Stan R. Mitchell's Blog, page 45

Part 5 of “My time in the Corps.”

Chapter 5: Training with Force Recon

Good ole’ Third Platoon landed the best assignment we could have ever scored (in my mind) prior to my first deployment out to sea.

As our battalion was preparing to deploy for six months to the Mediterranean Sea, each company within the battalion was assigned specific specialties. One company became a “helo company” that trained especially hard in helicopter operations. Another became a “track company” that specialized in beach assaults from inside the back of “amtracks,” which are Assault Amphibious Vehicles (AAVs). These amtracks/AAVs are essentially floating tanks that are extended more than twenty-five feet long and can carry up to twenty men in their cargo holds.

Our company, Alpha Company, was picked to become “boat company.” Boat companies train to hit the beach in the darkness of night, cutting through waves in small rubber Zodiac boats. These are the same boats you see the SEALs using in the movies. Almost everyone in the company was excited to be picked as boat company. And we had a heck of a fun time on the beach for a couple of weeks, learning to ride them correctly (up on the wide gunnels) and right them when they flipped.

But Third Platoon scored a special treat when we were picked to work alongside Force Recon as a reinforcing element.

For those who don’t know, Force Recon Marines are the elite of the elite. They’re like Navy SEALs and see themselves as equals to that much higher profile group of warriors. Also like the SEALs, they parachute, dive, and do hostage rescue missions, which are probably the hardest missions out there. These missions are the ones like you usually see SWAT teams doing on TV shows. You sneak up, put some explosive on the door, and blow it off the hinges. Then the teams rush inside, clearing rooms as quickly as possible before the bad guys start killing hostages.

This is super high-pressure, high-intensity stuff, and you have to be light on the trigger because a round through a wall kills your buddy. Oh, and you also have to be able to do this in the dark or the light, and sometimes upon command when you’re not necessarily completely ready.

It takes an enormous amount of time to fully train a Force Recon Marine. They go to jump school, dive school, SERE school (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape), and many others. Most of them have been in for at least six or eight years. By far, the majority of them back in ’97 were senior corporals or salty sergeants.

These were the best of the best, and they made a huge impression on a nineteen-year-old Marine named Stan.

As part of our battalion’s deployment, Force Recon needed to be able to do deep strike hostage rescue missions that were way behind enemy lines. They also needed to be able to do ship takedowns.

The problem was Force Recon is a small unit. They were only two squads of eight. So, a mere sixteen men, plus a small leadership element.

It doesn’t matter how good you are, if you’re just sixteen men a couple hundred miles behind enemy lines, you’re going to be in trouble if you make heavy contact. The SEALs combat this problem by often having Rangers as a quick reaction force.

Force Recon platoons would pick a platoon of Marines, give them some extra (awesome) training, and learn to work with them over a six-month period. That’s exactly what my platoon — good ole’ Third Platoon — was assigned to do.

Our adventure started with us going to a two-week advanced training course put on by SOTG, the Special Operations Training Group. We primarily worked on shooting well at short distances, usually less than fifty yards. This was part of the Close Quarters Battle (CQB) training you often hear so much about.

For us, it was as if we had landed in heaven. Typically, you never get enough live ammo to shoot as a Marine. They seriously ration that stuff, saving it for either the zombie apocalypse or for when Putin gets to feeling a little froggy. But during this CQB training, we had more ammo than we even wanted.

We were required to fire two thousand rounds during the training evolution, which believe me is a ton. That’s so much shooting that it gets to the point where it’s no longer even fun. That’s so much shoulder time that even a puny M-16 will have your shoulder sore for a couple of days. And don’t even talk about what a pain it is to cleaning your weapon. We spent as much time cleaning weapons as we did anything else, and you haven’t cleaned an M-16 until you’ve fired that many rounds through one.

We did the vast majority of that shooting over just a few days and everyone was really stepping it up. Just knowing we would be around the Force Recon guys was enough to make guys stand a little prouder.

We also worked hard on fast roping out of helicopters, since we’d be doing that a lot. Fast roping is sort of like rappelling, except you aren’t tied in. You grip a wide rope with your hands and feet and hold on for dear life. It can be pretty terrifying when you do it on a real ship out at sea, with the wind blowing the rope and the ship below you rising up and down in as much as fifteen-foot increments.

As if all that wasn’t fast enough, we also practiced urban ops with Force Recon. We’d go to various cities (after coordinating with the local police, of course), ride around in the back of vans or moving trucks, and spring out to hit homes in practice assaults with Force Recon.

Sometimes, even a couple of our guys would be in civilian work clothes, pretending to be construction workers. We learned it was often best to block a road with cones and work signs (with hidden shooters out of sight in a van), instead of having a bunch of men carrying weapons out in the open.

This was high speed, low drag stuff right here, and it couldn’t have possibly gotten better for a platoon of plain ole’ ground pounders. And yet it did.

Force Recon wanted our platoon on the edges of any homes they hit, acting as a blocking force with our long weapons and machine guns. But they also wanted one fire team to work directly with them. Since they had to use small caliber submachine guns to clear buildings, they also required a fire team of four Marines to bring long weapons and reinforce them.

Force Recon used MP5s on their room clearing and hostage rescue work, but these weapons are only 9 mm and have a short range. MP5s are perfect for short-range, indoor work because they don’t penetrate multiple walls. But if you’re patrolling to a target and make contact with the enemy, the last thing you want is lightweight, short range MP5s, which are only good to a hundred yards or so. You need serious firepower with range. Such as M-16s, 40 mm grenade launchers, and machine guns.

That’s what a fire team of four Marines could provide and that’s what Force Recon wanted.

As you probably guessed, I have no idea how it happened, but my fire team was picked to be the four-man team that went with Force Recon everywhere on these strikes. I’d like to think my fire team was one of the best in the platoon, but looking back at the pictures from that time, I can’t say that for sure. We had some awesome fire teams in Third Platoon. But for whatever reason, our fire team was selected and the Force Recon guys really took us in under their wings.

We were quite regularly sent off to them to practice their hostage rescue missions and they were constantly pouring knowledge into our four little heads. They knew they only had six months to get us ready and they wanted us absolutely as ready as possible.

All of this was beyond incredible, but the cherry on top was working with Navy SEALs. You only hear about these guys and it was great to see them in action.

Often, on ship takedowns, the target is so big that you just need a lot of personnel to take it down. On those missions, the Navy SEALs would fast rope in first from helicopters, followed by Force Recon, followed by Third Platoon.

Yeah, we weren’t doing much room clearing — mostly holding uncleared danger areas and passageways — but we were doing ship takedowns with the Navy SEALs and Force Recon. How many people can say that?!

Seriously, what are the chances of getting to do that as a regular infantryman? It. Was. Awesome.

I’ll go into my impressions of Navy SEALs in the next chapter, but let’s get to the good stuff: taking our lives to the next level.

Lessons learned

I will always believe our platoon was picked to work with Force Recon because our lieutenant and platoon sergeant set higher standards than the other lieutenants and platoon sergeants in Alpha Company. I think both of these men, who I was lucky enough to serve under, desired to be the best. As a result of their hard work, we landed a phenomenal opportunity.

Not just a phenomenal opportunity, but a once-in-a-lifetime, win-the-lottery chance to work with one of the most elite forces in the world. The chances of getting assigned to this have to be almost inconceivable.

And then for our fire team to get selected to work directly with the elite group was just another level of luck. I had no idea any of this could happen when our fireteam was working so hard in the months prior to the deployment. We were simply competing with the other fire teams in our platoon, trying our best for mere bragging rights at the end of that week or field op, whichever we were on at the time. But we just had a great group of guys who all pushed each other as hard as was physically possible.  

Speaking of the fireteam, we also once got to lead the entire battalion on a field exercise that we were being tested on. There were fellow Marines out there operating as the “enemy” in different color uniforms and our battalion of eight hundred Marines needed to move up a road without getting ambushed.

Somehow, our fire team was picked to do a route recon alone, looking for the enemy. We took such great pride in searching as hard as we could for any enemy along the road, trying our hardest to find them before they found the battalion that trailed behind us by a mile or so.

My point in all this is that with hard work and great sacrifice comes even greater rewards. That was true in my military career and it’s always been true in the various places I’ve worked in my civilian life.

Sure, there are times politics may beat you out of an opportunity, but usually hard work wins out. Thus, the lesson is that if you’re not giving all you have, and I mean every single ounce of effort that you can possibly summon, then you may be missing out on some incredible opportunities. Some training you could be sent to. An unexpected promotion or transfer to a better division. A customer or fellow business person from another company who sees your talent and recruits you to their firm.

Everyday you’re making impressions, so you need to ask yourself if you’re making the right kind.

It’s not just opportunities you may be missing either. There were clear winners and losers in our company.

One platoon not only didn’t get assigned to Force Recon, but they got assigned to train on repairing and maintaining boat motors. And trust me, for an entire year (a six-month training workup and six months on ship), that’s mostly what they did.

They worked so hard in an effort to keep a bunch of worn-out motors running, all while facing the limitations of having inadequate parts or instruction. Worse, it wasn’t like these guys were mechanics or had a mechanical background. They were regular infantry guys who received some lame, insufficient education in how to work on the motors.

Trust me, these guys hated their entire deployment. Can you imagine joining the Marine Corps to be an infantryman and then spending a year of that time working on boat motors and shabby boats that needed constant attention and patching up?

But that same thing could be headed your way. That platoon assigned to work on boats was a good platoon. They probably were only slightly behind us in terms of ability, but look what that earned them: one year of pure hell.

The same thing could happen to you wherever you are. If you’re the one not working hard or complaining all the time, you might find yourself transferred to something even worse. Or suddenly with fewer hours scheduled.

But forget the negative consequences. Think of the positives for pushing harder in your life. If you can find a way to get yourself around people out of your league, you need to do so. Like every chance that you can.

That year of being around Force Recon did wonders for my growth and confidence, as I’m sure it did for everyone else in the platoon. (Many of my fellow platoon members went off to achieve impressive feats in both the military and civilian worlds.)

The same lesson was repeated in college. Being around professors who were far more intelligent and better educated than me helped ratchet up my ambitions and desire for learning. It’s like throwing gas on a fire. Suddenly, I wasn’t just some guy from East Tennessee with little money and limited opportunities. Instead, I had examples right in front of me of distinguished scholars, authors, etc.

In summary, if you have a similar chance to network “up” as the saying goes, make sure you’re doing it. It could be anything from attending association meetings you’ve been avoiding because they’re boring. It could be serving on the board of a nonprofit. It could be volunteering for some leadership position on your kid’s sports team. Just any chance you can grab to be around awesome people, you grab it.

You never know how much it’ll help lift you up.

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Besides telling people about my books, there are two easy ways: First, you can leave a tip. Just click this PayPal link and make a small contribution. : ) Or, you can click the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the Amazon image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!!

Part 4 of “My time in the Corps”

Chapter 4: Making it and standing out

By the time I spent a couple of months at my unit, I had turned into a pretty good Marine. Or at least a decent one.

During that time, we deployed to the Mojave Desert for some brutal training. The Marine Corps has a base there (Twentynine Palms) that’s one of the largest training areas in the country. It’s so large that you can practice large-scale attacks with live fire, including tanks, mortars, artillery, and airpower.

It’s probably the closest you can come to real combat in a peacetime environment, and to this day, Marine units deploy there for a month of training prior to being sent to either Iraq or Afghanistan.

I’m assuming I proved myself to those around me during that month because when we returned, I was made a fire team leader.

A fire team is four Marines, so if you’re in charge of one, you’ve got three people under you. (A squad is three fire teams.) Promotions to fire team leader are competitive (as is everything in the Marine Corps), so presumably I did just enough in our one month of desert training to rate being promoted to fire team leader.

I was decent at running and shooting well, I could hold my own in a fight (which matters for your standing in a platoon, since horseplay is constant). I was also pretty strong on my “knowledge,” which is what the Marine Corps calls mastering the details your job. This includes remembering everything from knowing the precise range of your M-16 to how to treat a sucking chest wound to how to drill a platoon, keeping them in step and looking sharp.

I lived in books, which was no different than when I was as a kid, except now I was reading Marine Corps manuals in between Tom Clancy novels. I’m not sure why I enjoyed studying manuals so much, but I was so excited about my career that I absolutely wanted to be the best.

But while running, fighting, and reciting knowledge off the top of my head wasn’t a problem, there were two things that I wasn’t good at. The first one was humps, which is what the Marine Corps calls forced marches. These are basically really long hikes with all your gear. Believe me, the packs were heavy, plus you had your flak jacket, web gear, helmet, and rifle. These were usually six to twelve miles long, but could go as high as eighteen or even twenty-five, which was the maximum distance expected by the Marine Corps in a day.

The pace is three miles per hour, which doesn’t sound too bad until you’re walking in sand, mud, or loose gravel. And the weight doesn’t sound too bad until you’ve gone a couple miles. The pack weighs usually about forty to fifty pounds, plus you’ve got a nine-pound flack jacket, eight pounds of gear in your harness (canteens, magazines, etc.), and a five-pound helmet. Top all that off with a seven-pound rifle.

That was our typical load, but if it was cold weather, the pack weight would soar to eighty pounds or more because you needed more layers and your insulated sleeping bag.

Given that I weighed 123 pounds when I hit the Fleet, that sixty to eighty pounds felt a whole lot different to me than it did to a guy who weighed 180. Shorter guys like me also had to contend with the fact that we had shorter strides, which meant we had to walk faster just to keep up!

