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Personal Commentary

A Big Day for Gunny!

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Most of my closest friends have heard me talk about a man named “Gunny” and they recognize that he is one of those guys that I adore. In my The First Sergeant on Mother’s Day post, I mentioned that there was a handful of guys who I gave away my heart to years ago and Gunny is one of them. He’s one of the men who I trust with my life. He’s also part of that small group of men that promised to bring me home in one piece.

So, why am I writing about Gunny? Well something special is going to happen Tuesday. My friend, Gunny, is going to graduate from college and I can’t be there to see it. I want to be there. I want to stand on my damn chair and scream, “Hooah, my brother! I’m so freaking proud of you!” at the top of my lungs. I wish I could take the guys along and let them do that big, deep voice, cop yell thing so that Gunny could hear us from the other side of the room and know how happy and proud we all are.

This has been no easy feat for our brother. He has fought more battles than most of us and while occasionally beat-to-hell by circumstances – Gunny has never bowed to the adversity.

I first met Gunny in ’93 at Nellis Air Force Base. He was a security police staff sergeant and a member of a rather elite unit. He has an incredible voice. It’s this rumbly, gravelly thing that starts somewhere south of baritone and can end up in the lower ranges of bass. He already knows that I have a thing for command voices so he’s probably not surprised that I’m saying it here. But, Gunny also has “the whisper.” The louder you get, the quieter Gunny can get. The next thing you know, you’re off balance from leaning in to hear what he has to say. He was known by most of the people he worked with as, “The Minister of Death.” He’d have the troops take a knee and give a tactical benediction that left more than one of us stunned by its beauty. He’s just one of the original “in case of war break glass” kind of men that I’m drawn to. And yes his wife knows that I adore him. She’s a wonderfully tolerant woman.

Gunny had already been to war by the time I came along and had more than one long-term health issue to face as a result of that mess. Please don’t try to tell me there’s no such thing as Gulf War Syndrome – there is and he’s been dealing with it. I remember seeing the man come to work in so much pain he could barely move. Joints that weren’t flexing and bones disintegrating before our eyes. Yet, the warrior was out there either doing PT or leading it. He did his time in the field even when he shouldn’t have. Gunny was a guy who signed on the line and if the job said walk ten miles with a fifty pound ruck, he wasn’t going to sit on his butt and watch everyone go by. He’d do the damn ruck, encouraging everyone else along the way. There was a job to do and Gunny was going to damn well do it.

He not only did his job then, but he kept doing it, and usually a little more – he’s a thorough guy. He steadily made rank and he kept learning and creating new things. As computers became an everyday part of our world in the military, Gunny became part of the folks that learned that skill and shared it with others. He finally retired as a master sergeant and moved on to a secondary career in personal protection. He went to the crappy places in the world and took on the job of protecting the people that were trying to rebuild the mess left behind by war. Like many others, he did more than his share, saw more than he should have, and he dealt with more than he should have had to deal with. He’ll just tell you that he was only doing his job. I think all of us heaved a sigh of relief when he came home to stay.

Gunny has spent the last several years doing what I consider to be great things. He’s built a business, married a smart, beautiful woman, and has become a father again. He’s had the doctors give him some bionic body parts to replace the crappy ones he had before, and he’s kept chugging along. Every once in awhile, we pick up the phone and talk to each other. Usually when life is beating one of us to a pulp, the other one steps in and does an intervention. We listen to each other whine, then abuse each other, and then agree that life is just pain, and what the hell – we have a high threshold. Hooah.

So now, I get to salute my friend as he completes yet another goal he set for himself all those years ago. He joined the military and said he’d be the best he could be at his job. Did that. He went to war and promised to come home. Did that. Swore he’d make Master Sergeant. Did that. Said he’d be there and take care of the person he was supposed to protect. Did that. Said he’d be the best husband and father he could. Does that every day. And he promised he’d get through college. Did that.

I couldn’t be more proud of you, Gunny. You are a man of your word and a man of honor. But I already knew that. I salute you, my brother.

