R.L. Geer-Robbins's Blog, page 9

I got caught…

Friends,

I had to take a couple of days to think this blog out. You wouldn’t know because I preplanned most of them, knowing I would have to take a break on some days.

Memories are difficult.

What memories do I share? How many blanks do I leave in the story? You would never know if I did or not. You weren’t there. But I would know.

I also know that history will judge the words I have written just as it has for so many others who have come before me.

I could sit here and only remember the good. I could paint a lovely picture of an ideal soldier who did the right thing all the time. A hero. Someone worthy of praise. Hell, maybe I could get a parade.

But that wouldn’t be the truth, would it?

On the other hand, I could be open and candid – fill you in on all the gory details and most likely get more readers. But that opens the door to people talking about me. Judging me. Feeling like their opinion on my life is warranted for a TikTok video or Facebook meme.

Which might be detrimental to my end goal.

What is my end goal?

Just wait…you’ll see. It will be worth it in the end. I hope. My fingers are crossed because this could bite me in the ass later if I’m not careful.

But I digress. You’re probably wondering what happened at AIT.

Two things. One that would have an immediate impact and the other that wouldn’t really affect me for a few more weeks. Let’s focus on the immediate life lesson.

I got my first Article 15.

What’s Article 15? I’m happy to explain.

Standard answer? It is a way for the military to punish service members for offenses without court martialing them. Usually, smaller crimes. Sometimes, more serious crimes if the chain of command feels like the service member can be ‘reformed.’

My definition? It’s the equivalent of being grounded.

Now, what in the world could I have possibly done in the middle of training and while being watched by adult babysitters?

I got caught smoking at the bowling alley while on a weekend 4-hour pass.

The Army is not big on smokers during training. Ironic because a lot of us take up smoking to help with stress and stay awake, and it’s the perfect opportunity to walk away and clear your head.

I was a smoker before joining. Newports. And seeing as I was only 18 but had been smoking for years, you can bet your paycheck that I thought I was pretty damn sneaky.

Do you know who was more sneaky? My damn adult babysitters.

Now, if my memories serve me correctly, what happened was a group of us went outside while bowling (in uniform, mind you), thinking we were being sly, and had a quick smoke. Someone saw us, called the drill sergeants, and ratted us out.

Not nice.

When the company showed up that evening for accountability formation, the drill sergeant announced that he had gotten word that some of us couldn’t follow the rules. Some of us had no discipline. Some of us thought we were smarter than drill sergeants.

But it had been dark, and the tattle-tell hadn’t seen our name tags.

But you know what they could see? The bun. A dead giveaway that there was a female or two in the midst of the group.

Fuck me. Just another point against being female in the military. We didn’t blend in.

Now, there were only so many females in my company. A handful, really. And the drill sergeant was playing it real cool. He wouldn’t mass punish the group if the guilty party admitted their mistake. Come forward and take their punishment like a soldier.

We would just have to stand in formation until it happened.

This was not an ideal position to be in. The person beside me was drunk off their ass, along with a few others – but they hadn’t been caught yet. They could get away with their crime if the smokers came forward so they could go inside and lie down.

I wasn’t too keen on tattling on myself. I stood there trying to figure out what to do while I drill sergeant walked back inside and waited.

One minute.

Five minutes.

15 minutes.

I will give it to us smokers. We were solid in our solidarity.

But the drill sergeant was stronger. And the person next to me was about to be sick.

I knew mass punishment was coming if one of us didn’t take the fall. As soon as the drill sergeant learned all the rules we broke, they would be pissed. Not to mention, there were many who did the right thing. They didn’t deserve to be punished.

Guilt is an unpleasant emotion. It makes you feel slimy. So, I did it. I fell out of formation and stood in front of everyone, declaring myself a troublemaker.

I got a lot of raised eyebrows. I was quiet. Didn’t make waves. Hell, most of them didn’t know I was in the company; that’s how quiet I was.

But there I was, all 5’5 of me shuffling my way to my first punishment.

Want to know what happened next?

Not one fucker came to stand beside me.

Life lesson, my friends. There will always be a fall person. One person who will take the heat for the masses.

Legally, I could smoke. At least as far as the civilian world is concerned. It was considered a fundamental right that if you hit a certain age, you could destroy your body however you saw fit.

But in the military, that’s not the case. They have the right to tell you what to eat, when to wake up, when to run, when you can smoke, and when you can go home to see your parents.

That one signature takes away all your ‘rights.’

And because no one ‘forced’ you to sign your life away – you have to follow the rules.

Next life lesson – discipline is key.

I didn’t have to smoke. I could have done the right thing. It would have been too easy to follow the rules. Even if I thought they were idiotic.

That wasn’t the point. Soldiers need to learn early on that rules are rules. Not to be questioned., Because later in life, breaking the rules could cost someone’s life.

I got an Article 15. Grounded for a week. When everyone else was off on a pass, I had to stay behind and do lawn work or clean the barracks. Now, there is no record of this. I got the smallest punishment possible, and as soon as I left AIT- the record was destroyed.

No one would ever know.

Unless I told on myself. Which I did. I couldn’t help it. It’s a funny story.

And it would be the first of many.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 130/1500

The post I got caught… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Six more weeks to go and a whole new set of challenges.