As you’ve guessed by now, I hated humping! Most Marines did. They quite often pushed you mentally to your limit and beyond, and you didn’t want to fall out of one. There was probably no faster way to lose the respect of your peers than to fall out of a hump and have to ride in the Humvee that followed. Not only were you shamed for such a thing, but often if you failed to complete a hump they would force you to do a remedial hump on Saturday, when you were supposed to be off. Seriously, no one wants to do a hump on a Saturday in a group of just a few guys.

Humps were easily one of my biggest fears in the Marine Corps. We would learn about an upcoming one sometimes as much as six or eight days in advance. Immediately, I’d start worrying about it. I’d plan my meals and hydration, which pair of boots I thought would work best, you name it. Every single thing I could think of to help me not fall out. I always tried to plan out every single detail that would help me make sure I survived the grueling event. If we were in the field four or five days prior to the hump home, I’d make sure I saved snacks for energy. I’d also make sure I kept at least one pair of socks clean and ready for use on that sole event. I’d even pack foot powder to cut down on how many blisters I’d get.

These little things don’t sound like much, but they gave me a small edge.

Besides all the planning and mental preparation, I also exercised like a demon when we weren’t in the field. At night, if we were back in the barracks instead of the field, I’d do heavy pack runs to further condition my back and shoulders. Carrying a load I could barely shoulder was one of my greater fears, so I constantly tried to work on my weakness, piling more and more in that pack to carry around at night.

I always had the mentality that if I pushed myself on my own (at night or at the gym) harder than our officers would ever be able to, then they’d never be able to break me on a hump or field op. Of course, I got mocked a fair amount for my pack runs (probably rightly so, since I’m sure I looked like a complete moron). But I always figured the ribbing by my friends beat letting them down and suffering the embarrassment that would have gone with falling out of a hump.

My second big fear was jumping up to reach the high bar on the obstacle course. I was so good at all the obstacles and rope climbs that you must traverse, but I always worried to death about that eight-foot-high bar on the second obstacle.

I’ve mentioned in earlier chapters that I’m vertically challenged, but I also am blessed with an inability to jump high. So pretty much every time I managed to leap and grab that eight-foot high bar, it was a miracle.

A few other Marines couldn’t reach it, and most of the time, you were allowed to have another Marine run up and put their knee out for you to jump off from. But I couldn’t bring myself to go asking for help. That seemed beneath the kind of Marine I wanted to become in my mind, so I constantly worked on my jumping.

Usually, after my pack runs, I’d swing by the obstacle course and practice running up and leaping to reach that bar. It’s funny in hindsight how much I worried about grabbing that silly bar, but you don’t want to lose face in the Marine Corps.

In many ways, a Marine squad or platoon is like a gang. Even if you’ve got rank on your shoulders, it means nothing. You are judged on a daily basis for your competence, toughness, and ability to keep up. You start falling out of runs or humps, or not being able to do the obstacle course (some guys struggled with other obstacles, which I could do with ease), and you’d quickly be noticed and usually given some attention that you didn’t want from your fellow Marines.

That attention would usually start with encouragement, some tips or advice, and even the offer to help them train on that one thing on their off time. But if a Marine refused that help and didn’t fix their shortcomings, it would quickly turn into verbal harassment and worse. Our leaders always told us we were only as strong as our weakest link, and we took them at their word. We brought plenty of harassment and pain to those who couldn’t keep up.

Clearly, as I hope I’ve explained, I worked a lot on my weaknesses (humps and jumping up to reach that eight-foot bar). But I not only worked on my weaknesses, I also focused on what I was best at: knowledge.

Ever since childhood, there are few things I enjoyed more than reading. Knowing that a love of reading was probably my only true strength, I poured my focus wholeheartedly on my one skill. I read manual after manual that the Marine Corps had published. These were dense, dry things, which were not much fun to read even if you enjoy reading.

But as I learned about advanced tactics and strategies well beyond my rank and paygrade, I knew I was honing the one ability that could help me stand out. I may have been short and unremarkable, but I knew I could read and study circles around most Marines. That’s where I poured it on and worked super hard to magnify my strengths.

Two things primarily drove me forward: fear and ambition.

I feared falling short and I truly wanted to be the best. (Still do.)

These things, the fear and the desire, are what helped me stand out and be a pretty good Marine. And standing out allowed me to do some pretty exciting things during my enlistment. Standing out got me assigned to a coveted position alongside Force Recon, which I’ll explain in a later chapter. It also led me to earn Marine of the Quarter for the entire 2nd Marine Division, which I’ll also explain later. Finally, I managed to earn the rank of Sergeant, which is not something that’s easy to attain in the field of infantry within a four-year period.

Each small victory over my weaknesses (getting good at humps and never missing the bar) led to something even greater, but if I hadn’t put in the time and work as a newly minted PFC (Private First Class), none of them may have happened.

Would a Marine who needed to be helped up over the bar or couldn’t complete a strenuous hump have gotten attached to Force Recon? Probably not.

Now flip the question to your own life.

Will you get promoted at your job when you’re not good at certain aspects of it?

You know the answer to that. No, you’re probably not going to get promoted unless you’re well rounded. Sure, you’re good at the rest of it, but you need to be working on whatever part of yourself or your job that you’re not good at.

You want to reach the next phase in life, right? Good. Let’s get to work. (And if you answered “no” to my final question, you need to go look at your wife and kids and see just who you’re impacting. It also helps to imagine and dream some, thinking of just where you might end up if you can push through your current level.)

I think we should all be reaching for that next level in our careers and in our lives. Maybe you’re a great manager at work, but you lose your temper easily. Well, you need to work on that. Or maybe you’re great at most of your job, but you’re weak at math. Same thing: you need to work on that.

Maybe you’re good at saving, but don’t know much about investing. In fact, you’re scared to. Same advice: you need to work on that.

We all have weaknesses and we should all be honing and improving them. This isn’t rocket science, but it isn’t easy either. Sometimes, you’ve got to do a gutcheck.

So do a gutcheck, and if you can plow two acres but are only currently plowing one, then I respectfully say that you’re letting yourself down, you’re letting your family down, and you’re letting your community down.

Want to fix it? You already know how. Recognize your weaknesses, work on them, quit your half assing, and pick up the pace. I’ll meet you at the top.

Lessons learned

Work on your weaknesses so that you’re not below standard. This will take some hard work and probably be something you have to do on your own time, but it’s worth it in the end to do so.

Also, don’t share your weaknesses.

I hated humps and worried about that high bar, but I’m not sure I told many people. Probably, with the exception of my closest three or four friends, they had no idea I feared either of them.

When it came time to do the obstacle course, I tried to be the first in line to go. Same thing on humps. Sure, I hated them and worried I might not have the strength to finish them, but I didn’t show it. As we were putting on packs, I’d be the saying, “This isn’t anything. What’s eighteen miles? They can’t break us.”

I tried to always be motivated and fired up (and loud), so I would enter every event that we faced as full of piss and vinegar as possible. With my night runs, if someone asked (other than my closest friends), I’d tell them I was training so I could make the cut to join Force Recon, a really elite unit in the Marine Corps.

I’m pretty sure most guys in the barracks saw my night runs as simply Mitchell being Mitchell. You know, the silly motivated guy who wanted to be the best. They probably had no idea that it was Mitchell worrying he couldn’t complete an upcoming hump.

The takeaway here is don’t mention to your boss what you’re not good at. You might be right on the cusp of a transfer or promotion. Instead of talking about your weaknesses, fix them. And when you’re assigned work involving them, go enter it with good cheer. Tell your boss you’d be glad to take that math-related assignment on.

End of sermon. You know what to do now. Fix your weaknesses and magnify your strengths.

I hope this somehow inspires you in your own life. I want to encourage you that no matter where you are in your journey, and no matter what weaknesses you may have, you can overcome them. You can double the effort you’ve been putting into something or do additional research until you’re comfortable with it.

I was constantly asking Marines who had a reputation for being great at humps what their secret was. Some said just take it one step at a time. Others said just focus on the pack in front of you. Still others said to sing a song in your mind, keeping yourself distracted.

I utilized all these techniques and others, especially when I was panicking and struggling to catch my breath. (It can be hard to breath with all that weight pulling down you.)

Just like me, you can go from being the kid who’s bullied in high school to being labeled the best Marine in an entire division. Have some faith in yourself. You’ve got this.

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Besides telling people about my books, there are two easy ways: First, you can leave a tip. Just click this PayPal link and make a small contribution. : ) Or, you can click the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the Amazon image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!!

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Part 3 of “My time in the Corps.”

Chapter 3: Snakes in the grass

Let’s lighten things up a bit. We’ve had two heavy stories, so let me share a hilarious one with you. (Here’s Part 1 and Part 2 if you missed them!)

This story involves my first ever field op with my new unit. I was super nervous for two reasons. First, I was the new guy and I did not want to make any mistakes. I just wanted to hide among all the others and not screw up too badly.

Secondly, I was nervous because I knew this would be a tough field op. One thing you learn in the Marine Corps is that each step of your training is tougher than the prior.

So you leave Boot Camp thinking that was pretty hard, but now you’re a Marine. Unfortunately, you learn in School of Infantry that everything is much harder. Your packs are heavier and the distances you must travel are much greater.

Then you arrive to your unit, which is called the Fleet (short for Fleet Marine Force). Whereas you have spent three months in Boot Camp and two months in School of Infantry hardening your body and trying to learn the art of war, Marines in the Fleet have spent years mastering and perfecting war. They are ready to deploy on a moment’s notice to either the fleet, from whence they get their name, or by air to some distant land.

The safety parameters in the fleet are much smaller as well. By the time you arrive in the fleet, this is no longer a game. If it ever was.

Your unit is often on air alert or preparing for an upcoming deployment, which usually happens every two years. You find yourself watching the news more, because you know it’s your unit that could be called up.

Thus, I went into my first field op fully aware that I would be tested, and certainly under close scrutiny from the long-time vets of Third Platoon, Alpha Company, First Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment.

Any mistake I made on this field op could cost the Marines of Third Platoon their lives if this was the real deal. My squad leader, a tall intimidating presence, make sure myself and the other new Marines realized how important this field op was.

“This isn’t like the School of Infantry,” he warned. “In the fleet (Fleet Marine Force), we do shit exactly how we’d do it in war. ”

There will be absolutely no talking under any circumstance is. We will only be using hand and arm signals. Just like war.”

He was referring to how in the School of Infantry, you will sometimes pause in the middle of a patrol so that an instructor can point out that you are too close together. Or to spread out. Or should have watch the road longer before crossing it. Whatever teaching point you failed to achieve. In the Fleet, you let the field op play out and then debrief at its end.

This field op was focused on patrolling. We were all cammied up

it would be running security patrols around our patrol base, as well as patrolling and trying to find an enemy force that we were going up against. This is real fun stuff if you’re not brand-new and so nervous that you’re about to die.

And of course, as was my luck, the new guy from Tennessee was ordered to be the point man, one of the most stressful positions on a patrol. The point man is the lead man, and you are responsible for seeing the enemy before they see you.

I could not believe I was being put on point on my very first patrol. Talk about a stressful dress rehearsal? My squad leader, who was an excellent Marine, told me before we stepped off, “Remember, under no circumstances are you to say a single word. Not a single word.”

As if I weren’t nervous enough. You see, hand and arm signals that you use in the fleet are often different than the ones you learn in the School of Infantry. Many of them overlap, but not all of them.

Besides worrying about hand and arm signals, I was also worried about where we were going. I’m sure the squad leader showed us on a map or route, but I was so new and nervous that I hadn’t paid well enough attention. Furthermore, I never dreamed I would actually be point man.

If you are not point man, a patrol is easy. You just follow the man in front of you, keeping the correct spacing. But now all that pressure had been placed on me.

I’ve now set the stage for the story, so let’s begin. We stepped off and were moving through a creek bed.

Creek beds can be good to move through in a patrol, because you are in the low ground and it’s often overgrown with vegetation. This thick brush provides great cover and concealment.

My squad leader had told me before the patrol started that I was to follow the creek bed and at the right distance, he would point in the direction we needed to go. That’s how we ran things back then. The number two man kept an eye on a compass as well as the pace count. Remember this is in the days before GPS was prevalent. All we had to get us where we were going was a map, a pace count, and an azimuth from our compass.

A note about maps. It sounds easy not to get lost when you have a map, but when you’re in thick woods, without hills or roads to determine your location, you must keep a perfect pace count and azimuth direction. Otherwise, you will absolutely get fuzzy about where you actually are. (Sure, you can walk to hit a road, but you’re trying to master war and avoid such rookie moves.)

As we moved on our patrol, I desperately tried to stay quiet, watching my steps, while also keeping my eyes up and looking around for an enemy patrol from another platoon.

Every few steps, I would glance back at my squad leader to make sure I was doing nothing wrong. As well as to make sure we were not supposed to head in a different direction. Each time I looked back, I got the impression he was not happy with our pace and I should be moving faster. I tried to do so.

We moved a little further when suddenly I see a large black object squiggling away for me. You guessed it: it was a massive black water moccasin. Easily over two feet long and thick as your wrist in the middle.

Certainly the biggest snake I had ever seen out in the wild up till that point in my life. We had been briefed on water moccasins in School of Infantry. We’ve been told they were poisonous and often aggressive and that we should stay the heck away from them.

My heart was already racing and I was just thankful it was moving away. I glance behind me and my squad leader looked furious that I had stopped. He raised his hand and gave me the move out hand signal several times, clearly pissed that the short guy from Tennessee was holding up the patrol. I nodded, took a deep breath, and tried to compose myself.