Who helped along the way?

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Almost every writer gets a helping hand along the way. Besides the friends and family who are always prepared to offer a bit of loving abuse, there are others who come along and join the party. Lisa Pietsch came to me through our mutual friend, Dave D.  He’s one of my beta-readers and he suggested that I might want to talk to Lisa.  She had already published several novels in her Task Force 125 series, and Dave thought she might be able to answer some of my 101 questions.

In the course of putting us together, Dave did what he always does, and made a smart a** comment.  It turns out that Lisa and I had both worked with Dave, just not at the same time. Probably a good thing for Dave. I had been Dave’s first sergeant and Lisa was once his flight sergeant.  Being the strong minded, kick a**, military goddesses that we are – we responded to his comment by abusing him as a tag team.  Brilliant man that he is, Dave quickly gave up after a parting comment to us, “I knew you were both cut from the same cloth, one is just older!”  I’m proud to be the older one.  The adage about “old age and treachery” should come to mind.  And yes – Lisa and I are cut from the same cloth – camouflage! Make us angry and you will likely see another cloth – your death shroud.

Lisa and I had hit it off immediately as you can tell. The first time I asked her to look at a chapter for me, I was so nervous and excited that I messed up the attachment.  Instead of getting the first two chapters of Protecting Parker, she received a later chapter that was of a much more intimate nature.  I was beyond embarrassed by my faux pas, but absolutely ecstatic when she told me I wrote “good sex.” Once I got over my embarrassment, I finally managed to send her the first two chapters. Lisa didn’t pull punches. She was both honest and encouraging, confirming what I already knew – she must have been a hell of a good flight sergeant!

Lisa’s a terrific writer!  Military, action, adventure, and romance combine to provide entertaining reads.  She’s now bringing that same energy and enthusiasm into the paranormal.  She has become a generous friend who has encouraged me at every opportunity.  I’m hopeful that when we finally get together for the dinner I owe her that Dave D. will be available to join us. First so I can thank him for putting me together with Lisa, but mostly so the smart a** can serve as our personal slave.  He freely admits to everyone that Lisa and I kept him out of a lot of trouble in our time – the least he can do is post our damn bond!

Please visit Lisa at her website www.lisapietsch.com.  She’s always entertaining, often over the top, always a good read, and as I said, a generous friend.

I’ll Pass on the SEAL Bandwagon

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Dean sent me another article this week (I’m trying to write here, boss!) and jokingly asked me if I would like to consider changing the retired Marine sniper in my next novel to a Navy SEAL. According to this Washington Post article, – they are a hot commodity in the publishing world right now. Especially, in the romance genre. The last snippet on the bottom of page two is what sent both of us over the edge. “In the romance world, the competency of SEALs knows no bounds. ‘They are trained from Day 1 to notice the tiniest detail,… A man who can pick up on the smallest little nuance is bound to be able to please a woman, if you catch my drift.’”

Wow! Where can I get me one of those! Is there a part of SEAL training that they aren’t telling us about? I watch the Discovery Channel and I didn’t see that phase of training in the special. And just who the heck are the instructors for that? I somehow don’t see R. Lee Ermy screaming instructions at a SEAL candidate – if you catch my drift. And if the SEAL I take home doesn’t live up to this expectation, just how am I to get rid of this magnificent behemoth who can turn even the simplest object into a weapon? Will his failure to please me so emasculate him that he’ll turn on me with my curling iron? I could go on for quite some time, as I’m sure most of you could, with those types of questions. But, seriously, nothing like setting a guy up for failure!

Well, as always, I have a couple thoughts on the situation. The reality is that any time you are dealing with members of the Special Operations family, you are dealing with a very different group of people. These are not men who lack in confidence! These are the guys that if they say they are going to do it – do! Even if they aren’t the finest at something – they’ll make you believe they are. From street cops through the most elite of the operators, these men are trained to do a job and do it well. Those who can’t or won’t—generally don’t make it through the training.