Friends,

Between Basic Training and Advanced Individual Training (AIT), soldiers are permitted to have a bit of a break.

Time to shake off the last ten weeks of intense training and let our hair down. Literally. My hair had been pulled back in a bun for so long that I got bald spots on my temples.

Another rule about the military was that hair had to be off a soldier’s face and out of their eyes. Men had to shave their heads, but females could employ the sock bun look.

What does a sock bun look like? Glad you asked. Take a long sock, cut off the toe, and roll it until it looks like a bun. Put your hair in a ponytail, slip the bun on, cover it with your hair, and secure it with a headband. Twist the remaining hair and wrap it around the bun.

TaDa. The sock bun look.

Very convenient. The bun, when worn with the helmet, acts as a mantel for the back of the helmet to sit on. Helps with all the swushing and swaying of the too-large tin can.

Downfalls of the look. It broke your hair and could cause massive headaches if it was too tight. Later in my career, the Army would slacken their requirements for how females were required to wear their hair, but back then, it was pretty cut and dry.

The Army would ease up on a lot of requirements, actually. But I digress.

My mother came to my graduation. I don’t remember the whole dog and pony show, but obviously, I was there because my mother has pictures of the day. I know she was proud of me. I was one of hundreds, but my mom spotted me from a mile away. I was the short one, with a smile and ready to go to a bookstore.

I think we were given 3 to 4 hours between graduation and reporting down the street to my next training. I showed my mom the barracks, the line of payphones, and, more importantly, where the chow hall was located.

And then she watched me march my happy ass to the next set of drill sergeants. Parents got to follow us on the long march, listening to all the questionable cadences that had become our battle cry and seeing that we learned how to follow instructions.

There were a lot of ‘Left Face,’ ‘Right Face,’ ‘Counter Columns,’ and even some ‘Left Step Marches’ just to show off.

I would miss my platoon and my home away from home. I had fallen into a routine. I had a system. I was comfortable. But I soon learned that the Army is really effective at snatching you out of your comfort zone.

I think the drill sergeants were happy to see us go. I know now that they got a quick break before resetting before the next group of victims flooded in. But for 2.3 seconds, I think they were proud of us. We survived. We overcame. We had learned to become a unit.

They wouldn’t remember us. But we would all remember them.

The new barracks looked just like the old one, except the front door faced a quad with grass and trees in the middle. The AIT drill sergeants weren’t as intense as the basic training ones. I honestly don’t remember them. They were there to shuffle us back and forth to training, make sure we ate, and ensure we maintain an acceptable level of physical fitness.

And make sure we didn’t do anything stupid.

Something I obviously failed at. Because AIT would be the first time and not the last time, I would get into trouble.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 130/1500

The post Six more weeks to go and a whole new set of challenges. appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Life moves on…

Friends,

Now you’re probably wondering if the story has ended. Was graduating from basic training the shining accomplishment of my military career?

Honestly? The last few weeks were just an introduction. If this was a book, you just read the prologue. We haven’t even gotten started yet.

My family follows these blogs. I’ve never told them about my military career, at least not in a story format. My sister told me she reads these when she’s on the toilet. The jokes on her; I read her letters in a porta-john in the middle of Iraq. Beat that!

But they play an integral part in the story. So, I thought I should introduce them now since they will come up later.

As you all know by now, I come from a long line of service members. All ranks. All branches. All kinds of different jobs. Hell, a quick Google search will reveal most of them. Protecting the innocent is difficult when they all share my last name and have already made it into the history books.

Maybe I should have given them a heads-up before sitting down to type my confessions.

I think they’ll forgive me. Fingers crossed.

My father served in the Navy. One of those real Navy men. With the stained coffee mug, his bag packed and ready by the front door, and an unhealthy obsession for video games. He was a leader. A pit bull to his subordinates. A pain in the ass to his higher-ups. But dedicated to the Navy. Ride-or-die kind of dedicated.

I don’t remember him being around a lot during my childhood. From what I remember, the Navy breaks things down into cycles. Three years of shore duty followed by three years of sea duty. Sea duty was training. If you’re in the Navy, training happens at sea. Which means there were months he was gone- 3, 6, and 9-month deployments, to be exact.

If you did the math, you know where I’m heading. Yup, this was long before cell phones and high-speed internet. Were there international collect calls back then? Did he have to use quarters at a payphone to call home? Maybe he sent seagulls? I really don’t know. I should ask him.

What I’m trying to say is there were no emails. No instant messaging. No text messages. No constant communication. Just a hope and a prayer that my mother was sitting by the rotary phone when he called.

The washing machine broke down? She’d have to figure out how to fix it.

Having a bad day because the kids are acting up and the bills are piling up on the kitchen table? She dealt with it alone.

She was dedicated; I can tell you that. A ride-or-die military wife. And a spectacular mother.

My father was never a ‘letter-writing’ man. I used to wonder about that. Why didn’t he send more letters? Shouldn’t we have gotten one at least once a week? Looking back, I understand. It’s hard to explain what you’ve done, why you’re doing it, or where you’re going next.

I could never figure out how to put everything on paper, so I’ll give him a break.

But I digress, back to the home front while I was in training.