Get with it Mitchell, I told myself, or this guy (or maybe Smith) is going to kill you when the patrol is over.

I went to take my next step and that’s when I saw the black object by my feet. Yes, a second black water moccasin, just as big, was curled up and ready to strike, just a foot or two from my left leg.

You can’t even put a number on how fast my heart was pounding. We were weighed down with a ton of awkward, heavy gear, and I knew there was no way I could jump back and not be bitten.

I have no idea how I managed to not leap back and scream. I guess we can credit Marine Corps discipline and my incredible fear of my squad leader and Smith.

After the snake and I had a terror-filled two or three second stare down, I realized my best chance was to slowly — read very SLOWLY — step backward.

I may have moved slower than I had ever moved in my life, but I slowly lifted my left leg and took a half step back. And then I slowly moved my right foot back a half step.

Once I was back a good five or six feet, I looked back at my squad leader and pointed at the snake. There is no hand and arm signal for snake, so I pointed at it and use my right hand to make a squiggly movement. He was a good fifteen yards back, so I knew he couldn’t see it. Plus, it was laying behind a log, half out of sight.

My squad leader was trying to decipher my hand and arm signal, while also looking at me like I was an idiot. He raised his hands in a “huh” look of questioning, and I pointed at the snake again, then repeated the squiggly hand signal.

He looked confused for a second, nodded, and gave me the move out signal several times, impatient at my delays.

I nodded and made a good five-foot circle away from the water moccasin. I also managed to immediately get back in the zone.

Who knows? Perhaps the adrenaline shot had my senses on high alert. But I was so focused, looking around for the enemy and watching where I stepped. Definitely watching where I stepped after encountering those two snakes.

I had spent a lot of time in the woods as a kid, growing up as a pretty serious deer and squirrel hunter. And though I hated be on point for my first patrol, I was also pretty confident that I could sneak up and see the other patrol before they saw me.

I was precisely in such a state when the the loudest screams I’ve probably ever heard erupted behind me.

“Shit! M*therf*cker! Holy shit! Oh my word!”

I turned in time to see my squad leader jumping and screaming like you wouldn’t believe. He even threw his rifle down, which is just something you never do as a Marine.

It was at that moment that I realized he hadn’t walked around the snake. Or understood my hand and arm signal.

I stood there, sheepishly watching him as he was bent over, hands on his knees, other Marines running up to check on him.

“What was it?” one of them asked.

“It was a f*cking snake,” he snarled. “It damn near bit me.”

After probably thirty seconds, he collected his wits enough to demand, “Mitchell, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did, Corporal,” I said. “I gave you the hand signal.”

I repeated the squiggly hand signal I had passed back to him.

“I thought you were asking if you should keep following the creek,” he said, shaking his head in exasperation and still breathing hard. “That thing nearly bit me.”

Several squad members were looking at me with anger-filled eyes.

“It nearly bit me, too,” I said. “I saw the second one crawling off, stopped for a moment scared out of my mind, then went to take another step, and BAM, saw the curled up one a foot or two away. That’s when I pointed at it and gave you that signal. You had said not to talk, so I didn’t know what else to do.”

Several of the squad members were eyeing me at that point, and it was on that day that I later learned I had earned the first bit of respect from them. Some of them were from the city and probably even more scared of snakes than I was. And then the squad leader’s reaction and breaking of silence had probably caused him to lose more face than he ever wanted.

I felt completely terrible about it and apologized numerous times. He really was one of my favorite squad leaders in the platoon (or that I’d ever have) and I’d soon learn when his replacement came in just how bad a squad leader could be. But that’s a future chapter. And a far less funny story.

Lessons learned

There are four main lessons that I took from this humorous (after the fact) event.

First, I think you need to be careful if you’re in a leadership position about how strong and adamant your orders are. While I understood the need to practice patrolling at a higher level where you avoided talking, there are clearly times when it’s probably necessary. Had he been bitten, it could have been bad. Water moccasin bites can even prove fatal, and we were miles and miles away from roads or emergency care.

But in all the instructions he provided before we stepped off, the primary thing I remember was not to say anything under any circumstances.

The second lesson is a counter to the first. If you’re the one being ordered to do something, there are times when you need to defy that order. I have wished a hundred times over that I had walked back to him, risked his wrath, and whispered that there was a pissed-off snake up ahead that wasn’t budging. (Water moccasins are notorious for being aggressive.) More than anything else, it bothered me that he had lost some face that day. I really liked the guy (still do) and I know what it’s like to be in a leadership position and lose face (you’ll see in plenty of my future stories).

The third lesson I took from the event is no matter how low in rank or status a person is, they may know something that you need to know. Just as I wish I had walked back to him, I’m sure afterward he wished he had walked up to me when the new guy was giving some crazy hand-and-arm signal that made no sense. Such a move would have prevented the entire event from happening as well.

The final thing I learned is don’t rub it in. I’m sure I could have bragged about being brave and keeping my composure, and I could have re-enacted his reaction many times over in front of other Marines. But that would have not only been wrong, it would have been a major lie. The only reason I kept my composure is because I feared him and Smith more than I feared that snake. I also wanted to earn their respect, not go running back to him like some straight boot (newbie).

Furthermore, he was well liked by the other Marines, so if I had shared this story behind his back (or even in his presence), I would have been undermining a man who was well respected. He was nearing the end of his four-year term and he rated the respect that such an accomplishment (and his rank) carried.

Believe me, it’s no joke surviving four years in the infantry. So many get injured or can’t hack the stress. Many go AWOL (called UA, Unauthorized Absence, in the Marine Corps) or find ways to be transferred into something less strenuous.

So to summarize:

Be careful about overly strict instructions, if you’re in charge.
Be willing to speak up and defy what you’re told from above, even if you’re brand new.
If you’re in charge, listen to those below you (no matter their status or level). They may be seeing something that you’re not.
And never gloat or rub in something that you’re lucky enough to pull off. (No one likes an a**hole and I promise you that you won’t get far by acting in such a way.)

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Besides telling people about my books, there are two easy ways: First, you can leave a tip. Just click this PayPal link and make a small contribution. : ) Or, you can click the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the Amazon image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!!

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Part 2 of “My time in the Corps.”

Chapter 2: The phone call that turned me into a man

The second most memorable moment in my life occurred merely a couple of hours after standing up to Smith. (If you missed Part 1, you can catch it by clicking the link.)

Let’s quickly get to that story. (You can watch the video or keep reading!)

If memory serves me correctly, I think I had told my parents I would call that night after checking in with my unit. I had driven eight-plus hours and, after all, I was finally supposed to be happy. Let me explain what I mean by that.

They had gone through the same setbacks I had with Boot Camp and School of Infantry. Each were supposed to be the bliss I had been searching for when I signed up and left home. Each had proven to merely be a milestone along the journey.

I mean, sure, I enjoyed parts of Boot Camp, but I had told them I’d hated how badly we were treated. Who wouldn’t? BUT, School of Infantry will be better, I said prior to leaving for it. I’ll actually be a Marine and won’t be treated completely like shit.

Well, it turned out that School of Infantry wasn’t a whole lot different than Boot Camp. it was eight weeks of brutal, tough training — much more difficult than Boot Camp, which surprised me — and we were still treated like lower-than-life boots (newbies).

But I had ended it by telling my parents, “Now, all the super sucky parts of being a Marine are over. They were just trying to train and mode us in Boot Camp and School of Infantry. Now, finally, they’ll treat us like real men. Like real Marines.”

I truly assumed before packing up to drive down to 1/8 that the enjoyable part of being a Marine would begin at my unit. No more getting screamed at constantly. No more having to wait on taxis to leave base!

I, like every other young Marine, had gone out and bought a new vehicle. Nearly every Marine takes the money they earn while in Boot Camp, which you can’t spend during those three months, so it accumulates nicely, and uses it as a down payment on a vehicle.

Car dealers love service members. It’s a guaranteed payment for them because if you fail to make your payments, they’ll just contact the Marine Corps and garner your wages. And they know you’re going to have a guaranteed job for the next four years!

In my case, I had a brand new ’96 Chevy S-10. It was red and four-wheel drive! It was amazing and I felt like a king driving it.

I mean, I had my truck, I had my new five pounds of muscles, and I was a Marine! Who wouldn’t want to marry me?!?!

And I knew before checking into 1/8 that I’d not only get to own a vehicle and have the right to drive it on base, I’d also finally get my own room!!

Just me and two other guys! No more open squad bays with sixty dudes sharing just a few showers and toilets!

I was a full-scale Marine now! And I had left home with such euphoria in that green pair of Alpha’s!

But you just finished Chapter 1. You know what happened. I’d just learned the Alphas were a sick joke, which attracted harassment like a substitute teacher in a school of unruly kids.

I’d also met Smith. And I knew he’d be coming back to kick my a** when he and his buddies returned from drinking in a few hours.

It was in such a mood that I called home that night. I had barely managed to put down some food for dinner, as I had no appetite.

I was convinced that Smith would return with all his friends and we would return to our conversation about how I’m not accepting a beer is an insult to someone from Kansas.

With such thoughts in my head, I trudged to the phones out near our barracks. I called home and my Dad answered.

He was in a good mood and couldn’t wait to hear my report about how great things were. But he caught on quickly but on was not well.

I managed in my dejected mood to explain the situation.

“Dad, I’m pretty sure when he gets back, they are going to beat me up pretty bad.”

Even now, I can’t imagine how painful it must be to be a parent and have your son call home and inform you that in a few hours, he is going to be severely beaten. Possibly, even hospitalized, by a dude who had a reputation for sending people to the emergency room.

After a few moments, my Dad said he wasn’t sure what to say. He said he would be praying for me — he’s deeply religious — and that I would have to do the best I could. That he had no idea what advice to give.

I think it was at this point, following some long pauses, that I mentioned that I would call him tomorrow and tell him how it went with Smith in a few hours.

He paused for a moment and finally said, “Now son, you know your Mom and me weren’t in favor of you joining.”

This was very true. They had wanted me to go to college, and I had begged and begged them to sign the papers allowing me to join the Delayed Entry Program, in which I sat for an entire year. To make this clear, this means at the end of my junior year, I had met with a recruiter and convinced my parents that I was dead set about joining the Marine Corps. That I had no interest in college. And that a full year in the Delayed Entry Program would allow me to meet monthly with the recruiters and get a headstart into my career.

What’s just say that 20 years later, I now see things from their perspective. It is crazy to allow a 17-year-old kid to convince his parents that he wants to go ahead and sign up, so he can go to Boot Camp while he’s still 17. (By law, you have to be 18 by the time you graduate Boot Camp.)

But I had been relentless with them and they had reluctantly signed the papers.

Now that same boy was calling home and saying how bad it was, same as he had said about Boot Camp and School of Infantry.

My Dad continued, “I know it’s tough and I know it’s scary, but you can’t keep calling home every night and upsetting me and your Mom. There’s literally nothing we can do and it hurts us to hear these stories.”

It was probably a good thing that my Mom wasn’t on the phone, because I would not have wanted her to know about the Smith guy and the trouble I was in, and I also think had she been on the phone, she would have said something to prevent my Dad saying what he said next. And believe me, I needed to hear these words.

I’m not sure how he said it, from a strength perspective so to speak, but my Dad said, “You need to not call us for a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. We love you, but you’re going to have to work this out yourself.”

I managed to hold my tongue, tell him I loved him, and get off the phone without saying something stupid. But I was so angry. I felt betrayed. Cut off. Kicked in the face.

I told a few of my friends and they were shocked as well. But let me tell you, in the weeks and months and years that followed, I became convinced that there was nothing he could have said that was better than the words that came out of his mouth.

He was absolutely right. I had wanted to join the Marine Corps, they had advised against it, but ultimately supported my wishes. What more can you ask from a set of parents?

It was also true that my mother and sister dreadfully worried about me all through Boot Camp and School of Infantry.

What I was doing was completely new. My family has only had one member ever join the military, so we had no experience regarding expectations, how things would work, or anything. My uncle had served in the Navy, but other than that we didn’t know much about serving in the military.

And I know it was super tough on my Mom to have her only son not only join the Marine Corps, but insist to the recruiter that he be placed in the infantry.

I had heard from my sister, a couple of people at church, and some family members, that my mother was worried sick about me. Almost 24/7. I think it’s safe to say that she wrote me about as much as a mother can write a son while I was in Boot Camp.

Clearly, my Dad had probably seen this affecting her health (her first bouts of seizures were just beginning), and he had probably realized it was time to turn me into a real man.

That phone call, more than anything else, turned me into a man. I was 18 years old, I was a Marine, and it was time to take that final step of growing up and become a man.

I need to add here that I have discussed this phone call with my Dad in recent years, and he does not remember it. Not even in the slightest. So maybe some guiding force from above was guiding his words, which I so desperately needed to hear. Or maybe I misinterpreted greatly whatever it  was he truly said.

But I know I am not making it up. Or at least not how I remember it. I can remember exactly which phone booth I used. I can remember wanting to swing the plastic handset against the metal plate of the phone until it crashed into a thousand pieces. I can remember stomping back to my barracks room, feeling completely abandoned. Honestly, feeling so angry at my Dad that I could breathe fire.

But my Dad did what a great Dad should do. It’s the circle of life. It’s the mama bird pushing her babies out of the nest.

I shudder to imagine the pathetic wimp I would have been had he said, “Yes, please call us tomorrow to tell me you are all right. Please call us as often as you can.”