I’ve met a few of these unique and interesting people in my time. No lies here – met and known are not the same thing. But I have sat and shared a beverage or two over the years with some of the following: SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, Airborne, Marines, snipers, and cops as well as combat veterans from almost every conflict from the Second World War to the present. I have been fortunate enough to spend more than a few minutes with men who survived beach landings in World War II, fought in Korea, many Vietnam combat veterans, including one who survived having his position overrun, and finally several men who did tours of duty and survived attacks in Iraq. From the ground-pounders to the elite Special Ops troops, and the wrench turners to the pilots, I’ve tried to pay attention. I consider myself lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time and had the opportunity to listen to these men talk, and to hear a small number of interesting and uncensored stories. I have also not been the least bit shy about asking some extremely personal questions of these men about their experiences.

That does not make me an expert. But what I can tell you based on my very limited experience is that none of these men wanted to be perceived as anything other than a man who did his job. They’re proud of who they are and what they’ve done, and in some cases, what they still do, and when they use the term hero, it is always about someone else.

What they should not be seen as is superheroes. Special Ops personnel are trained to perform in an environment that most of us pray we never have to face. But to assign super human characteristics to them is a dis-service that will leave these men standing on a pedestal they may not desire to be on. These guys get up every day, put on their gear, and they go do a job. They will suffer the same traumas to their body and to their soul that every other fighting man will suffer. Turning him into a superhero is simply placing an unrealistic expectation on him. Superman doesn’t show pain, suffering, emotional turmoil, or any of the one hundred other things that men who come home from war will deal with. He doesn’t suffer from PTSD, the after effects of concussion, nightmares, or flashbacks. The new expectation of this “super warrior” is that his training teaches him to be so “in the moment,” that he can walk in the door and leave all those things behind.

Fact: No one leaves it behind. The old saying, “That which has been seen, cannot be unseen!” is true. What almost all these men are capable of doing is compartmentalizing for periods of time in order to function. But eventually, every one of them will deal with their baggage.

I get it – it’s romance. A romance reader wants the hero to be “that guy.” Tall, broad, and handsome. Smart, brave, and protective. And when he’s done with all of that, he should be kind, caring, sensitive, warm, funny, and above all a great lover. It would be a huge bonus if he could cook, liked kids and dogs, and actually read a book. Are they out there? You bet! Is every SEAL, Marine, Ranger, Airborne, or cop one of them? Not even! But that’s who writers write about, because if your heroine is in danger – it is damned unlikely some fat-ass plumber is going to show up and save the day!

Now the simple fact of the matter is, I don’t know enough about how the SEALs or their teams work to write about them. That whole Navy thing is sort of beyond me – well, that and I get seasick watching Victory at Sea. I’m not currently acquainted with any SEALs or Green Berets, so I wouldn’t even try to go there in a book since I don’t have a fact checker. But, I know the Air Force and I have a multitude of friends who are Rangers, Marines, and Cops (both military and civilian), along with wrench-turners and pilots, and loads of combat veterans. I am a firm believer in the “write WHO you know” school of thought, so I’ll be sticking with my Marine in my upcoming story. Not being a romance writer – I happily leave the bandwagon full of SEALs to them.

That being said – I have no doubt that any one of those Cops, Marines, or Rangers, etc. (plus the SEALs and Green Berets that I don’t know) would be happy to be perceived as the superhero in your own romance novel. Just ask him if he’s the best and if he’s willing to give you the attention you so richly deserve. He’ll look at you with smoldering eyes as he tosses back a shot of Jack, and he’ll swear to you that he is just that guy. And given the chance – he’ll probably do his damndest to convince you. They’re confident that way.