My parents moved while I was in basic. Rude! I didn’t even know they were house-hunting. I must have missed that paragraph in the letters. I just remember hearing about it during one of the few times we were given permission for a five-minute call.

Talk about a wake-up call. Life was trucking along outside my world of MREs, endless classes, and mass punishments. What do you mean the world didn’t stop because I was training to go to war? Shouldn’t my family have been sitting around the telephone waiting to hear from me? Shouldn’t time have stopped so I didn’t miss any of the big things?

But it doesn’t.

At this moment, while you read this, billions of others are living a life you will never know about. They are rushing to work, getting the kids ready for school, moving, dying, being born, buying houses, and selling stocks.

They are in basic training learning how to pew pew.

My parents buying a house was life-changing for me. It meant I was no longer a key player in their lives. It meant that this was no longer a game. This was my life. On my own. With a shitty paycheck and everything.

I should have stayed in college.

As I was coming into the Army, my dad was preparing to leave the Navy. He’d done his time. My mother had made her sacrifice. My sister deserved to grow up in the same town, with the same friends, and have some sort of stability.

It wasn’t until I retired that I understood what major life changes they were going through. Their whole lives were uprooted as they moved into the ‘civilian realm.’ And I wasn’t there. They never told me. They wanted me to focus on what I was doing and not worry.

I laugh because this would be the first of many ‘secrets’ between me and my family. They bought a home, and I had a duffle bag, $500.00 in the bank, and a roll of lifesavers.

We were now officially on two different paths.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 135/1500

The post Life moves on… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

End of an era…

Friends,

Basic training ended quickly.

Time flies in the front-leaning rest position. (Push-ups for my civilian friends)

By the time we got to the final phase, the Blue Phase, we were ready for big-boy training. Bigger weapons. More advanced training. More intense physical requirements. Obstacle courses, hand grenades, final P.T. test (which I passed with flying colors), and real coffee.

And the knowledge that we were almost done. We were the senior class. Nothing like walking past the newly arrived recruits and looking down our noses at them. A small sneer at the puny wimps that didn’t deserve the title ‘soldier.’

The joke was on me… I would see them again.

My memories are not as sharp as they used to be. But I remember one moment, on the last ruck march back to the barracks. Our final test of physical and mental toughness.

We had just completed a training exercise complete with explosions, barbwire, 1 MRE, and enough rain to drown a rat. Somehow we had gotten 12 miles away from ‘home.’ I still don’t know how they managed to get us that far without me realizing it. But there we were, hungry, cold, tired, and ready for a shower.

And then came the order.

Forward March.

And that we did. For hours upon hours. Days upon days. A lifetime of putting one foot in front of another.

Thankfully, I have an active imagination and can entertain myself. Because halfway through, it got eerily silent. No cadences. No talking. No jokes. No one complained. Not even the drill sergeants.

Just the sound of shuffling feet, gasps for air, and the occasional sneeze. (It was really dusty.)

What did I think about? Coffee. Clean clothes. The way blisters ooze. How was it possible to function with a headache? The way the sun blinds you when it comes up. How after a while, you can’t smell the stench of three days without a shower.

Why couldn’t the Army design comfortable boots?

And books. I began to think about all the books I’d read. I put them in order from my favorite to my least favorite. I thought about the smell of paper and how the pages held tear stains. I thought about the author writing them and wondered how in the hell they got published. I thought about my favorite characters and all the bad guys.

I thought about the library in San Diego that my mother would take me to. It was down the street from an AMPM, and every once in a while, she would buy me a soft-serve ice cream cone from there. There was a park not far away, and I remembered sitting under a tree reading while all the other kids played.

It was my happy place.

I wrote a story in my head. A story about a young girl far from home, alone and scared, and very hungry. She had to find a way to the mighty empire to plead her case to the king that she was a worthy warrior and should be sent to the front lines to defend her small town against invaders.

I never finished that story in my head that day.

It was a work in progress. It would take 21 years to write.

It would follow the life of a real person. All the ups and downs. Mistakes and successes. The painful memories and the good times. Embarrassing moments and the days that made her sacrifice worthwhile.

21 years is a long time to write a book.

But I had just finished the first chapter.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post End of an era… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Weapons, body armor, and helmets…

Friends,

As I mentioned, there were a few parts of basic training that I loved. The rest of it kinda faded into the background of ‘must have done’s.’

I loved the range. I don’t remember ever being afraid of the M16. It was big. I remember that. Long is a better description. Slung over my shoulder, it hit the back of my knees. Big, bulky, heavy. You could even fix a sword to the end of it.

So sexy. And all mine.

Countless hours of classes on how to handle, use, clean, aim, do a function check, and clear a jam. All before we sent a single round down range. To those of you who think that we were handed a weapon day one and pew pew’ed- you’re wrong.

Breathe, aim, shoot.

Basic fundamentals.

I remember the first shot I fired. Obviously, I didn’t pay enough attention because my face was too close to the rear sight, and the M16 has a bit of a bite to it.

Right smack into my face.

I was so thankful for the oversized BCG glasses. That would be the first of many times that my poor nose would feel the blunt of whatever I had gotten myself into. It was also the moment that I realized that the old-school Kevlar (helmets) didn’t actually stay where you wanted them to.