And I could have. I could have called them every single night that we weren’t in the field. (Honestly, a few guys — a very few — actually did.)

That single, brutal message from my Dad culminated a nearly perfect upbringing. I was raised so well and couldn’t have asked for a better father.

And whatever toughness I possess, you can be certain he’s responsible for putting much of it in there.

Lessons learned

Here’s one thing I’d like you to take from this story, which I’m sure seems at least a little jarring.

I know life is hard and cruel, and that we all get knocked down by adversity and money problems, but you’re impacting your kids, and those around you, every single day, whether you realize it or not.

In my Dad’s case, he fell thirty-eight feet on a job site accident and landed right on his head in a rock pile, crushing three vertebrae in his back. (They had been given hard hats, but his fell off in the air.)

This happened when I was just a young boy and it was a miracle he even survived. But he broke his back and was told he’d be confined to a wheelchair the rest of his life. He refused to accept that diagnosis.

Year after year, he fought to improve, and eventually he was pushing around a walker. He still had a massive back brace that encased his entire upper body from the hips to just under his armpits. It helped support the rods they had placed in his back.

So many people told my Dad he should sue the company he worked for. That he could own them because they hadn’t provided a safety belt for him and a coworker, who were working on a roof. But my Dad refused. He believed they would hold a job for him, and even I thought he was wrong on this; even as a boy. Why would a rock quarry company bring a man back who couldn’t do a thing after being bedridden for months?

But he believed them and never sued. And before long, he had dropped the back brace and moved to a four-legged cane. But he still had a big plastic boot that ran up to his knee. His foot was partially paralyzed and he needed this artificial support.

Many months later, he had shed this as well. And eventually, he shed the cane.

Just as incredible, the company brought him back, letting him work in a weigh station doing some administrative work. It wasn’t long until he was running heavy equipment again.

Here’s the thing. Through this all, my Dad never really said a thing. I NEVER remember a rah-rah speech, where he said, “Son, you’ve got to be tough and never give up.”

Nope. He never said it. He’s a man of few words, but I heard every word that he never said.

Matter of fact, in all my years with him, I can’t recall a single time that he complained of his back hurting. Never.

But I remember numerous times that my Mom told me and my sister that she’d wake up in the middle of the night, finding him wide awake beside her in serious pain but never saying a word. And when she’d ask, he’d lie and say he just couldn’t sleep, but that he wasn’t in pain.

My point in relaying this story is that you, my lovely reader, are impacting those around you with your actions. And with your words, too, but your actions speak far more loudly.

My Dad could have blamed the company, or life, or even God. He did none of those things. He always counted his blessings and was grateful to have survived.

He always had this optimism that the company wouldn’t get rid of him. And they haven’t to this day, despite four different mega-corporation buyouts. Trust me, he works so hard — the man is a maniac about work — that no sane company would ever get rid of him.

Thankfully, he passed that work ethic to me. Or at least part of it, since I can’t work nearly as hard or long as him. Either way, I’m eternally grateful he showed me this toughness and work ethic.

You see, I can imagine a different outcome.

What if he’d have blamed the company or life? He could have crushed every dream I ever had by such an attitude.

Or he could have sued the company, made a million or two, and taught me that all the bad things that happen to you in life are someone else’s fault.

Instead, he fought back from a massive setback, kept his job, and has been richly rewarded with work and long-term friendships. (Seriously, he loves to work, and he’ll tell you that if you don’t enjoy your job, try not working for a year.)

So to sum up this too-long tell about my Dad, I can’t emphasize enough that complaining about life is killing your kid’s dreams. They see and hear everything. And they believe it.

The second major lesson is support your kid’s dreams, no matter how outlandish they seem.

I was crazy enough to think I could write novels as a kid. My Dad or Mom, neither of whom went to college, could have said that dream was crazy. (It was and still is, quite frankly!)

They could have said I needed to plan on getting a real job. But they didn’t.

And as I said earlier, even when their son wanted to do something they couldn’t fully support — joining the Marines — they eventually embraced that dream. (For instance, they proudly attended my Boot Camp graduation, whereas they could have said, “We let him join, but we don’t have to support his foolishness.”

I went into Boot Camp a pretty tough hombre. I had the bullies I mentioned in Chapter 1, forcing me to lift weights and study martial arts. I had my Dad’s example, of laughing at life’s cruelty and persevering to overcome it.

But that one call on that night after my near-fight with Smith is what sealed it. That was the final vertebra in my backbone.

That was the reminder that he had suffered his pain in silence and I should as well. (Within reason.)

That was the moment I remembered, “My Dad’s a total badass, so why aren’t I?”

And in the months and years that followed, I would think of just how hard it would be to say such words to your son: “You need to not call us for a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. We love you, but you’re going to have to work this out yourself.”

I don’t have any kids, but I’m honestly not sure that if I did I’d ever be strong enough to ever say those words. But here’s what I want to share with you: if you’re a parent, you need to say those words.

If your kid gets in trouble at school or with the police, they need to pay the price. I’m not saying be totally cold. Maybe the first time you try to get them out of trouble. But if not the first time, then certainly the second time: let them pay the price.

My parents told me all kinds of valid concerns about why I shouldn’t join. Did I listen? Of course not. But I learned from that day forward that I should listen better. And that when you make a decision, you better be ready to bear the consequences.

I wanted to be a Marine. Actually, I wanted more than that. I wanted to be guaranteed infantry in my contract, despite a high ASVAB score that could have gotten me in intelligence, where my recruiter begged me to go. My recruiter, probably wisely trying to assign some hard-to-fill spot, had not only pushed intelligence, he went even further and said there were no infantry slots available.

Think of that? No infantry slots in the Marine Corps. I’m assuming he believed I would cave and sign up for intelligence.

I didn’t. I went and met with the Army two different times and nearly signed up for guaranteed infantry slot with them before the Marine recruiter “miraculously” found a guaranteed infantry slot. Trust me, I’m a determined, hard-headed individual, just like my Dad, and I usually don’t quit until I get what I want.

But for all my stubbornness, I had gotten my wish. I was an infantry Marine, but now I had to deal with a guy named Smith.

An important note here, regarding the phone call. Not every parent reacts the way my Dad did. During my four years on active duty, some parents received similar phone calls as I had made and some of these parents scrambled, calling Congressmen to complain about various things and working to get their sons out of their contracts. Sometimes it even worked.

But do you have any idea how those Marines were mocked, harassed, and laughed at afterward? And even those whose parents succeeded, I’ll bet you the Marines themselves bear a shame to this day. Or perhaps they blame everything that goes wrong with them as someone else’s fault. That would be an even heavier sentence.

So parents, be strong for your kids with your example. And teach them that life has consequences. Both our good actions and our bad ones.

Every day you are impacting your kids. Whether you’re a mother or a father, you need to show them strength. Through the pain they see you pushing through, through the hardships they see you battling, they are feeding. You are their best example. And you don’t need to be giving speeches. You need to just be battling and working hard.

Don’t whine about things such as the TV or the evils of the internet or whatever political party you despise. Instead, go throw a ball with them or take interest in their drawings or whatever hobby they enjoy.

I still remember my Dad coming home from work after long days and not even taking his boots off, but immediately going outside to throw ball with me. (I used to love baseball.)

I don’t know about you, but when I used to get home from my day job, all I could think about was eating and getting out of my clothes into something comfortable. He didn’t have time for that because it would get dark soon.

That lesson alone (of throwing a ball, along with taking me to batting cages on many Friday nights) taught me that if I wanted to be great, I was going to have to practice and put in the hard work.

Just as importantly as hobbies though, make sure you take interest in your kids’ grades and schooling. Stop whining about how math is taught now or whether teachers give too much homework.

Tell your kids that their grades matter. I’m so glad my parents did, and that they gave my sister and I money for our report cards when we did well. We both earned scholarships and completed college — the first in our family! She’s smarter in that she became a CPA, whereas I thought journalism or fiction writing was the way to the big bucks! But the point remains: your children are watching you and listening to what you say.

I know life is tough. I know we all get tired. But literally, the life of your child is in your hands. And I’m not just talking about short-term safety. I’m talking about their lives and earning power for the next sixty to seventy years. Don’t doom them to failure. Don’t allow them to believe that dreams can’t happen.

Be strong, show them tons of support, and don’t be afraid of a little tough love. I think I’m living proof that it’ll pay off, no matter how hard headed they are. : )

Finally, before we end this segment, let me also say that a lesson I took from this is that we should limit how much we share. From that phone call that night forward, I’m not sure I ever really shared how things were going with my parents.

I didn’t want to put that burden on them. And I think if you’re in the military, you should do the same. Don’t mention you’re in nasty combat in Iraq or Afghanistan. Tell them your zone is quite. Because really, what can they do? Why add loads of stress and worry to them.

Same thing in the civilian world. If you’re an adult facing bankruptcy or something terrifying, don’t share that to your bedridden grandparent. You can mention life is tough right now, but cheer them up. Build them up. Tell them the story about your daughter doing her first recital. Or your son making his first tackle at peewee football. Even better, bring some photos! And some good food as well.

The world is a cruel enough place, and life is hard enough, without dropping your burdens on your friends and loved ones. They’ve already got enough to carry. Don’t add more. Instead, aim to remove some of theirs and spread some good cheer. One word of caution. Obviously, you can take withholding too much information too far. And I’m very guilty of that.

But I’d rather err on the side of withholding than in adding weight to someone who might be considering starting that side business or going back to school. It takes so little to change a person’s perceptions. Don’t be the one who keeps someone from going after their dreams.

In closing, be strong, show your kids tons of support, and don’t be afraid of a little tough love. They’ll thank you for it later, even if it’s the last thing that they want to hear when you initially say it. : )

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Besides telling people about my books, there are two easy ways: First, you can leave a tip. Just click this PayPal link and make a small contribution. : ) Or, you can click the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the Amazon image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!!

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Part 1 of “My time in the Corps.”

Hey, guys!

Here’s Part 1 of “My time in the Corps.” It’s a series I’ve been wanting to do for a while, so here’s the first episode.

I’m hoping these prove to be some quick stories that are enjoyable, and which provide some lessons for both the Marine Corps and life in general. (At the end of each one, I’ll share some lessons I learned from the event.)

With that, let’s roll! (Note: You can watch the video and save your eyes, or read on below if you get sick of my voice and face! lol. Both the video and blogpost below are the same.)

Beginnings: Checking into my new unit (and facing my toughest adversary)

I want to begin this series by talking about one of the most memorable moments of my life.

I’ll skip talking about Boot Camp or the School of Infantry which followed, since there are many books and television shows about these experiences. My impression is that the public has a pretty good idea of how they work. But just as importantly,  nothing really stood out from those two events, so why don’t we just jump to the good stuff?

And for me, checking in to my new unit was one of the most memorable days of my life. I know, that’s a bold promise, but you’ll see in a few minutes.

Let me first set this up, though. Checking into a new unit as a “boot,” or brand-new Marine, is a very intimidating thing. All Marines know that going in, but I was stunned at how truly tough it proved in my case. I pretty much landed the perfect storm of how you hope your first day at a new unit doesn’t play out.

In my case, they were probably about a dozen or fifteen of us new guys (sorry, boots!) checked in on that day. I didn’t know any of them well, so I felt very isolated.

For those who don’t know, in the Marine Corps you are required to show up to a new unit wearing your dress uniform, which is called your Service A, or “Alphas.” Alphas are this obnoxious, dark-green uniform that you almost never wear while serving. Most Marines on base are wearing their cammies.

So, if you’re wearing your Alphas, you stick out like a cat trying to sneak through a crowded dog boarding kennel. And just like dogs would be barking and lunging against the fence if a cat walked down the hall, so, too, are veteran Marines yelling and threatening you as a boot showing up to check in.

The barracks for my company were in a u-shape, so you’re walking by literally a hundred or more men on the catwalks, on all three sides of you, screaming and cursing.

“Look at those f*cking boots!”

“You’re mine, motherf*cker!”

“We’re going to kick all of your asses!”

It’s incredibly intimidating to be marched into an open square with that many men taunting you. Each barracks is three stories high and it’s truly a lot of men standing on catwalks barking at you and watching your every move.

You arrive to the unit thinking you’ve made it. You’ve completed boot camp, earned the title of Marine. But then you’re told you’re not a real Marine until you’ve finished your infantry training or been taught your special skill.

You complete that training, which is always tougher than boot camp, and show up thinking you’ve finally made it. You’re allowed to own and drive a vehicle on base. You assume you’ll soon be making great friends with your platoon. And instead of any of that, you’re greeted with a hellacious welcome.

You know, deep down, that you’ve probably made a huge mistake signing up, but it’s too late. You’re wearing this goofy uniform, you’re lost on new base that you don’t know, and you’ve got some cold sergeant marching you around, doing a seemingly great job of hitting every barracks in sight so they can get their digs in, too!

Of course, you have no rank on your sleeves or any ribbons on your chest. There’s literally nothing to protect you. You’ve been to boot camp and School of Infantry. Big deal. So has every man screaming their lungs out at you.

And each of them has been standing too much duty, cleaning too many weapons and rooms, and they can’t wait to get you in their platoon and pile the work on you.

My group of new guys arrived at Alpha Company, First Battalion, Eighth Marines on a Friday, if memory serves me correctly.

I don’t remember much after that march in with all those guys screaming at us. All I remember about the early part of the day was that it was very long, with us waiting outside of many offices, and that we even had to march to chow (lunch) together. Also, that it wasn’t until after five (1700) before we were released to our rooms, where we again had to walk up in our Alphas and be yelled at by salty Marines.

