Shadow on the Sun

**John T. Fishel** · 10-03-2009

Hooah!!! Keep it coming.

JohnT

**MikeF** · 10-03-2009

That last part needs a lot of work, but I started to write it to answer Slap's questions about the Marines in the Frontline A'stan video. There are other ways to do business.

Slap asked:

"Don't know if this can be answered but has anyone ever tried surrounding the village and watching it for several days before they go patrolling through it?"

"Where is the Afghan Political Cadre that would follow the village elders everywhere they go 24/7? I say forget all this doctrine stuff......fight like a Guerrilla. Where is the Afghan Revolution? Where is the PSYOP Radio stations that should be broadcasting White Propaganda through the radios you handed out. Where is the Afghan Puff Daddy and The Real Slim Shady? You goota have some MoJo going on or ain't nobody gonna follow you anywhere"

The story I'm going to tell is an unheard of tale of decentralized operations during the Surge- Little Groups of Paratroopers using our Mojo to breakthrough.

Mike

**slapout9** · 10-03-2009

Originally Posted by MikeF

That last part needs a lot of work, but I started to write it to answer Slap's questions about the Marines in the Frontline A'stan video. There are other ways to do business.

Slap asked:

"Don't know if this can be answered but has anyone ever tried surrounding the village and watching it for several days before they go patrolling through it?"

"Where is the Afghan Political Cadre that would follow the village elders everywhere they go 24/7? I say forget all this doctrine stuff......fight like a Guerrilla. Where is the Afghan Revolution? Where is the PSYOP Radio stations that should be broadcasting White Propaganda through the radios you handed out. Where is the Afghan Puff Daddy and The Real Slim Shady? You goota have some MoJo going on or ain't nobody gonna follow you anywhere"

The story I'm going to tell is an unheard of tale of decentralized operations during the Surge- Little Groups of Paratroopers using our Mojo to breakthrough.

Mike

You go Boy!!! I waiting to read it.

**MikeF** · 10-09-2009

Patrol Base OTIS

Sometimes I just take a look around...When you are all alone, that's just sometimes what you have to fight. Sometimes, one maybe, two years spent alone....I'm stuck inside my mind....Don't tell me who to love; Don't tell me who to hate.

She wishes it was different. She prays to God almost everynight....My prayers fall on deaf ears.

I'll go in this way and find my own way out. The way we used to play...

I was a warrior stepping down the last steps from the TF 1-68 AR TOC with the inherent confidence of any airborne recon commander Everything my troop touched was golden. When this mechanized unit needed to capture a VBIED maker defended deep within the confindes of the Diyala River Valley (DRV), my troop bypassed the main roads and conducted river crossings using indigenous boats for infiltration. When Al Qaeda hid amoungst the palm groves, my boys regained the night flushing out any sense of safety to the enemy. When they zigged, we zagged testing different to tactics to find an advantage to breakthrough the perceived mess. We wanted to win. We were everywhere all at once.

We changed the civil-war game; we refused to drive down the road waiting to get attacked by the enemy. Our recon and maneuver forced the enemy to play the game by our rules. We were Shadow Troop, and everyone in the DRV knew the game had changed. We were that good. Simply put, we were the answer to any question. I trained my boys well. I was proud.

Finishing up the evening briefs and final checks with LTC Fischer briefing him on my plan to establish our first patrol base, I stepped into the warm autumn Iraq night. No moonlight shined as I worked my way towards the truck. SGT Santapaulo (Paulo) and SGT Britton waited paitently for my return. I worked my way through the dusty night thinking about the first patrol base. Tonight, my 1SGT and a platoon held the ground; Tomorrow, I would occupy hoping that our presence would simmer the internal dispute between the Sunnis and Shias of Abu Sayda and Mukisa. There was always hope in tomorrow.

My stomach rumbled. I skipped dinner in anticipation of my final breakfast the following morning. I was going to devour the italian omelet, hashbrowns, and biscuit and gravy. One final meal before I left FOB Warhorse to establish my patrol base in the demilitarized zone between Al Qaeda and JAM, the civil war brewing under the current of the accepted reality. I wasn't planning on returning for a month.