Let’s talk about the Kevlars. Ever wonder why, in all the history documentaries, they never had the chin strap buckled? It’s because, honestly, the damn thing just got in the way, at least in my opinion. I have a small head, and the adjustable suspension system didn’t adjust. The headband was a piece of netting with a leather band wrapped around it. I could never get it to fit right. Either it was too loose or too tight and cut into my forehead. Most of the time, it just flopped around like a fish out of water.

One size fits all, my ass.

They smelled terrible. Like really terrible. No matter how many times you tried to clean it.

The cover? Either it was too small for the helmet or too big. I never understood why if it was a one-size-fits-all. But it was tradition. It was what our predecessors wore, and if it was good enough for them- it was good enough for us.

Statistically, I suppose you can say it was sound. The ‘official stats’ are that 54% of hits to the helmet failed to penetrate, and an estimated 70,000 men had been saved because of it.

54%?

Is it just me, or is that number not really high enough? Let’s put it into civilian terms. You’re in your car, traveling at a normal rate of speed and your brakes are only going to work 54% of the time.

Do you feel safe?

I am really glad that I didn’t look up the statistics until now.

The body armor? I remember it being old and used. The army is really good at recycling. You slipped it on like a jacket, and there was velcro that secured it. The velcro was old, my friends. Caked with dust, dirt, sweat, and small tree branches. The ‘velcro’ portion of the velcro wasn’t really velcroing, if you know what I mean.

The hard armor plates that slipped into the back and front added a whopping 5 to 8 pounds to the already 8.4-pound vest. Now add a rucksack, weapon, helmet, and all your ‘extra’ gear- you understand how much weight our backs and knees were supporting. Next time you see a veteran shuffling through WalMart- give the person a break. They’re lucky their knees still work.

But it was the best system to take a nap in. The vest, combined with the helmet, somehow merged together to provide an upright sleeping surface. On cold mornings or rainy nights, tuck your hands into the armpits of the vest, and you stay toasty warm.

On top of the vest, we had another vest. A large belt with suspenders to which we attached our ammo magazines, canteens, first aid kit, compass pouch, and a host of other things that would later become a convenient place to hide my cigarettes and lighter. And a roll of life savers. Never leave home without a roll of life savers.

Now imagine you are wearing all this gear. It’s warm outside. You just marched 2-3 miles to the range. Breakfast was six hours ago, and it’s 10:00 am, and you standing in the direct pathway of the sun getting yelled at because someone fell out.

Now it’s time to lay down and send brass down range.

Once again, the methodology might seem brutal. Maybe even sadistic. But it was effective.

Very rarely in the time of war, when bullets are flying, is it a convenient time to set yourself up for the perfect shot. You have to learn how to control yourself despite the conditions. We needed to be stressed, hungry, tired, frustrated, boots filled with blister puss and sweat, and uncomfortable.

Because if you can make your shot in those conditions- you have a chance of surviving another day.

Even if your gear didn’t fit.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post Weapons, body armor, and helmets… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Three phases, mass punishments, and cadences.

As I mentioned before, I loved basic training.

Especially the early morning.

There are mornings when I sneak outside for a smoke; I close my eyes and imagine myself back. It was always dark when we headed outside for the first formation. Dark, cold, and rainy. Just like living in the PNW. We complained, of course- but I always felt like I was in my element.

For the next 20-plus years, I would carry that feeling. I loved the long drive to work. Lines of cars going through the gate simultaneously. All of us standing in formation to greet the beginning of the day with a salute to our fallen brothers and sisters in arms.

There is no better feeling than feeling like you belong to something bigger than you.

But in basic training…. it meant more.

Basic was divided into three phases. Red, white, and blue. Think of it like high school. It was the hierarchy of soldiers in training.

The first phase was red, and it lasted for a month. It meant you were nobody. Not entitled to the title soldier. We didn’t know left from right. How to point a gun. How to run. How to move as a single element. Hell, we didn’t even know how to dress ourselves.

That’s the thing about basic- there is a lot to learn. Those first four weeks become a blur of memorizing the Warrior Creed, rules and regulations, and rank structure. The first week is incredibly challenging because personalities and lack of sleep equate to a lot of mistakes. The punishment was physical activity.

And we were always punished as a whole and not as an individual.

I questioned the methodology at the time but looking back, it was effective. We had to learn how to work together as a unit. We needed to build trust in one another. We needed to become an effective war machine.

I remember our bays being trashed, our gear tossed out of lockers, and our beds flipped because someone didn’t make their bed right. I remember the late night ‘PT session’ where it was 8:30 p.m., and we were outside doing jumping jacks for half an hour. I remember having to drink an extra canteen of water because someone didn’t finish theirs, and we all needed to learn the importance of hydration.

Before you get all sentimental and enraged by the methods, I need to say something. It’s a damn good thing they treated us that way. Regardless of whether you want to admit it or not, the military’s number one priority is to go to war. That’s what we are trained to do. As much as it hurts to hear, it means one thing.

Us or them?

Who’s returning?

Of course, I didn’t realize the full weight of what I was taught at the time. But neither did the veterans of previous wars. We were all trying to keep our heads above water.