There’s only one primary thing I recall about the entire day, and that’s this: watch out for Smith.

Let me explain.

I had been assigned to Third Platoon, so I was constantly asking those who were dealing with my paperwork about my new unit. Third Platoon was going to be my home for the next four years, so I wanted to learn as much about it as I could.

I am a natural worrier, and I figured I would rather know what to expect then continue with the uncertainty.

One thing kept coming up about Third Platoon.

“Watch out for Smith.” (This is not his actual name. I want to protect both him and every other Marine I mention in this series, so no actual names will be used.)

Consistently, with every person that I asked about Third Platoon, I was warned about a guy named Smith.

“He loves to drink and fight, and not necessarily in that order,” said one admin corporal.

Several people recounted that this Smith guy had seriously hurt a guy in a fight a few months earlier. Had been drunk, hit him with a big piece of metal, and put the guy in the hospital.

One Marine told me he was a lefty, so in a fight he had a huge natural advantage given that most guys aren’t used to fighting lefties.

I also learned he’d been a state champion wrestler from his home state. Trust me, if you know anything about fighting, you know that wrestlers are some of the toughest people out there. You don’t want to fight someone who spent three or four years wrestling in high school. And you certainly don’t want to fight someone who’s been a state champ at wrestling.

Needless to say that by the end of the day, I knew I’d be fine in Third Platoon as long as I avoided this Smith guy. And, of course, that’s about the time we found out what rooms we’d be staying in, and you guessed it: Stan was going to be roommates with Smith and some other guy.

That news hit me like a ton of bricks, but what could I do? I was exhausted, still carrying around a sea bag and heavy duffel bag, and I just wanted to get out of that uncomfortable dress uniform.

I trudged up to my room on the third floor, carrying all that weight and probably more dread than I’m effectively getting across to you in this story. I open the door and wouldn’t you know it, there’s an audience. There’s six or eight guys in the room. They’re in various forms of dress — from civilian clothes to being half-changed out of cammies to being shirtless.

This wasn’t odd. At a barracks after the working day is over, guys walk around half-dressed all the time. Usually shirtless and in a pair of shorts and shower shoes.

That’s how these guys were dressed and in keeping with the other tradition of a barracks after working hours, every single one of them had a beer in their hand. It’s impossible to describe how much alcohol is consumed by mostly eighteen and nineteen year old men, who are away from home for the first time without parental guidance.

Let’s just say it’s a lot. Think back to your college days and multiply the drinking you saw there by double. Or quadruple. Because believe me, we didn’t have women around to distract us. And there wasn’t homework or some upcoming project you needed to worry about.

There was nothing but a bunch of guys, a whole lot of boredom, and a ton of beer.

These guys in this room were well on their way toward getting hammered because Marines will often drink a lot before leaving to hit the town. This strategy saves a ton of money.

I stood in the door looking at all these Marines, who were already rowdy and having a good time. They start chiding me as the new boot and how they’re going to destroy me. And how I’m too small to be a Marine. And does my Mom know where I am?

In fairness, I’ve always looked really young. And I’d just turned eighteen and I was probably 5’5” at that time. I remember exactly what I weighed because I went into boot camp weighing 118 pounds and I was so proud that I graduated three months later weighing 123 pounds. Five pounds of muscle, I’d tell anyone who cared to listen.

So, standing in the door of what is clearly the place to hang out for Third Platoon is the smallest Marine they’ve probably ever seen. And it turns out no one tells Smith he’s getting a roommate.

My first impression of him told me all the warnings about him were accurate. He was shirtless, in shower shoes, and holding a beer. And he had these cold, tough eyes. He was probably 5’10” and a hundred and eighty-five pounds. Lean and strong looking.

Not the the biggest guy in the platoon or even in the room, but he seemed to be the alpha by a long shot. And he had this edge and anger to him. You could just sense it and see it.

I knew standing there, with all that gear, that this guy would destroy me in a fight. Despite my years of martial arts training and a ton of lifting, this guy would absolutely obliterate me.

I knew it. He knew it. The whole room knew it.

The room is still ribbing me about various things, but I enter it and drop my gear. There are three bunks and they tell me I’m getting the top bunk bed, which I expected. I throw my gear up there feeling a lot of eyes on me.

Smith tells me to sit on his bunk, which seems odd, but I comply. And as I’m sitting there, he goes over to his refrigerator and grabs a beer. He carries it over and hands it out to me.

There’s just one problem: I don’t drink. I had seen alcoholism cost a man his family and life when I was growing up and I was completed terrified of alcohol. (Still mostly am.)

“Have a beer,” Smith says, holding the beer out for me.

“I don’t drink,” I manage to mutter.

That merited plenty of cat calls from the audience and when it quieted down, Smith says, “Everyone drinks in the Marine Corps. Take the beer.”

At this point, he’s been holding it out for fifteen seconds. He’s probably already pissed I haven’t accepted it. And you can feel the tension growing quickly. I’m so scared that I can’t even look him in the eyes. My elbows are leaning on my knees and my heart is pumping 180 beats per minute. I’m looking down and praying this situation somehow ends quickly. And peacefully.

“Take the beer,” Smith said, a slight edge to his voice.

“I don’t drink,” I say again. My voice is low. I’m scared. This is not some big-time act of courage.

Smith leans down, looks me in the eye.

“Look, in Kansas where I’m from, if someone offers you a beer and you don’t accept it, it’s considered an insult. You really don’t want to insult me, do you?”

He’s got this creepy smile and the entire room is watching us both. They’re itching for a fight and egging Smith on.

I manage to say, probably stuttering, “Smith, I’m not trying to insult you, but I don’t drink.”

The room erupts in oohh’s and aahh’s. Several are already screaming at Smith to kick my a**.

Smith is looking deep in my eyes trying to judge me and take a measure of just what he’s dealing with. I’m ashamed to say that I’d already looked down to the floor again, but I was trying so hard to not set him off. I just wanted to be left alone.

Smith says, “I’m going to lay this beer right beside you on the bed. You’re going to drink that beer by the time I get out of the shower.”

He walked away and toward the room’s bathroom, which had a shower. All the guys were going out drinking and dancing when it got later, I had heard one of them mention.

I’m not sure what I should have done, but I picked up the bottle and walked it over to the fridge. I placed it in as respectfully as I could.

The catcalls from the room started exploding at that, and Smith turned from the bathroom to see what had happened. He grabbed the beer back out of the fridge and lay it by me again.

“Listen,” he said. “I don’t care if you drink that beer or pour it down the drain while I’m in the shower, but when I come out, that bottle better be empty.”

Smith said it with such confidence that he was nearly to the bathroom by the time he finished saying it.

Much of my life up till that point, I’d been bullied. I’d literally once had my lunch money taken in high school by a drug dealer. I’d once had my backpack thrown out a fourth floor window.

All my life I’d been bullied. And going to the Corps was supposed to stop that once and for all. Yet here I was on my first real day as a Marine, being mocked, bullied, and threatened.

I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I say as lowly and non-threatening as possible, “Smith, there’s no point in taking a shower now because when you get out, you’re going to have to take another.”

The room erupted in taunts and jeers. Marines were yelling for Smith to kick my a**. I still couldn’t even meet his eyes and I’m certain my hands were shaking.

Smith walks over and stares at me. I’m still too scared to meet his eyes, but he had to see that I was serious. And I knew that if he laid a hand on me, I’d fight him until I couldn’t move another limb in my body. I’d fight him through the entire night, and well into the next day. Whatever it took. I was that determined, but I was also scared out of my mind.

I’m assuming Smith saw something, even though I wouldn’t meet his eyes or get to my feet. Finally, after the longest few seconds of my life, he grabs the beer off the bed, and says, “You’re lucky we’re leaving soon, but we’re going to talk about this when I get back tonight.”

He puts the beer back in the fridge and heads for the shower. The room is still taunting me, telling me I’m in really deep sh*t now. That Smith is going to kill me when he gets back. Lots of stuff like that. I keep sitting on his bunk, my head down. I in no way wanted to antagonize any of them.

Eventually, they filed out of the room and I think I threw on civilian clothes as fast as I could, basically running from the room so I wouldn’t be in it when Smith got out of the shower.

I went to get some fast food and to call home, which is what the next chapter is about. That phone call home would change my life.

But that moment. That moment of standing up to Smith will always be one of my proudest memories.

A new Stan was born that day. One that had been in the making for quite a few years. But he was born that day and I can’t tell you how grateful I was that I passed that test somehow.

Since I’m sure you’re wondering how this story with Smith ends, it’s pretty anticlimactic. He returned that night super drunk and I was already in bed. He threatened to kick my a** but I wouldn’t respond. He eventually passed out, but not before promising to deal with me the next day.

The taunts from him continued for days and days, but he never actually punched me. And I never tried to stand up to him too directly or embarrass him too badly. I told several Marines that I knew that he could whip me, but if he did too badly, I’d hit him in the face with an etool one night when he was sleeping.

I think I probably half meant it. And I’m sure word got back to him and he decided he’d best just leave the little crazy dude from Tennessee alone.

Eventually, we ended up at least halfway getting along. I’d like to think he ended up respecting me.

Lessons learned

There are several things I think you can learn from this.

The first one being an obvious one. You have to stand up for yourself. Not only will it stop the harassment, but it will also gain you respect. And possibly even a friend.

The second one is that no matter how bad your situation is, you should embrace and accept it. I was so scared going through high school. I lived and breathed martial arts, and often couldn’t sleep at night I was so afraid of the next day and what might happen. When this happened, I’d get up and start training right in my room. In fact, my mom once caught me awake in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and practicing my kicks.

She asked me what I was doing and why I was up so late, but I lied and didn’t tell her about how much I was being bullied. I didn’t want her carrying those thoughts.

I also lifted a ton of weights, and this bulk plus my ability to fight well paid major dividends in the Marine Corps, as you’ll soon read about in later episodes.

I wish I could have told myself when I was a kid that these bullies were preparing me for something greater. I’m almost thankful for each and every one of them. Without them, I’m certain I’d have never won Marine of the Quarter for the entire 2nd Marine Division. Nor would I have reached the rank sergeant in four years (no small feat in the infantry).

So, back to the lesson, if you have a terrible job situation or family situation, think about how it’s forcing you to grow. And how it will lead you to all new levels.

My final lesson is this: “Don’t be afraid to be different.”

I almost never drank and I never got a tattoo. (Name one infantry Marine who hasn’t done that. They’re almost non-existent, I assure you.)

Amazingly, after a few months of trying to make me drink, everyone stopped. And even scarier, I was suddenly super popular!

I was probably the only guy in the company who didn’t drink and everyone wanted me to go out with them as a designated driver. The number of Marines I dragged back to base or got out of fights in those four years is a pretty scary number.

And most of those I served with will never forget me, just because I was that guy who was different and didn’t drink.

So, I say don’t be afraid to be different. Or to stand your ground on what you want or don’t want to do. Believe me, by taking such a stand, you’ll make a name for yourself in no time at all.

In defense of Smith

A couple of quick footnotes to this story are probably worth sharing.

First, I’d about bet that Smith doesn’t even remember this story. It wasn’t even a big event for him. Just another boot checking in and just another day of him taunting those around him.

It’s also crossed my mind in reliving this memory that maybe I was the one who escalated the situation by refusing the beer. Maybe if I had just drunk it, we’d have become great friends and the platoon would have immediately accepted me.

But having said that, and really re-examining it, I don’t think this was the case. Given how much he taunted me in the weeks that followed, I think we were headed toward a showdown no matter what. I just got mine out of the way by standing up to him on that first night.

I’ll also add that I can’t really be angry about what he did. In the years that followed, I did the same thing to new guys.

I harassed and threatened numerous boots who’d just checked in. Not to make them drink a beer, of course, but to let them know that they were new, they were lower than dog sh*t, and they’d be doing exactly what we told them to do in the coming months ahead. I had quite a reputation by then, which you’ll read about in future episodes, and many boots probably heard stories about watching out for that crazy guy Mitchell in Third Platoon.

Even sitting here twenty years later, I’m not sure if how he acted (or how I acted in the years that followed) was right or wrong. I think part of what’s happening is you’re testing the metal of a man. In the Marine Corps, you are training for life and death situations. So you want to know what kind of man has just joined your platoon.

But I think even this lesson applies to the civilian world. When you get a new job, you’re being judged. From the first day, people are watching you.

Did you show up on time? How are you dressed? How do you handle it when you’re told you have to work late? Or on the weekend?

Even if you’ve already been at a company for years, if a new person is hired or a new boss arrives, you’re judged no differently than if it were your first day.

So, the question is, “How are you measuring up?”

Are you on your way toward a pay raise or promotion? Or are you deadweight pulling everyone down.

Just a few things to think about. Shake off the times you’ve fallen short in the past and resolve to up your game from this point forward. I think if you do so, you’ll see a payoff that makes it completely worth it.

That’s it for Part 1. I’ll get Part 1 written and up in a couple or three days. : )

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Besides telling people about my books, there are two easy ways: First, you can buy me a coffee, if you’d like. Just click this PayPal link and make a small contribution. : ) Or, you can use the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!!

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

A few quick things…

Hey, guys!

Hope everyone is doing well! I wanted to share a few quick things.

First, don’t forget that Christmas is just around the corner. It stayed warm well into November this year, so it’s slipping up on us faster than normal. But that doesn’t change the reality. And I know most guys start shopping for it about two weeks for now. But having said that, let me say, “Guys, don’t do that again this year.”