"Boys, I'm back." I summoned to awaken them from a soldier's nap as I opened the door. Eminem echoed from the speakers of my truck. They sprung to life ready to execute.

"What's the situation with 1SGT at Abu Sayda?" I asked as they tried to act awake.

"Sir, we haven't heard from them," Paulo answered sheepishly.

"What the ####? Britton, get me back to the command post." I muttered as I worked my way into the HMMWV.

It was eight o'clock, twenty hundred hours in our world. The sun had long past, and we worked our way back through the intricate maze of housing units to the Shadow Command Post (CP). I stormed out of the truck bursting through my front door pausing only to drop my body armor and weapon. I demanded that the sergeant of the guard (SOG) to answer,

"What's the status of Patrol Base Otis?"

"Sir, we lost comms (communications) with them an hour ago.," he answered sheepishly.

"What the ####?" I threw my helmet against the wall as I rushed to my comms set.

"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow Six, over."

No response.

"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow Six, over."

No response. In my anger, I slammed my handmike down on the table breaking it.

"Get them on the ####ing net." I screamed walking to scan the map.

My instructions were simple. Occupy the house for one night. One simple night. The next morning, I would arrive with a platoon, a headquarters section, and engineers to fortify. I just needed my 1SGT to hold one night. Before they left, I briefed them on the dangers as they left for one of the worst places in Iraq- Al Qaeda training camps to the south and JAM/BADR strongholds to the north.

One ####ing night. That's all I asked. The worse possibiliities crossed my mind.

As I stared at the map, the SOG scrambled in between attempting to call the patrol base and explain to me the situation.

"Sir, the last I heard from them was 1800 hours (6pm). They called to confirm that they had occupied the house." he pleaded.

In the backgrounded, he continued to call,

"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow TOC, over."

No response. I began to pray asking the Lord to forgive all my sins and keep my boys safe. I assumed the worst. For three hours, we, attempted to establish communications. No dice. I accepted that the patrol base was overrun.

At 2300 hours (11 pm), I made my decision.

"Move Red Platoon to REDCON One. We're headed to Patrol Base Otis."

Thirty minutes later, the boys assembled, and we embarked on the hour and half drive north pleading every five minutes for someone to answer the radio.

We worked our way along the highway, maneuvered through the quiet of the the city of Abu Sayda finally venturing towards our house.

I looked down at my watch. It was 0100 (1 am). I had not slept in two days stuck in planning for this occupation. The night was smelt like the unusual calm that usually follows any attack. I called Mike Anderson.

"Red One, this is Shadow Six. Clear the compound. I'll follow behind."

Mike dismounted five men and breached the front gate expecting the worst.

Clearing the compound, we found twenty men asleep with one shocked private manning a radio on the wrong frequency.

Everyone was okay.

I told Mike to take his men back to the trucks.

I walked into the room where my 1SGT, platoon leader, and platoon sergeant slept soundly.

I fired off a round into the ceiling and kicked my 1SGT in the ribs to awaken them.

For only the second time in my command, I yelled as the startled out of their sleep. For thirty minutes, I spoke my mind. After I was certain that they were alert and awake, I walked back into my truck. Tonight was a false call for the dangers to come.

"Red One, this is Shadow Six. Take us home."

Tonight we messed up bad. Thankfully, the enemy didn't realize that we slipped. There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, Red platoon and I would assume Patrol Base Otis.

Just another day in a long tour.

**Bill Moore** · 10-09-2009

Liking it, taking us back to the reality we all know.

**MikeF** · 10-11-2009

10 October 2009, Monterey, CA

I live by this simple rule. You can take all my money. You can take all my gold. You can take my heart, but you can't take my soul. My God be with me. Life is crazy; I see things hazy. Life is amazing.