But over time, the constant berating and punishments lessened. We became a unit. With a motto. And a peep in our step when calling cadences. I loved cadences. I still believe that one of the criteria for becoming a drill sergeant is that you must be able to sing.

There is nothing more motivating than singing about a yellow bird and ripping its head off.

True story.

There were other cadences, too:

C-130 rolling down the strip, Airborne daddy’s gonna take a little trip. Mission uncertain, destination unknown. Don’t even know if we’re ever coming home.

When I get to hell, Satan’s gonna say, “How’d you earn your living boy? How’d you earn your pay?” I’ll reply with a boot to his face, “I made my living sending souls to this place!”

Hey, Hey, Captain Jack, Meet me down by the railroad track. With my rifle in my hand, I wanna be a fighting man.

Count Cadence, Delay Cadence, Skip Cadence, Count. (One) Airborne Solider, (Two) Better do your best, (Three) Before you find yourself, (Four) In the leaning rest, (One) Hit it, (Two) Kick it, (Three) Stab it, (Four) Kill it. One, two, three, four, we’re not the damn Marine Corps. We like it here, we love it here, we’ve finally found a home. (A what) A home. (A what) A home. A home away from home.

Candances were about accepting our fate. It’s easy to look death in the face with a catchy tune.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post Three phases, mass punishments, and cadences. appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

The Kosovo War

Friends,

At the same time that I was complaining about blisters, runny eggs, and running… things were going on in the world that would affect me later in life.

Isn’t that the way it is? We don’t look at the bigger picture until years later and say, ‘Oh, shit. The writing was on the wall.’

Maybe if I had paid attention in the chow hall to the news, I would have known that the same month I joined the Army, all hell was breaking loose in Serbia and Kosovo. Now granted, I would hear small snip-its about this when I head to my first duty station, but let’s not jump too far ahead in the timeline.

But in context for later stories, you have to know what other players are moving around the chess board other than 200 soon-to-be soldiers learning the art of digging holes, shooting, and marching in formations.

In April 1999, Kosovo was struggling through what would be described as ethnic cleansing. The Kosovo War, from 28 Feb 1998 to 11 Jun 1999, was a land dispute between the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (Serbia and Montenegro), who controlled Kosovo before the war, and the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA).

Sound familiar? Disputes over who controls what land? But I digress…

The history of tension between these countries dates back to the Ottoman Empire, and that would be a very long blog with a lot of moving parts. So in the interest of time, we will say they hadn’t gotten along for a VERY long time.

Let’s go back to 1998- the year I graduated high school. President Bill Clinton declared a ‘national emergency’ due to the threat to national security and foreign policy of the U.S. imposed by Yugoslavia and Serbia over the Kosovo War.

The UN adopted Resolution 1199- expressing ‘grave concern’ for the 230,000 people who had been forced from their homes by the ‘excessive and indiscriminate use of force by the Serbian Security forces and the Yugoslav Army.’ A day later, the North Atlantic Council (NAC) of NATO issued an ‘activation warning,’ which means NATO was ready to move if Kosovo and the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia didn’t stop their nonsense.

After a lot of back and forth and threats of airstrikes, a peace agreement was signed on 15 Oct 1998.

It didn’t work.

23 March 1999 – The NATO Secretary General announced air operations in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. In other words, the bombing started on 24 March and lasted until 11 June 1999. The slogan? “Serbs out, peacekeepers in, refugees back.”

31 March – 3 American service members were captured along the border between Kosovo and Macedonia. Serbian authorities claimed they were inside Yugoslavia when seized. On May 2, 1999, they were released and handed over to Rev. Jesse L. Jackson due to his efforts. U.S. officials did not sanction Rev. Jackson to negotiate for their release- he did it on his own because Americans were being held hostage. I have my own thoughts on this, but it’s better to keep personal opinions to oneself when talking about war. I will say thank you, Rev. Jackson, for bringing them home to their loved ones.

Things continue not to go well.

In May 1999, a NATO aircraft attacked an Albanian refugee convoy, thinking it was a Yugoslav military convoy, and killed 50 people. NATO didn’t admit to the mistake until five days later. Understandably, the Yugoslavs accused NATO of deliberately attacking refugees. NATO responded back and said that the pilots didn’t do anything that warranted criminal charges. It was an accident.

On 7 May 1999, NATO bombs hit the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade, killing three Chinese journalists. NATO responded with a message that the attack was an accident due to outdated maps provided by the CIA.

On 19 and 21 May 1999, NATO bombed the Dubrava Prison, initially claiming it was a military barracks. 99 Kosova Albanian prisoners died, and another 200 were wounded. Serbian security forces responded by lining up approximately 1,000 prisoners and firing. 70 prisoners died, and another 12 over the next 24 hours. The injured were taken away, and the rest were transported to Lipjan prison and then to Serbian prisons. We wouldn’t hear their stories until years later.

This is not to shit on NATO- they’d received reports that the Serbian forces were torturing the prisoners, and defense lawyers weren’t allowed in to see their clients. I don’t have the heart to share everything found in the prison. But it was bad. Very bad. You just have to look up the Dubrava Prison massacre to read the whole story. Then, you can decide whether it was warranted or not.