Can’t you remember the long lines, crazy parking lots, and “out of stock” signs you saw last year? You know, the ones that caused you to drive across town to the other store with the long lines and crazy parking lots? Hey, I’m guilty of it, too. So, start brainstorming now and at least compile a list in the next few days of what you’re buying for whom. And, maybe start shopping next week, instead of two weeks from now. : )

Trust me, you’ll thank me if you jump on it a week earlier this year.

Speaking of shopping, I’ve got to put out there the obvious: my books make excellent gifts for some of those on your list. Especially veterans! So if your father, brother, nephew, sister, mother, or niece served, I’m pretty sure they’d enjoy Sold Out, the first book in the Nick Woods series. The tactics are realistic, the pace is fast, and the book has more than 400 reviews, having spent much of the past four years in the Top 100 in its genre.

Plus, Sold Out is only $10.99, ships in plenty of time for Christmas, and they’ll even gift wrap it for you. Not to mention, you’d be supporting a veteran and all-around good guy. I think. : )

I also wanted to mention that if you’re going to be buying something at Amazon for someone, I’d really appreciate it if you came back to this page and clicked the Amazon banner in the upper-right corner. By using that link, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. And it’s a great way to support my journey. : )

Finally, I wanted to end the post by saying I’m going to be starting a series of posts called, “My time in the Corps.” These will be funny or inspirational stories, which will also teach some valuable lessons, I hope.

I’m going to be posting these about every two days — at least, that’s the goal. I also plan to do them in two formats: here, in written word, and also on YouTube, on my channel. So, if you’d prefer to save yourself some reading, or just prefer to hear me tell them, you can subscribe!

Semper Fidelis,

Stan R. Mitchell

P.S. People always ask how they can best support me as I attempt to reach my dreams. Really, there are two easy answers. First, if you enjoy my books, just tell others. Or go a step further and share a link on your facebook page, which saves them having to look the books up. Secondly, you can use the Amazon link on the upper right corner when you shop with Amazon! By clicking the image to go to the Amazon homepage, a small percentage of your purchase will go to me since you used my referral link. It’s not a lot, but it can add up. Thanks so much!!! : )

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Let’s send some love to this soldier

I was going to write a Thanksgiving post naming 100 things I was thankful for. And I was going to challenge my followers to name ten, as well.

It would have been heartwarming. It would have been appropriate for the holiday. Every thing would have fit nice and neat.

But then I came across this post: America today.

I can’t tell you how much I relate to the feeling of being lost and lonely that Mike shares in his post. Mike is a former soldier who was forced into medical retirement. He is a veteran with 11 years of service, who served as an enlisted infantryman in both Iraq and Afghanistan.

He was medically retired for traumatic brain injury and other related conditions.

I have been following Mark’s blog for nearly two years now and he’s the real deal. And like most vets who get a heavy dose of the green machine, he’s been struggling to adjust to civilian life. With nearly two years under his belt, it seems as if he’s having as hard a time, if not harder, now.

Speaking for myself, I’ve been out nearly 20 years and there are still days where I’m struggling to adjust. And I’m 100 percent confident I saw a lot less combat than him, and that my own struggles with adjusting to civilian life are far less for two reasons.

First, I chose to get out.  Whether that was the right decision or not, I’ll never know, but I chose to get out. Mike didn’t have that option. He was forced out due to injuries.

Secondly, he served three times as long as I did, and saw far more combat deployments.

At any rate, let me get to the point: Mike has just gone through a divorce and a custody battle, and he seems to really be struggling right now. (You can see that for yourself in his post I linked above.)

I know what it’s like to go through a divorce, and live in the basement of a couple generous benefactors, with barely a dime to your name. I know that cold, dead feeling that arises when you find yourself back on square one, with nothing but packed boxes, incomplete furniture sets, and pictures that you wonder what to do with.

Mike is a warrior, and he will fight his way through this. I firmly believe Mike will eventually find love and happiness again, and that he will slowly but surely adjust and fit in better in this thing we veterans call the civilian world.

But he’s not there yet, and he’s not going to be there in three months or even a year from now.

And so I have this request. I’d love for you to take a couple of moments, click on the link, and leave a comment for Mike. Thank the man for his service, and tell him you’ll say a small prayer for him and the hundreds and hundreds of others just like him.

We can’t help everyone, but this is one small way we can help at least one veteran. Let’s spread a little love before we gather with our own families for Thanksgiving.

I’d love nothing more than to see ten or twenty comments on his post a day or two from now. (He currently only has five.) Even better, I’d love it still more if you share this post and encourage your friends to leave a comment, as well.

You don’t even have to put your full name. Just your first name (or a fake name) and a comment sending the man some love. Let’s help Mike build himself up, so Mike can help his fellow soldiers build themselves up. And just like that, we can start a small ripple that has the potential to grow and grow.

So there you have it. Yes, I’m guilt tripping you. Yes, I’m asking you to click a link and leave a comment. And no, I don’t think I’m asking too much.

Here’s the link again: America today. Read it if you have a second, but most importantly, scroll down and leave a comment if that’s all the time you have. And please consider sharing this post. Let’s blow Mike away with the response! Can you imagine how awesome it would be if he got a thousand comments? I think we can do that. I think you can do that.

Now, please do your part. : )

Keep the faith,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Some humor to help you through the stressful short week

Hey, guys!

I know it’s Monday and well, you’re probably still trying to get back into the work groove. But the stress is growing because it’s a short week, your boss piled more work on you, and there’s already all these family commitments looming.

Sometimes, a little laughter is all you need to get you through it, so I thought I’d share this video which literally had me in tears. Twice. (Today, and when I first saved the video a couple of months ago.)

Hope you enjoy and end up in a lighter mood!

Keep the faith,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Book 6 of the Detective Danny Acuff series now available for sale!

Hey, guys!

Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 6) is now live and available for purchase! I think the story came together pretty well, so if you’ve been digging the series, you’re in for a treat. (Click the link above or the cover at left to buy it now!)

If you haven’t even started the series, here’s where to start: Detective Danny Acuff, 1-3. And since I really want to hook you into this series, I’m going to paste below my signature an extended, seven-chapter preview of the book.

So start the story and see if you’re not intrigued enough to keep reading! : )

Keep the faith,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.

Detective Danny Acuff, 1-3

Chapter 1

There’s no way I could have predicted the world of shit I was walking into when I sat down for a job interview as a police officer in the small town of Akin, Tennessee. Never would I have dreamed that such a move could nearly cost me my life – more than once, in fact.

No, this was supposed to be a city with low crime and minimal danger. And I was applying as a detective, not as a patrol officer. Thus, the danger of having to wrestle with drunk rowdies and respond to dangerous domestic disturbances wouldn’t play a factor.

Frankly, I fully expected that if I were hired, I’d be bored out of my mind, investigating who stole thirty dollars’ worth of quarters from the local laundromat.

None of what followed should have happened, but that’s how life works sometimes. Anyway, what was supposed to be an easy couple of years on the Akin police force while my wife and I patched up our marriage turned into quite a bit of something else. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and no one likes to have the ending of a story spoiled.

The story started blandly enough, with the dullest and lamest job interview I’ve ever had. Let’s start there.

“Daniel ‘Danny’ Acuff?” the old Akin Police Chief asked, raising his eyebrows in question as he glanced up from a file in front of him.

I took the look and his delay while he waited for a response to mean he was actually asking a question. Seemed odd he’d be asking me my name, but I rolled with it and replied, “Yes, sir. I go by Danny, mostly.”

You’d think he would have known I’m Danny since it was five o’clock, which was my appointment time. Furthermore, his secretary had walked me in and said, “Chief, here’s Danny.”

It was a strange first question, but maybe the man was diligent? Or maybe he was just trying to break the ice?

I wasn’t sure, but I’d figure him out soon enough. I’m a detective, after all, and we detectives usually figure out everyone eventually. For now, I’d initially filed him away as “old,” pegging his age at about 65. He had a full head of hair, which was grayish white and shiny under the fluorescent lights of his office.

The old police chief, moving very slowly, nodded at my confirmation that I was indeed “Daniel ‘Danny’ Acuff,” as he’d called me, and continued.

He paused, looked deep into my eyes, and smiled. It seemed a little odd, but I smiled back. His smile was as genuine, soft and real as about any I’d seen in some time. He struck me as more of a gentle grandfather or pleasant pastor than a small town police chief.

I reminded myself that I was no longer in Memphis. Police chiefs in Akin were probably less hardnosed than hard-hitting crime fighters in major cities.

The second thing I filed away about Police Chief Fred Bradbury was that he didn’t move in a hurry.

After he smiled, he slowly returned his eyes back to my file. His eyes strained a moment, then he reached for the glasses on top of his head. But they weren’t there, so he straightened his hair back into place and searched his desk. He moved some papers, struck out, then dug through another stack.

He found them, looked back up at me, and smiled.

“I’m always losing my glasses,” he informed me.

I nodded, unsure if any remark was necessary on my end.

To my left, a man shook his head in a negative sideward motion. He looked embarrassed and had introduced himself earlier as the mayor of. I thought it odd the mayor would be involved in the hiring of a mere detective, but this was my first interview at a small police department, so maybe it’s typical.

“Goodness, you’re big,” the chief said, recapturing my attention. He was reading from my file again. “It says here you’re six feet, three inches, and weigh 230?”

He looked up. He had seen me walk in and had even shaken my hand, but maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling. I gave him my best smile.

“You ever play any football?” he asked, laying the file down and now positively beaming at me.

“A little,” I said. “Played middle linebacker some.”

He smiled over at the mayor with the revelation. The mayor looked like he was about to explode in anger at such a slow-paced, unprofessional interview. The police chief missed the look, apparently, and asked, “How did someone your size not play in college?”

“I did,” I said.

“Goodness, you’re big enough to play pro. You get hurt?”

“No, sir. I was decent, but 9/11 happened. I dropped out and joined the military.”

“Is that right?” the chief said, shaking his head in disbelief. “How about that?”

He glanced back at the mayor, pointed at me, and said, “I told you this man was a good man. Would be a great addition to the department.”

The mayor appeared unconvinced and crossed his arms. I hated to admit it, but I agreed with the mayor on this one. So far Chief Bradbury had determined my name, my height, and my football acumen. Oh, and my foolish notion of duty, and from that, he’d already decided I was a good man. Seemed a little premature to me.

Chief Bradbury had somehow maintained an impressive innocence to have spent a lifetime in law enforcement.

He beamed, clearly in no rush to continue the interview. “How come you decided to join?”

“I felt the old call of duty after the towers went down. And my Dad served in Vietnam, so it made sense.”

He nodded. And would you believe he smiled harder? His belief of me confirmed, apparently.

He looked back down at the file again, his eyes straining to read something. He looked back up. “Marines, huh?”

I nodded.

“See much action?”

For a vet, this question rankles about as bad as the terrible question of, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

I knew that since he asked the question he’d never served, and despite absolutely hating being asked these kinds of questions about my service, I was really warming to him. He was so genuine and kind, and he plainly didn’t mean anything bad about the question.

“I missed most of it,” I said, drastically understating the truth and arguably telling the biggest lie of my life.

He nodded a disappointed nod. There went his chance to hire a war hero and hear some good war stories on coffee breaks. Nonetheless, he knocked the disappointment away quickly and smiled again.

“I’m really glad to hear that. That war has messed up a lot of people.”

The chief picked my file back up. Then he stopped, laid it down, and asked the mayor, “Would you like some coffee, mayor?”

“I’m fine,” the mayor snapped. He glanced at his watch. “And I’ve got an appointment coming up, so if we could — ”

“Yes, of course,” Chief Bradbury said, returning to the file.

I liked the mayor. His name was Tom Follett, according to my research prior to arriving in Akin. Like many mayors, he seemed to be in a hurry and always eager to make something happen.

Chief Bradbury was reading my file — SLOWLY — and though his leisurely pace would probably drive me crazy if he hired me, he was nonetheless quickly striking me as about the friendliest man I had met in some time.

The mayor probably tolerated him because he did not appear to be the confrontational type. Chief Bradbury wasn’t the kind of man who’d stand up to a mayor and city council, demanding more money for the police department’s budget.

If I had to guess, I’d say he was the kind of chief who was born and raised in Akin and had probably worked his way up from the bottom. He probably knew the town like the back of his hand and attended one of its prominent Baptist churches.

“Says here after you got out of the Marines, you went back to college, followed by several years at the Memphis Police Department. Is that right?”

He was driving me crazy with the obvious questions, but I smiled again and nodded.

“Any particular reason you picked there?” he asked.

“The Memphis PD had a bunch of openings,” I answered, “so I figured I had a good chance of landing a position.”

The truth was more complicated. The fact was I hadn’t wanted to return to my hometown, which was a small city where everyone knew everyone — a lot like Akin, unfortunately.

Even on the trips home for a few days leave from the Marines, or on homecomings following my deployments, I’d found that it’s true: you really can’t go home again. The questions from well-meaning family members are too much. The church you were raised in is too small. The girls you once pined for have married or moved on. Or are stuck working at Krystal’s and no longer as magical as you remembered.

I knew I couldn’t move back home to Oliver Springs, and so I’d looked for an excuse to get at least a few hours away. I wanted to pick a police department where I’d see plenty of action. You don’t do two tours in Afghanistan, then quietly retire to some boring, small-town police department. Memphis was six hours away, guaranteed me some action, and thus was the perfect fit.

It really had been until my marriage apparently fell apart without me knowing.

“You glad to be moving back home?” Chief Bradbury asked.