Strange sometimes how it happens to me these days. Days when I'm walking my way back to normal; days when I'm almost there. Days when the alcohol cannot own you, you've done conquered that fool. Days after you learned in those books all you need to know. Today was one of those days. My dad and his wife visited me on my last days in Monterey before I finally head home to see my daughter, but it still happens to me no matter how much I deny.

Days that cannot compare. What is today? Time transcends, persist, and lapses. Maybe there is no such thing as time. It just is.

The fall sets on the Monteray Bay drawing in the fog and eractic temperatures in a tempest that confuses the best of the weathermen. As a drunken fool playing throwing all his money down on an off-suit 2-3 in Texas Hold' Em, the morning creeps in cold as a blistering winter. Waking up, I shiver under my covers. By late morning, the sun shines inviting the heat to arise.

We eat breakfast in Moss Landing at the Haute Enchildada, the best mexican restaurant along the bay tucked into the wayside off the beaten path. I enjoy a scramble of an omelette including artichoke hearts, bell peppers, mushrooms, and feta cheese combined with a perfect mixture of black bean soup. I am fed. Breakfast is topped off and finished with the best of expressos.

I almost feel normal.

We walk along the street gazing along the rows of fishermen and maritime science experimental boats enjoying the view of the marina. As we walk, I breathe in the perfect mixture of captured fish and rusted boats that drift along in any marina reminding me of my youth. The sea lions bark while blistening on the docks trying to capture the sun's rays.

I feel at peace. We decide to travel southeast to watch the final leg of the American Leman's racing tour at Laguna Seca- the best of Porsche, Lamborgini, Acura, and Mazda's cars racing and twisting through the backside of the former hills of the Army's long forgotten post of Fort Ord. We work our way towards the race winding along reservation road. As we ventured along Reservation Road, we watched farmers farm, and my heart dropped as we passed the Young Life Pumpkin Patch. I told my dad how I used to take my daughter through the corn maze eventually working our way through to find the perfect pumpkin for Halloween. I had to tell my dad how my ex-wife was miserable and stressed throughout the entire trip. My heart sunk in recollection.

Every enclave of Monterey holds a memory for me.

Finding the official entrance for Laguna Seca, we work our way up the road stopping briefly to purchase tickets. We arrived just in time for the final race of the season.

We drove around the perimeter, parked the car, and made our way into the crowd and the race. Beautiful people and beautiful cars passed by my gaze as we walked past the grid, over the footpath, pausing at the "Fuel Stop" to buy a Corona, and finally sitting along the bleachers overlooking the track. As the crowd fills the bleachers, the announcer thanks everyone and their mother for joining us today. He preceeds to interview the drivers.

I sip on my Corona watching the cars pass warming up their tires on the track. A valley girl makes her way up the stairs- platinum blond, perfect posture, perfect body. For a moment, I see Lela, my best friend, my twin. I sip my beer as the crowd filters in outside my internal distraction. The announcer's voice echoes throughout the racetrack finally demanding that everyone stand for the playing of the Star Spangled Banner.

I stand to attention with my hand over my heart. The song begins. I remember too much, and I'm caught crying as I hear,

"And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

I always choke up over those notes thinking back to where I'd been. It passed, and I waited for the race to start. My day of rest was to be undone. A fighter unit flew over the racetrack, forcing a fake diving run onto the crowd, and I spiraled back into the times when I called in those birds. I lost control of my reality. I went back there again. It just flowed.

Day became night, dark moved to light, and I was in a different place.

Turki Village, Iraq

"Shadow Six, this is Ghost Rider Six. Acquired targets and inbound. Understand twenty armed men in canal. Understand your are 370 degrees and 500 meters from target. Waiting for final confirmation and tally. You must confirm that you are danger close."

"Ghost Rider Six, this is Shadow Six. Understand all. My initials are Juliet Mike Foxtrot."

The planes rushed in dropping their bombs, firing their guns, and wasting the enemy. I can't remember how many times that I've repeated that call. I forget how many that I have killed.

It is what it is. Stories that must be told so that I can move on.