12 June 1999 – U.S. military forces enter stage left. Now, if you weren’t alive at the time, or young, or didn’t keep your eyes peeled on the news channels, you might not have known. The US contribution, known as the Initial Entry Force, was led by the 1st Armored Division, commanded by Brigadier General Peterson. It was spearheaded by a platoon from the 2nd Battalion, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment attached to the British Forces. Other units included the 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne), TF 1–6 Infantry (1-6 infantry with C Co 1-35AR), the 2nd Battalion, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit, the 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, and Echo Troop, 4th Cavalry Regiment. Also attached to the US force was the Greek Army’s 501st Mechanised Infantry Battalion. The initial US forces established their area of operation around the towns of Uroševac, the future Camp Bondsteel, and Gnjilane, at Camp Monteith. They spent four months establishing order in Kosovo’s southeast sector.

In other words- a lot of military presence.

What did they find? Mass graves.

In 2001, 800 unidentified bodies were found in pits on a police training ground just outside Belgrade and in eastern Serbia.At least 700 bodies were uncovered in a mass grave located within a special anti-terrorist police unit’s compound in the Belgrade suburb of Batajnica.77 bodies were found in the eastern Serbian town of Petrovo Selo.Fifty bodies were discovered near the Serbian city of Peručac.A mass grave believed to contain 250 bodies of Albanians killed in the war was found under a car park in Rudnica near Raška.At least two bodies, as well as part of the remains of a third body previously found in Rudnica, were found near a mine in the village of Kizevak in southern Serbia. 

And there were so many more than what I listed. It is heart-wrenching how many were found.

Now, I have to mention that all parties- NATO, Kosovo Albanian forces, and the Federal Yugoslavia government were “charged” with war crimes. When it comes to the trials, there is a lot of shady stuff going on, so once again, I will leave it to you to do the research (if you want) and make your own decision.

But only Yugoslavia is found guilty.

The rest of the “war crimes” committed by NATO and Kosovo were found to be in direct correlation to Yugoslavian actions. Sometimes, you have to become evil to stop evil.

There were a lot of moving parts to this war that the U.S. and NATO were involved in. But it starts a trend, for me, where war becomes questionable in nature. That it isn’t black and white. There is no good guy and bad guy.

Service members are tasked with righting wrongs. Government officials are the ones we see on TV – all declaring the ‘righteousness of war,’ but it’s the service members who are fighting to save the common people. Did you know we had three hostages? I didn’t. It was a blurb. I had to do a lot of digging to find the story.

That’s sad, right?

If I’d known, maybe I would have realized earlier that my career wasn’t going to be the frat party that the posters in the recruiting office portrayed.

For more information on the mass grave found, please take a look at the U.S. Department of State Archive- it breaks the horror down. Ethnic Cleansing in Kosovo: An Accounting (state.gov)

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 133/1500

The post The Kosovo War appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

You don’t need sleep, food, or friends to survive.

Friends,

There are a few questions I used to get asked about basic training.

Was the food really that terrible?

Did you shower in bays?

How much sleep did you get?

And finally… was it hard?

Let’s start with the last one. Was it hard? Of course, it was hard. That’s like asking if a tattoo hurts. But maybe not in the way you think. It wasn’t Ranger or Special Forces training. But it had its own challenges.

You take a bunch of 18-20-year-olds, slap them into a uniform, put them into an open bay filled with bunk beds, and tell them to get along for the next ten weeks. Let me tell you, a person’s true nature soon rears its ugly head.

No, it wasn’t war, but there were days that it felt like I was in the middle of one.

I will give it to the drill sergeants; looking back, I don’t know how they kept their heads on straight. We had everything from the over-educated know-it-alls to the females out to prove themselves. I think they scared me the most. They had an effective way of getting their point across. They’d scream over anyone and everyone until we all gave in.

Then there were the females who were cute and didn’t have to lift a finger.

There were the males who were physically fit, and the drill sergeants loved them. Somehow, they never got fire guard between 1 and 3 a.m.

There were the silent ones. I have pictures to prove they were there. But somehow, no drama affected them.

I liked the funny ones. Always male. Because it was okay to be male and funny. Not female and funny.

Then there were the in-between ones. That’s where I fell in the hierarchy. I wasn’t cute, so I didn’t get the extra ‘attention’ when it came to helping me put on my ruck or have my things carried. I wasn’t physically fit, but I was decent enough that I wasn’t on the bottom rung. I wasn’t loud, so I avoided the drama.

But I was good enough at certain tasks that I shined for 2.3 seconds. Weapons qualifications and land navigation. Those were my areas. Individual events. Put me in the woods with a map and a compass, and I could naturally find my way to the coffee. Weapons qualification made sense. Aim, shoot, and repeat. If the target went down, you live. If it stays up, you’re dead.

I didn’t want to die, so I made sure to hit the target.

In the back of my mind, though, was the fact that I came from a long line of military superstars. I didn’t tell anyone in basic, but I knew I was being watched. Judged. And I better not disappoint. If that wasn’t motivation, I don’t know what is. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful. I knew what was expected of me, carrying the family name. And it made me work harder.

There was no way in hell I was facing my father, grandfather, and uncles with a failure painted on my head.