The police chief was smiling again. Man, how was life so simple for some people? The truth was I wasn’t glad to be moving close to home at all, but I broke out that great smile of mine again.

“Yes, sir. Been dreaming about it for years.”

And that’s how the interview went. Nothing but simple questions, which a ten-year-old could have easily answered. The whole time, Mayor Tom Follett stewed until he finally glanced at his watch a fourth time and abruptly left.

Chief Bradbury smiled after he had left and said, “Don’t worry about him. He just doesn’t like when we bring outsiders in. Says they don’t stick around long, and don’t know our ways around here.”

“I’m from Oliver Springs, chief. I know your ways.”

Oliver Springs was a similar, small-sized town just ten minutes away from Akin.

Chief Bradbury nodded, closed the folder, and said, “That’s what I told him. Tell you what, let’s dispense with the interview. I can see you’re a fine man, and you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

I was stunned. Even slightly suspicious, but grateful. I really wanted the job, after all. Assuming we were done, I stood and extended a hand.

“Thank you, chief. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, son. You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

I foolishly left the office that day without giving that final sentence a second thought.

Chapter 2

I drove home with my stomach feeling unsettled. On the one hand, I was thankful I had been hired. On the other, I knew my wife Ali was going to blow a gasket when she found out about the job. Our marriage was on the rocks, and this move by me wasn’t going to help things.

I pulled into our driveway and felt almost ashamed as I drove up to our garage. Our three hundred-thousand-dollar home was an embarrassment. It was the perfect example of our marriage. I wanted a home in the hundred thousand range. She wanted something much higher. We agreed to two hundred thousand max, and she begged, pleaded, and argued until we ended up at three hundred thousand.

In our marriage, I had little influence. Partly it was because Ali had swept me off my feet too hard. I was the sentimental veteran, who felt lucky to be alive. And I had been beyond ecstatic to have a woman like Ali falling for me.

And partly I had little influence because Ali was an incredible attorney. She won most arguments in the courtroom, and certainly at home.

I parked my massive, four-wheel drive truck in one of the bays of the three-car garage, which we clearly didn’t need since we only had two cars. I trudged into the house, worrying already about the fight that would happen when she arrived home. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 6:19. At least she’d be home soon.

I collapsed into the massive leather couch, which was too soft to be comfortable, and flipped on ESPN. The couch was as atrocious as the house, and I hated everything about it, but Ali and the interior designer wanted ornate. They argued that this monstrosity made a great first impression and I let Ali win that argument, too.

I waited impatiently, checking my watch and wondering when she’d arrive. By 7:35, I was nearly at wits end. I wanted to text her, but she hated when I texted her to ask when she was coming home. And I could sympathize with that since I was a workaholic myself.

Before leaving today, she’d explained that she would text if she had to work later than six or seven. So much for that. I flipped the TV off and stood to make myself some dinner. As I walked to the kitchen, though, I heard the motor in the garage groan as it rolled up the door.

I pivoted toward the door, opened it, and watched her pull her 2015 BMW into her spot. The car was yet another thing we couldn’t afford though I had little say in that either. She noticed me standing in the door and briefly smiled. She was on her cell phone, on which she mostly lived, when she wasn’t at work.

She was always looking for that extra time she could be working, whether it was conversing with a client while she was driving or dragging her iPad into bed to answer emails. Everything was about billable hours for her.

Ali put the BMW in park, opened her door, and said into her phone, “Jenny, I’m sorry to be short with you, but I’m telling you we need to take this to trial. Give it some consideration. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She hung up, pulled her tote bag out, and shut the door.

“Hey, hon,” she said as she glanced down at her phone, checking for emails and missed texts that might have arrived in the ten minutes it had taken her to drive home.

“Damn it,” she said, reading something. “I told them that wouldn’t work,” she muttered to herself before clicking on another email.

I watched her walk toward the door, and even in her hecticness, even with her barely acknowledging me, even with the fight I knew was about to happen, and even with our marriage growing colder, I couldn’t help but remark at how beautiful she was.

She was a short, early thirties blonde, dressed in a killer business suit. She was thin and drop-dead attractive, with long blonde hair. Even now, she would easily fit the category of shoulder candy for about any man around. She was out of my league by a country mile, even seven years after marrying her.

As she passed by, I kissed her on the cheek. And as she walked up the stairs to our kitchen, I noticed her strong, toned legs, and her best asset, which the pants outlined nicely. Without question, her body had barely changed since the moment I’d met her, thanks to no kids, healthy eating, and a work pace that would put most ants to shame.

It was her looks and body that had stupidly captured my heart and overruled the screaming warning sirens going off in my head in those first months together. My gut knew even then that this was a match made in hell. One I should have run from as quickly as I could.

I hadn’t though. I had captured the woman every man at our college wanted, and pride wouldn’t allow me to let her go. I had known then that Ali had no peers. No woman in a six hundred mile radius had the ambition or looks. I foolishly had ignored the danger signals that were in plain view. Greed and desire for a rose too perfect for any man to clip free brought me much pain and grief, and damn little happiness.

As she walked through the door into the kitchen, she placed her tote on the island and kicked off her shoes. I noticed it was the Givenchy tote today. I hadn’t even known what Givenchy was until a few years ago, but it turns out it’s a designer brand that sells leather bags for $2,400.

Yes, $2,400. Believe me, you learn about a brand when it carries a price tag like that and yanks it from your account on a far too regular basis.

We had fought about the bag — or tote, as she always reminded me — for days, but she’d won that fight same as she’d won every other fight.

Her face was still buried in her phone, reading another email.

“Honey,” I said, trying softly to interrupt her.

“Yeah, babe.”

“We need to talk.”

“We’re going to have to make it fast,” she replied, laying the phone on the counter. She walked to the fridge, withdrew a store-bought salad, and placed it on the island. Did I mention she moved from the island to the fridge and back to the island at about the pace of a cheetah? She usually ingested her food within about ten minutes — all while standing at the island — and then darted back to the office for a few more hours; or up to her study to review files for half the night.

She had already ripped the plastic top off the salad, spread dressing, and placed a large bite in her mouth before I could get my words pulled together.

“Honey,” she said, exasperated, “spit it out. I’ve got to get back to the office. We’ve got a court case that’s gone off the rails, and I’ve got to review the changes on that contract that came back today. They need them tomorrow, so I’m looking at a minimum of four more hours work tonight. What did you need to talk about?”

She stabbed another massive heap of salad with her fork and raised her eyebrows. Only when she ate alone did she ever appear so unprofessional.

I felt sick in the pit of my stomach and I knew this was going to get ugly. But on the bright side, it couldn’t take more than ten minutes, because her work always took precedence.

Yeah, this was going to be bad.

Chapter 3

I braced myself.

“Ali, I interviewed today with the Akin Police Department.”

Alison stopped chewing. “You did what?” she asked, infuriated.

“I interviewed with the Akin Police Department,” I repeated.

“That’s the most stupid thing you’ve ever done. If they offer you the job, you have to turn it down.”

I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. This was how every argument went. Alison told me what I should do, and I almost always allowed her to get her way. It was my fault things had become this way. I should have stood up for myself more in the past.

“Ali, even if I go back to law school, the semester doesn’t start until August. That’s nine months away. It would be stupid not to work until then.”

“Your work is studying for the LSAT, dealing with the application process, and getting ready for the nightmare of the next three years of law school.”

This was going precisely as I had expected. And feared.

“What’s the salary?” she asked, relentless as always. “Thirty-five thousand a year?”

“Thirty-six,” I responded lamely. “But we need the money.”

“We wouldn’t need the money if you’d already gone to law school and were earning two hundred thousand a year.”

I know she nearly added “like me,” so I had to give her props for holding back despite her anger.

“Not everything in the world is about money,” I answered.

She closed her half-eaten salad box and slung it in the trash. Typically, she always finished her salad.

“You’re not going to law school, are you?” she asked, her hands on her hips. Her eyes boring into me.

“I said I would think about it, but you know it’s never been my first option.”

“Danny, you’re smart enough and have the drive to easily finish it.”

“It’s not about whether I can or not, it’s about whether I want to,” I said.

“To not do so is underachieving,” she said. “I’m just disappointed you wouldn’t strive to reach your full potential.”

“I haven’t said I’m not going,” I replied, trying to calm myself. “I may end up miserable in this job. There will be almost no crime, and I’ll probably be raring to go to law school by the time fall arrives next year.”

Even as I said these words, I knew they weren’t true. I had done one semester of law school and hated every minute of it. Every second, honestly. But I had stuck it out (because that’s what Marines do) until my father received a late-discovered, fatal cancer diagnosis. I dropped out of law school to take care of him.

Ali continued on, and I held off jumping back in. I knew I was in no way mentally prepared for the rigors of law school at that time. So, I picked up a badge after my dad’s death, planning to re-enter school once I had my head fully back in the game of life.

But a curious thing happened. I enjoyed police work more than I expected, same as I had loved parts of serving in the Marine Corps. Thus, I stayed on as a patrol officer in the Memphis Police Department.

The income and insurance benefits were welcome while we dove further and further into debt for Ali’s legal education. She believed — and so did I — that I would soon follow in her footsteps. Her parents had certainly believed I would go back.

Both assumed the two of us would one day take over managing her father’s firm after we had gained a good decade of experience at a couple of prominent law firms.

But, my plans changed for good when I was promoted to detective after just three years on the force. I had found my dream job, and I loved how each day was different. How each case assigned to me was a puzzle to be solved. I threw myself into it while Ali worked the maddening hours a new attorney works following graduation. In hindsight, I believe she missed seeing how much I loved the job, due to the fact she was buried with work and under loads of pressure.

She saw the hours I worked as pure requirements of the job. As mere duty.

In truth, the job was a second love.

Excuses constantly popped up that allowed me to delay going back to law school. Once, it was a serial killer, who took nine months to track down. Another, it was a low LSAT score because I lacked the time to study.

There was always something, and in no time at all, seven years passed. I had become one of the most-promising detectives in the Memphis Police Department, and Ali had become one of the best attorneys in her field.

That’s when the world decided to shake up our little world. Almost overnight, her father’s health began to decline and everyone suddenly noticed I had somehow not made it back to law school. Come to think of it, that’s when the problems in our marriage really began.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Danny,” Ali said, reaching for her tote. “I have to go back to work.”

I felt completely defeated. The argument had gone much as I had expected. Now, with the news of the job and this nasty spat, there would be still more distance between us, as if there hadn’t already been too much.

As she headed for the door, I wasn’t sure what to say. My marriage was falling apart before my eyes, and I seemed powerless to stop it.

Chapter 4

Akin Police Chief Fred Bradbury proved true to his word and hired me as promised. I started working just days after my ugly fight with Alison.

Neither of us had given an inch on our positions. Alison felt I shouldn’t have taken the job and that I’d have trouble quitting, assuming I even decided to go back to law school. I maintained we needed the money in the interim, and that I’d given in on buying the $300,000 home we couldn’t afford. Therefore, she should be okay with me working to help pay down some of the debt.

Neither of us were going to win this fight. It was an ugly stalemate, and too much was on the line for either of us to relent. Not to mention, too much blood had been drawn.

Come to think of it, maybe fights between spouses are a lot like the years of trench warfare from World War I. Both sides bleed, no new ground is covered, and each side just digs in deeper and deeper.

On the bright side, at least work started well.

On my first day, Chief Bradbury personally provided a tour of the department. It was housed in a small part of city hall. I was surprised to see the entire department was just a few rooms with two large offices — one for the chief and one for the captain of the police force.

The small size of the police station was drastically different from the Memphis Police Department. In Memphis, we had nine precincts and 2,400 officers. Here in the town of Akin, there were only nine officers (counting me).

All of this was going to take some getting used to.

The first few days on the job were slow, getting to know officers, learning the department’s procedures, and studying open cases that hadn’t been solved yet. At each and every turn, I learned the town of Akin moved at a different pace than most of the world, and certainly far slower than Memphis.

I suspected (and feared) the job would be just as slow as the town, and made a promise to myself to work hard (energetically!) to prevent this from occurring.

I also learned I would primarily be working with two other detectives. Together, we handled all of the department’s investigations. The other six officers predominantly handled traffic control and 911 calls.

The two detectives I’d be working with welcomed me warmly, but couldn’t have been more different.

One was a good ol’ boy named Irwin Barker. I’d guess he was in his early forties and he didn’t appear to miss many meals. He smiled a lot and told me early on that he had a wife and two kids.

The other detective was an African-American woman who I guessed to be in her later forties. Maybe early fifties. A man certainly doesn’t ask a lady her age.

Her name was Colette Foster. She had this no-nonsense look about her, as well as a confidence that I admired. My first impressions were that Colette was the real detective, and Irwin had been promoted from patrol and beyond his expertise.

Of course, first impressions could be wrong, but I’d learned to make pretty good first impressions as a detective. And I usually leaned on them. Thankfully, they were usually right.

I owed my Dad for that. After serving in the Marines in Vietnam, he came home to become a cop. He worked his way up the ranks and became a detective, a job he held for more than twenty years.

By the time I was old enough to remember anything, he was already a detective. When you’re raised by a detective, it has a huge influence on you. You’re taught to notice things, and to remember them. My Dad would ask me how many people were in the McDonald’s after we left, or what the middle-aged, white woman in the line to our left had been wearing.

Not to be outdone, I tried to turn the game on him. I’d see a car with a missing hubcap and ask him if he had caught its license plate number, or ask him what color pen the server at the restaurant used to take our order.

