we had not planned for this phase of war. On the ground, we assumed that someone else would follow on past us with the answers. In our minds, we had completed our mission.

During my second deployment to Iraq in the spring of 2005, I learned to think critically. I served as a liason officer to Special Forces. This tour was probably the most influential for me. Iraq was deteriorating after the January elections. The Sunnis refused to vote, and Abu Musad Al-Zarqawi escalated his campaign of terror trying to incite a full-out civil war. On the coalition side, American popular support was wanning, or maybe it was just disinterest as the stock market and home values soared.

My official title was the Multi-National Corps Iraq (MNC-I) liason officer to Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force Arabian Pennisula (CJSOTF-AP). My unique access to the highest command stretched about as far as my title. As a young captain, I got to "peek behind the curtain," as my boss put it, and see what was going on. When General Casey, LTG Vines, or other generals would meet with the SF command, I would sit in the back and listen to the conversation trying to comprehend the meaning. From the coalition perspective, we were trying to transition the effort towards the Iraqi Security Forces in order to divorce ourselves from this conflict. Special Forces took a different approach.

Working within the Special Forces (SF) community, I received an education into the realm of small wars. Sergeant Major Howie Massengale took me under his wing. A seasoned SF non-commisioned officer (NCO), Howie spent a lifetime as a snake eater. He was nearing retirement near Colorado Springs, and his son was in his junior year of University ROTC dreaming of becoming a paratrooper. Howie introduced me to the hardened community of Officers, Warrant Officers, and NCO's. I learned about the indirect approach.

As I assisted in my free time as a planner in their operations and intelligence staffs, they imparted their knowledge on irregular and unconventional warfare. I learned strange and new terms such as Foreign Internal Defense (FID), denied areas, and shadow governments. I was taught how to successfully conduct reconnaissance in a denied area. I spent my nights absorbing the manuals. Most importantly, I learned how to develop a tactical construct to destroy the enemy threat using Find, Fix, Finish, and Exploit. These lessons would pay dividends as I redeployed to Bragg.

************************************************** ********

Back at Bragg, I was part of the squadron's brain trust. In organizational design, Henry Mintzberg explains that one must focus on establishing the right construct and structure and finding the proper fit for personnel in order to maximize the probabilities of an organization's success. I prefer to view organizational design as analogous to the human anatomy. Everyone selected into the organization must serve a function, a decisive role in the overall system. The designer is served well by complimenting comparative advantages. In our squadron, we had four brains in the think tank: Major Brett Slyvia, 1SG Mike Clemmons, CPT Jonathan Grassbaugh, and myself.

Brett Sylvia, the squadron's operations officer and USMA graduate, is just wicked smart. His thinking resembles that of an Intel processer working in a Microsoft-based platform. An engineer by trade, Brett streamlined tasks, coordinated lines of operations, developed intricate campaign plans, and monitored execution from a command post or a blackhawk. A devout Catholic and father of four, Brett's morals and values directly correlate with his sense of duty and self-less sacrifice. Brett was selected for LTC, and I have no doubt that he will continue to command on higher levels.

Michael Clemmons, a career airborne qualified scout, could easily command a company and could probably just as easily command a batallion or brigade. Instead, he chose to remain in the enlisted ranks. A walking encyclopedia of scout doctrine, regulations, and history, Mike's presence demands respect. I pitied the soldier or young officer that attempted to cross his path. During this tour, LTC Poppas placed Mike as the 1SGT of Bravo Troop. Mike is currently the command sergeant major of an airborne reconnaissance squadron in Afghanistan.

Jonathan Grassbaugh, a New Hampshire native and graduate of John Hopkins, served as the Squadron's S4, or Supply officer. His job was to ensure the acquisition, procurement, and distribution of every need and want for the squadron. Jon captured the best of us- boy scout, humble, All-American. In civilian life, he would have been a successful lawyer, accountant, or businessman. John did not make it out of the valley.

As for me, I was the Apple version of Sylvia's Microsoft software akin to the right brain interacting with the left. I looked at problem sets from a different perspective to offer new ideas and creative prospects. All in all, this brain trust served the squadron well. As ideas clashed, thoughts merged, contraints overwhelmed goals, we molded together well. As a whole, we functioned seamlessly.

Next, the squadron had to define the muscle, the strengh and power behind the brain. Major Townley Hedrick, Captain Phillip Kiniery, Captain Stephen Dobbins, and Captain Johnny Carson served this function.

[John T. Fishel]

Mike--

Thanks.

JohnT