Being in the shadows made some things easier. No one paid attention when you were in the shower. Yes, it was an open bay with shower heads running down each side. 3 minutes to shower. That was what we were told. Not everyone followed the directive, but I did. Honestly, I didn’t like standing in a bay full of naked women. I had to because that was expected of me. And I liked being clean.

But it wasn’t a good time. It was a slap in the face that I wasn’t as ‘endowed’ as other females. Males may judge each other on their d**k size, but females judge your bra and waist size.

It was the first week, and I remember a female eyeing me up and down and saying, ‘I didn’t know they came that small.’ Everyone laughed. I didn’t.

Another lesson… females are not kind to each other. We were NOT in it together. We were not friends. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and mean girls existed in the military.

Sleep was mandated. The Army has rules. An exhausted pigeon can’t fly as far as a rested one. Notice that I don’t say well rested. Or peppy. Or functioning on all cylinders. I just said ‘rested.’ It’s surprisingly easy for the body to adjust to six hours of interrupted sleep. A five-minute nap while standing in the chow line becomes the equivalent of an hour in bed. Get a fifteen-minute break to use the bathroom; you can sleep while peeing.

Sleep soon became a distant memory. The beds were uncomfortable, the pillows were flat from years of use, and the wool was surprisingly itchy. Plus, add in the sounds of 35 females in an open bay. Snoring, crying, moaning, and nightmares. And that was all before the on-duty drill sergeant got a hair up their ass for a perceived infraction, followed by a 30-minute ‘coming to Jesus’ moment.

Food. That’s always the first question. Of course, they fed us. It would be considered inhumane if they didn’t. I think there are laws against that. But we didn’t get a choice. What we were served was what we ate.

Eggs, stale toast, rice, a brown glue-like substance called meatloaf. Beef stew that had more spice than a Cajun gumbo sitting in the pot for three days. And spaghetti. So much damn spaghetti that it took me years to eat it again.

I remember there was one of those dessert display things in the middle of the chow hall. It rotated, highlighting chocolate cake, apple pie, and coffee cake. There was also an invisible line on the floor around it. And the only people who could cross that line without dying a slow death were the PT studs and the drill sergeants.

It took me years to realize I could eat chocolate cake without guilt. Like 15 years. Even now, eating dessert feels like cheating on my body. Of course, I’m really good at pushing those thoughts away and can put away a row of Oreos before you can say, ‘Hand me one.’

Now, this was years ago. I heard basic training has changed over the years. I don’t know. When I came in, the old-timers thought we had it easy. They would talk shit about us ‘young blood’ who didn’t know what real suffering was. Just like us salty veterans do now about the new recruits.

It’s a game.

No one ever suffers more than you do. No one knows how hard it was. No one can understand. The truth is, we all just want to hold on to the memory that we survived. We want to believe that we were the last of real ‘badasses.’ Hearing that anyone else might have had a hard time diminishes what we accomplished.

It’s something that I think about a lot now. How us veterans shit talk new recruits. Just like in the shower bay when I was judged on my boob size.

Veterans are a community of mean girls with gray hair and bad knees.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post You don’t need sleep, food, or friends to survive. appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Death by PowerPoint and hard lessons…

Friends,

Okay, it wasn’t death by PowerPoint. It was death by an overhead projector. Did PowerPoint exist back in 1999? I’m not sure. I remember being selected to run the overhead projector one day. I had to flip the plastic sheets every time the drill sergeant nodded in my direction.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than getting selected for that job. You had to pay attention to what was on the screen and watch the drill sergeants’ pace around the room. Miss the small nod of their head to change the sheet and face the consequences.

I never knew where to look or what to pay attention to.

Military rank and customs were the topics of the class. A long tradition of where to stand, how to address higher ranking officials, and rank. The army is nothing without its rank.

I was a nobody at the time. The collars of my uniform were smooth as silk. What I wouldn’t have given to have E-2 mosquito wings. There were a few in my platoon that were E-3s and E-4s because of college or ROTC. They were gods.

That rank on their collar meant they belonged.

Looking back, they were just as lost as me, just with a little more education and life experience. But at the time, I didn’t know that. They were chosen to stand in front of the platoon as platoon sergeants or selected as squad leaders.

A job I didn’t want. Too much pressure. I was getting into enough trouble without adding more responsibilities. I don’t really remember why I was switched out with so many ‘battle buddies,’ but the drill sergeants felt sorry for whoever got selected to hang out with me for the week.

I smiled too much. Laughed too loudly. Made jokes. I was having the time of my life. I knew when to wake up, what uniform to wear, what time to be somewhere. Except for all the damn running, I was in my element. Not much could phase me.

That was my first mistake.

In basic, you are not allowed to have a personality. At least not the females. I had a host of strong female leaders who fought tooth and nail to get to where they were. In their world, being friendly meant not being taken seriously. It meant you were sleeping with someone. Let’s call a spade a spade. No reason to pretend it wasn’t that way. No matter how much it hurts to hear.

Females were second-class citizens who had to prove themselves daily to be accepted. I’m not sure that’s how they felt; I can’t speak for them. But that was the harsh truth they drilled into us females. At least, that’s the lesson I learned.

Because they tore my personality to shreds and built a new version of me.