My Dad was a great detective, and he always said my upbringing would make me an even better detective. I certainly hoped so because there was no job I enjoyed more. Just don’t tell Alison that. We’re kind of having problems, in case you haven’t noticed.

Chapter 5

My first big case in my new, little town happened just a couple weeks after I was hired. A local cornerstone of the community — Harrison’s Drug Store — was robbed.

Around here, in the quaint town of Akin, this was serious stuff, according to Irwin. Colette rolled her eyes. Personally, I secretly hoped it didn’t get back to Memphis that my first “big” case was a pharmacy robbery. So much for solving murders and grand conspiracies.

Nonetheless, since it was the biggest case currently happening in Akin, myself, Irwin, and Colette all worked it. We arrived at Harrison’s Drug Store at about 8:12 a.m., just minutes after Mr. Harrison had arrived that morning to discover the break in.

Mr. Harrison looked distraught, his head down and his hands gripping his hair in anguish.

“They took so much,” he said, as we entered the eighty-year-old business.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Irwin said. “We’re going to find who did this.”

Irwin had told Colette and me as we drove over that he knew Bill Harrison well, so he’d prefer if we allowed him to take the lead on the questions. I had no problem with that since I was the new guy, and since I was still learning both the town and how the department operated.

Colette had said nothing regarding Irwin’s request, and I wasn’t sure if that meant anything or not. Given that I was riding in the back of the four-door Ford sedan at the time, I couldn’t see her face to determine more.

Irwin continued his interview by asking some basic questions of Bill Harrison, but I stepped away from them to walk the store. The back counter’s door, which kept customers away from the drugs, had been knocked in. I glanced in it and indeed, most of the drugs were gone. I heard Bill, Irwin, and Colette heading my way.

“Look how many of my drugs, they took, Irwin,” said Mr. Harrison as they stepped past me. “I’m sure it’s more than a hundred thousand dollars’ worth stolen.”

He showed them around and then pointed to a corner where a safe was open.

“And they took more than seventy thousand dollars cash out of my safe.”

That piqued my interest and I started paying closer attention.

“I’ve still got to tally everything,” Bill continued, “but we’re talking nearly two hundred thousand in losses.”

That immediately screamed “bullshit” in my mind, and since Irwin was merely nodding in agreement while taking some notes, I decided I’d ask a question or two myself.

“Mr. Harrison,” I said, “why was there seventy thousand dollars in the safe? That sure seems like a lot to keep on hand.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly caught off guard. “Well, I only take my deposits in once a week.”

“You don’t take them every night?” I asked. “Most businesses make deposits each day.”

“Just too much trouble,” he said, trying to laugh it off. But he looked uncomfortable with the line of questioning. I started to follow it up, but Irwin gave me a sharp look, which told me he didn’t want any more tough questions directed to Mr. Harrison.

Colette caught the harsh stare from Irwin, and I wondered what she thought of it, as well.

I stepped away and scanned the store. Without question, it might not be a big case by Memphis standards, but every sense that my Dad had ingrained in me screamed that there was a lot more going on with this case than Irwin wanted to believe.

Chapter 6

Irwin continued his half-assed questioning of Bill Harrison, finishing a mere twenty minutes later. I’ve witnessed traffic accident investigations take longer back in Memphis.

Before leaving, he at least took some photos, but I was not impressed with my detective partner, Mr. Irwin Barker. I wasn’t sure if he knew what the hell he was doing, or if he just took any good ol’ boy, who’d been born and raised in Akin, at his word.

I didn’t like either answer. I was still trying to get a read on Colette, who hadn’t said a word during the questioning. I sensed there were many thoughts running through her head. She struck me as perceptive and smart. Possibly even brilliant, but short-tempered, blunt, and certainly not enthralled to be working at the Akin Police Department.

The three of us walked out of Harrison’s Drug Store back toward our undercover police cruiser. I stopped, looking up and down the main street of Akin. Partly, it’s because I’m always making sure I’m not walking into trouble. That’s a Marine thing that gets beaten into you. But today, I was looking up and down the street because I don’t know the town of Akin well, so my eyes and ears were still picking up the new sights and sounds.

Oddly, a CVS store sat just a block and a half away. It was shiny and clean-looking. I turned and took in Harrison’s Drug Store for a moment. Frankly, the two couldn’t have looked more different. Harrison’s had a chipped sign, faded paint on the exterior, and appeared from the outside as if it were about two weeks away from going out of business.

I filed this away in my mind and wondered how long the CVS had been there. It looked less than a year or two old. I also wondered how badly the national, chain-store pharmacy had hurt Harrison’s.

“Will you come on?” Irwin snapped.

He and Colette were standing by the blue police sedan, looking back at me.

Irwin was clearly still mad about my earlier inappropriate question.

“Sorry, guys,” I mumbled, hurrying across the parking lot.

When I sat down in the back seat, Irwin turned his big body around (somehow) and fixed his eyes on mine.

“What the hell was that back there?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just asking what I thought was a good question.”

“This isn’t Memphis, Danny,” he replied. “Not everybody is some low-life thug looking for an angle.”

“And not every crook in Memphis is black,” I replied.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“Sure it’s what you meant,” I answered. “Just own it.”

“Enough guys,” Colette snapped. “Let it go, Irwin. Danny is still learning things around here.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to learn them from you,” Irwin scolded.

“Is that because she’s black?” I asked, deciding I was already tired of being Mr. Nice Guy. If Irwin was this incompetent, or prejudiced, we weren’t going to last long anyway.

Irwin’s eyes stared daggers into mine through the rear-view mirror.

“No,” he said. “It’s because Colette is hardly in the department’s good graces.”

He sighed as he put the car in reverse. Colette looked back and smiled at me.

“Welcome to Akin, Danny. You have so much to learn.”

“I am enchanted already,” I said, making my voice as Southern as possible and smiling back at her.

Well, so much for staying on everyone’s good side. But I knew Irwin would start to hate me regardless of what I did. Could be that I worked so hard to stay in shape. Maybe it was that I usually outworked those around me. In Irwin’s case, I felt confident I’d soon look like a rock star, as far as hours worked, and probably cases solved, too, given his lame line of questioning earlier. Oh, well. There’s always law school, I reminded myself.

We returned to the office where I sat at my desk to pull together some notes about the robbery. I hadn’t been there twenty minutes when Captain Mike Carter called me into his office. I had seen my “good buddy” Irwin enter his office earlier, and figured Irwin might complain about me. That certainly appeared to be the case now.

Captain Mike Carter was one of those unpleasant surprises you learn about far too late when you take a new job. You know, one of those details that they never seem to share with you during the interview process?

Despite Police Chief Fred Bradbury being the nicest guy on the planet, I’d already picked up clues that Captain Carter really ran things. Chief Bradbury was the face of the department, but he was close to retirement, and I was constantly warned that I better fill this or that report out correctly (and in a timely manner) because Captain Carter would fly off the handle if I didn’t.

I had only met him once when Chief Bradbury gave me my tour, but it had been a chilling reception, and I had steered clear of him ever since. Mostly, Carter stayed in his office and called in staff to chew them out for various offenses. As such, staying clear of the reclusive captain him hadn’t been difficult.

I stepped up to the door, knocked respectfully three times, and waited.

“Come in,” he barked.

I opened the door, walked in, and took a seat.

“Captain,” I said, nodding.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Danny, questioning Mr. Harrison like that?”

I had no idea how I was supposed to answer that, so I meekly said, “I’m sorry, Captain. I thought I was doing my job, but Irwin has already informed me that I crossed the line.”

Carter leaned back in his chair, placed his leg over his knee, and crossed his arms. He placed one fist on his chin and glared at me. Was he seriously sizing me up? Or perhaps I’d somehow shot an unarmed kid without knowing it?

Carter held back whatever was bothering him and scowled at me. While I had no idea why he hated me so much, I can say that I could have seen this confrontation coming.

Carter was of average height and less-than-average build. He was probably 5’8” and was the kind of guy who hasn’t been in a gym since he was in high school. He was paunchy and I’d guess him to be in his mid-forties, sporting a shaved head and brown goatee that I think he believed made him look tough.

He reminded me more of a Boy Scout who just had a lot of badges on his uniform. A classic bureaucrat that you better steer clear of.

Colette had walked over to my desk when she saw Irwin enter Captain Carter’s office and had given me a quick info dump. She correctly predicted that Irwin would dime me out and had warned me that Carter was a dangerous bully. An aggressive one at that, since he had been essentially adopted into the influential Snyder family, which effectively ran the town of Akin.

“They’re a powerful family that has run Akin for a hundred and fifty years,” she warned. “And Captain Carter is the kind of cop we all hate. The boy who got his lunch money taken in high school and becomes a cop simply for the power trip.”

I nodded. I knew the type.

“The worst part,” she continued, “is he’s been particularly cowardly, and that eats at him. So he overcompensates by constantly acting tough and yelling every chance he gets. With your military background, I can assure you he’ll hate you. Not to mention you’re an outsider. Just be careful if he calls you into his office.”

As I sat in Captain Carter’s office, holding his stare, I could feel that hate. The mind games had begun, and Captain Carter held all the cards. If he managed to force me out of the Akin Police Department or fire me, then there’d be no getting out of applying for law school.

Not good, Danny. Not good at all.

Chapter 7

The “great” Captain Carter finally stopped staring and leaned forward.

“Just who the hell do you think you are, Danny? You come in here with your big-city, Memphis reputation, and in a mere few weeks, you step on the toes of the senior detective you’ve been assigned to.”

I wondered briefly how Irwin was somehow considered the senior detective when Colette must have had ten or more years’ experience on him.

“And on top of that,” he said, “you antagonize and embarrass one of Akin’s leading citizens.”

Carter slammed his hand on the desk, and it exploded loudly. I didn’t flinch. (Though maybe I should have. Just give the guy what he wants, a part of my brain warned.)

The man was a showman. A bully, just as Colette had forewarned, and by my actions back at the pharmacy, I’d given him the first piece of ammo he could use against me.

“My God, Bill Harrison is one of the best men in Akin,” he snapped. “He was president of the Rotary Club. He’s a deacon at First Baptist Church.”

Carter jumped to his feet and shook his hands with rage. “For Christ’s sake, he sponsors little league teams and the town’s high school football team. Even puts a float in the annual Christmas parade each year.”

He slapped the desk with both hands and leaned forward. “As if that’s not enough, he even contributes to our very own department. Buys our softball T-shirts each and every year.”

I wondered if buying T-shirts for our department equated to a get-out-of-jail-free pass around here. Meanwhile, Carter sat back down. He seemed more winded than he should.

“Now listen, Danny. I was opposed to hiring you from the beginning. Chief Bradbury likes to bring in an outsider from time-to-time, but it never works out. Do you hear me, Danny? It never works out.”

I nodded since I wasn’t sure what else I should do.

“Listen to me, Danny. If you’re smart, you’ll leave this job and find one elsewhere. You do that, and I’ll write you a good recommendation. But if you try to stick around, and bring your big-city tactics to this peaceful little town, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you never work as an officer anywhere else in the state. Maybe even the country. You hear me, Danny?” he scowled.

Mike Carter, the bully, had just made the ultimate bully move. He had promised something he couldn’t do. I knew there was no way he could destroy my police career as I had many connections with officers back in Memphis, with whom I had a nearly decades-long reputation. Not to mention, I had worked with and gotten to know numerous state troopers and members of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Or, TBI, as they’re known in Tennessee.

Carter could huff and puff all he wanted, but he was a small-town cop with a big-time ego. I now saw that clearer than ever. Perhaps he realized he’d misjudged me as he finally ended his rant.

“Now get out of here and apologize to Irwin,” he said.

I left his office, but I didn’t do so in a hurry. Carter could jump in a creek as far as I was concerned. And Irwin would be waiting a long, long time before he ever received an apology from me.

Want to keep reading? You can read the first three installments for only $4.99 at this link: Detective Danny Acuff, 1-3

 

Two quick updates and one pretty cool video on future warfare challenges

Hey, guys!

Hope everyone is doing well! I have two quick announcements and one pretty cool thing to share.

First, the paperback version of Nigerian Terror is now live and available for purchase. Sorry that it took a tad longer than expected, but I think you’ll agree it was worth the delay. It looks fantastic.

Second, Danny Acuff 6 will be published in just a couple of days or so! I’m getting the last edits done on it and I think you guys will love it. (Small preview: the Danny and Forrest showdown may finally take place!)

Finally, I thought I’d share this Marine Corps video, which gives a hint of what’s to come in the future.

The video is fascinating because it covers things I’d never considered, such as:

While newer weapon systems are deadlier, they are much heavier and more challenging to transport to the battlefield. They’re also less fuel efficient. Like, way less fuel efficient (because of the weight of their armor), which means you have to be able to transport more fuel in a combat zone.
The requirement for 3D printing on the battlefield, as well as the use of drones to move supplies and wounded Marines.
Implementation of exo-skeletons on the legs and other parts of the body, which will help men and women carry more weight.
And finally, robots and solar panels on packs. Plus a couple of other cool things.

The video is about four mins long, but I think you’ll enjoy it if you get a moment to watch it.

That’s it from here! And I’ll let you know the very minute Danny Acuff 6 is live and available for purchase. : )

Keep the faith,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————

Stan R. Mitchell, author and prior Marine, is best known for his Nick Woods Marine Sniper series, which has remained in the Top 100 on Amazon for more than three years. The series has also been picked up by Audible.com for a multi-book audio deal. Additional works include a Western thriller, detective series, and World War II story.