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Old 28 November 2016, 21:48
RangerJurena RangerJurena is offline
Been There Done That
 
Join Date: Oct 2005
Location: Back In Texas
Posts: 663
This owning a restaurant is hard work I tell you. Seems I never have time to do shit.

Put this together some time ago actually. I'm trying to do this to cover arrival to BN. Life while there, OJC, the Great Salt Lake Debacle and I'll probably include that dreaded swamp walk I had the great pleasure of being a part of.

I know it's disjointed at the moment, but at some point I hope I have enough for a book of some type.



Forward

“If I knew where I was going, I might already be there, but I’m not sure where I’ve been’ – Cross Canadian Ragweed
The lyrics above have always struck a chord with me. Musical pun intended. They seem to define life as I have lived it. Growing up, a high school diploma was the important thing. So, my youth was spent on football and baseball fields in Alief, Texas working towards the all important high school graduation.
I was never the kid who had the aspirations to be a doctor or lawyer. I was torn between a Houston police officer and a chef. No earthly idea why I wanted to be a cop and being a chef seemed like a great idea because I was, like many in the early 70’s, a latch key kid who cooked or made out of a can or TV dinner, his own meals.

While an entire book could be written on those years and how I ended up in the Army, those contained in this book are about my years of service in the United States Army, specifically my career as a Ranger.
We touch and come in contact with thousands of individuals in our life time, our experiences based on those touch points are in the millions over the course of that same life time. The people and the experiences of the time frame within this book are most important to me.

My place in history is one that cannot compare to those who continued on or those who started their service while fighting the Global War on Terror. If you asked me to my face, I’d tell you that I have no place in history with the modern day Ranger. But as I’ve written brief parts and pieces and relayed them to others, all said, “you should write about those times”.

I have been blessed in my military career to walk amongst giants, Rangers whose stories may never be told because they can’t be. Men and friends who have sacrificed all for this country, some who returned and some who have not. To learn from them that they felt, these stories of when we were young, were important enough to be told, has been humbling.

To honor them I write.


This book is dedicated to the men of the 75th Ranger Regiment , past and present. Those that led the way and set the example before me and those modern day warriors who have been in contact with the enemy since Oct. 2001. Most who have endured these deployments recognize that a strong family unit is important to mission accomplishment. My kids spent their early years with a father who was not really around much and it required a strong Ranger wife and support group to keep things copasetic at the house. My wife Lisa was as much a part of the life in these pages as anyone else.

Freedom is not free, Rangers and their families pay for it.

Savannah

Staring at it, I guess I’d never really seen Spanish Moss before. Seems like I remember it hanging off some trees along Main or Fannin, near the Rice University campus in Houston. Those streets were lined with giant oaks in the affluent part of town near the medical center. But as I stood at parade rest in my dress greens, the moss hanging off the oak trees in front of me looked nothing like what we had in Houston. It was October and much like home, the sweat was rolling down the center of my back into the crack of my ass. Southern US heat was amplified by the polyester garments the Army had me standing in and the black wool sock known as a beret perched upon my head
.
I was a graduate of the Ranger Indoctrination Course. That was, unbeknownst to me, well, worthless now that I was in Savannah.

However, those that stood in this formation with me were all graduates of that same course and we were all guys who voiced a serious desire to never, ever be stationed in the Pacific Northwest. So, we stood in the October heat, in front of the Hard Rock Charlie Orderly room waiting for the rear detachment Non Commissioned Officer in Charge, Polyester suit on, black wool sock on our head, rigidly staring straight ahead.

The truck was black, it had 4 wheel drive and it was pretty big, the Ranger who got out was even bigger and the dip of smokeless tobacco in his lip was quite possibly the largest I’d ever seen. The brakes on the truck locked up and he was right in front of us. Looking at this guy, while not much taller than I, he was thick like the oaks which were home to the Spanish moss in front of me, I wondered if every Ranger in 1/75 looked like this. His stream of Copenhagen spit landed right in front of us and splattered on some of the other guys spit shined boots. “Cherries” he said.

Now, we all knew what were to be titled, I suppose the actual disdain for us seemed to be lost in translation from the course that supposedly prepared us to be there to the actual way it was upon arrival. As I stared at this large Ranger who seemed to ooze hate, I began to wonder what the hell I had gotten myself into. I was sure at that very moment his intent was to somehow make us all quit.

Now, here is the thing about this environment, the weak are always culled from the heard. So, when the sharks or lions or jackals or Ranger NCO’s start circling, you want very much at that moment to be in the middle of the pack. Shit, don’t get too far out front, you could take a wrong turn and they’d be waiting, never, ever, fall to the rear, nothing ever good comes from that. From butt strokes to the head to just totally disappearing from the unit, nothing good ever happens in the rear.
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A long time ago
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