I don’t hate them for it. I appreciate that they took the time to do it. It was another one of many lessons I would have to learn over the years. Boobs meant that you were dumber, slower, and not worthy of the title soldier.

Two weeks of classroom instruction taught me a lot. How to read a map. How to dig a foxhole. What movements were effective in what environment.

And how not to talk.

Gone were the days of telling stories and making sarcastic remarks. If I said anything, not only did I have the drill sergeants on my ass, but a host of males rolled their eyes at me. I think that’s when I first learned that there was always a dark part of the room. If you stood in it, people forgot you existed.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post Death by PowerPoint and hard lessons… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.

Running, shin splints, and nose bleeds…

Friends,

Ten weeks is a long time to be hungry.

I remember being very hungry during basic training.

After the initial gear issue, it was time to get down to business. And the first order of business was a P.T. test.

Ah, yes… the P.T. Test. A test of endurance, strength, and flexibility. The first one was just an initial overview. We didn’t have to do the ‘full requirements.’ They just wanted to see where we were physically. What did I learn? That the ground is pretty fucking far away when you are doing push-ups. That I had no stomach muscle to speak of. And a mile is a LONG four laps when drill sergeants stare at you.

Needless to say, I didn’t impress anyone.

I was put into ‘D’ group. Which meant I couldn’t run, and if I had to carry a man off the battlefield, we would both be killed. It was the first of many days I would question if I was cut out to be a soldier.

Don’t worry- the drill sergeants would change that.

I was hoping that my senior drill would be the one to take over ‘D’ group. He seemed pleasant. He had a big smile and a southern drawl, and he looked the part. If there was anyone who could shape me into becoming a warrior, it was him.

I soon learned he was wary of females. Not in a bad way. He didn’t treat us differently- he hated us all equally. However, there is hesitation when a male is selected to train female recruits. There were too many unknowns and too much room for ‘perception’; in other words, he had to walk on eggshells around us.

The Army hadn’t integrated males and females into basic training until 1994. This was 1999. That was not much time to wrap your head around changes. I didn’t know that at the time. I just assumed it had always been that way.

If we had to fight together, surely we had to train together.

Side note: integrated means we were in the same platoon and squads. The Army first tried integration in 1976 in Ft. Jackson, SC, where women were integrated down to the company level. But, they were still separate as far as the platoon level. In 1982, the Army discontinued the program because ‘men were not being physically challenged enough with women in the company.’

When I came in, females in the military really weren’t a thing. In the 80’s only 8.5% of the military (all branches) was female. And by 2000, it had jumped to only 15%. In 2000, military members totaled an astonishing 1.2 million. All branches- active and reserve. But only 15% of that population was female. If my math is right (I used Google), there were only 180,000 of us.

When I joined, there were no females in the infantry. But that’s a story for another day.

My group leader for the runs was a lovely, short female with blond hair, blue eyes, and a snarl that could scare a lion. I don’t think she knew she was in charge of ‘D’ group. The Turtle Group.

The company scheduled to run two miles? We did 2.5.

Sprint day on the field? Nope, we were sprinting and running.

I must have run the whole of Fort Leonard Wood over the course of ten weeks. I knew where the housing was. How to get to the PX. And where every damn hill was located.

God, I hated her and her effortless running ability.

But she was good. I improved from a 12-minute mile to a 17-minute two-mile in less than eight weeks. Looking back, I’m not sure this could be considered ‘wise’ by the medical community. But it was effective. And the Army is known for being ‘effective.’

Have you ever had shin splints? It’s pretty painful. Makes walking hard. Running becomes even harder. Not in the Army. Not in basic training. Nope, the pain is just a way to let you know you’re still alive. And if we are alive, then we can run.

I remember one day we were doing Last Man Up during a three-mile run. It was hot. A strangely hot day for 5:30 in the morning in May. We ran so hard that my nose bled. But there’s no stopping when you’re a mile away from the chow hall, so I let it flow.

Blood dripped down my face, into my mouth, and onto my P.T. shirt. The drill sergeant was mad that I had gotten my uniform dirty, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was hungry. I wanted to go back to the barracks and get some drippy eggs with stale toast. If I was lucky, there would be enough coffee for me to get a cup.

That’s the main reason I ran so hard. The first group in line got coffee. Looking back, the line was formed by platoons and rotated. But I remember thinking that if I ran faster and further, my reward would be a lukewarm cup of dyed water.

I can say, with all honesty in the world- that is when my coffee obsession started.

Until tomorrow, my friends- Keep Reading and Stay Caffeinated.

If tales of legend, myth, and fantasy topped with a cup of coffee interest you, I suggest checking out my book, The Writer and the Librarian. It’s a historical fantasy about a middle-aged woman faced with a decision: accept what is written in the history books or find out for herself the truth behind the stories. Limited edition copies are now available on my website (Shop – R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author (rlgeerrobbins.com) or at

Amazon: https://a.co/d/flQhakX

Barnes and Noble: The Writer and the Librarian by Rose Geer-Robbins, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Target: The Writer And The Librarian – (the Raven Society) By R L Geer-robbins (paperback) : Target

And on any of your favorite Indie Book Store websites!

Current sales as of today= 115/1500

The post Running, shin splints, and nose bleeds… appeared first on R.L. Geer-Robbins / Author.