The First Sergeant on Mother’s Day

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In a recent Facebook exchange, one of my favorite people started talking about at what point, you should quit calling your children “kids.” There was a pretty spirited conversation, along the line of “your children will always be your kids,” but my friend, whose children are in college, felt at some point we needed to move past that. He finally ended the conversation with, “I tell ya I’m not a KID anymore!” While it was a fast-paced exchange in which we all freely abused each other, it really made me stop and think. And what I began thinking about, isn’t what you call your children – I really don’t care if you refer to them as adult children, kids, progeny, or blights on society. It’s about how I think of the people in my life.

For those who don’t know, I have no children. I openly admit to not being a baby person. Please don’t ever hand me your miniature human that screams and then leaks from every orifice. They absolutely terrify me and always have. I’d rather face a hungry grizzly bear, than have to hold a baby. I have babysat for exactly one child in my life and I’m quite frankly surprised that poor Alex wasn’t completely traumatized. As his mother was teaching him to say light and truck, I was teaching him to say b****. She took him home to visit family and Alex performed admirably. He said the b-word at every opportunity. He was an exceptionally talented child.

In truth, I didn’t want children because I never wanted to be responsible for another person. How ironic that I would eventually wind up being responsible for so many over the years.

The reality is that I never lacked for kids. I don’t remember a time growing up that my father didn’t bring home his troops or a time that my husband and I weren’t family to any number of ours. That “chosen responsibility” only grew with rank. The more stripes, the more young people. This was something all of us in the military understood. As we moved up through the ranks, we went from being the kids who the senior people looked after, to being the brothers and sisters who looked after each other, and finally to being the surrogate parents to the new crop of kids. It’s part of what makes the military a family.

When I became a First Sergeant, I frequently referred to my troops as kids. It did seem as though the bulk of the ones I was dealing with were very young. But in reality, age had nothing to do with it. It was a function of responsibility. Every enlisted person in that squadron, from the Chief down to the lowest Airman, was one of mine. It was my job to get between them, and whoever was messing with them, and fix the problem so my kid could do his job. When they messed up, regardless of rank, I stood for them with the boss. I fought for them, I protected them, and I did my best for them in whatever way I could. They were my responsibility. At some point in every relationship, the roles change. Those who I had responsibility for, stood up and accepted responsibility for me. In the unit, I was the one who would fight, protect, and do my best for them. In the field, they would have to take on that role for me.

So are they still my kids? Well… I still call them that, but I honestly don’t think of them that way. Hell, some of them are older than I am. I also doubt they think of me as their mother. At times, I have called them my guys or my men. Some of them I lovingly call, “My brother or my sister.” That particular term has real meaning to me and I hope to them – I use it sparingly. There are people I communicate with only once or twice a year, and some I abuse almost daily, but the bond between all of us is the same. I also openly admit to having given my heart away to a few of them over the years. They are the ones, who if they called for help, know I would be there. At least I hope those special ones know that. There are a few that I trust with my life; based on nothing more than what I know to be true in my heart – they are men of honor.

As for my friend on Facebook – I know you’re not a kid anymore. You never were a kid to me, any more than your closest brothers were. You, and this small group, were my men. You became my friends, and now I think of you as my brothers. When you call me “Shirt,” it has the same meaning to me as “Sister.” No matter what we call each other, it is always done with love and respect.

So finally, on Mother’s Day, I send greetings to all the mothers of my troops, and I thank you all for sharing your “kids” with me. Kids no more – it was my honor to serve with the brave men and women entrusted to my care.

Show a Little Respect

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In answer to what happened with a particular executive editor.

When I began to write, I approached it with the same energy and enthusiasm that I have always brought to anything I work at.  I educated myself as I went.  I sought the advice and expertise of those I respected, and I worked my ass off.  With a (reasonably) complete manuscript in hand, I wrote my first ever synopsis and blurb.  Encouraged by my family, I entered a blind editor pitch for a major publisher.  Even though I wasn’t a finalist, the executive editor sent me an email saying she was intrigued, and asked me to send the full manuscript and synopsis to her attention.  She offered no promises beyond “a bit of feedback.”  Her email indicated that if I sent it immediately, she had time to look at it.  I sent it the same day based solely on the promise of feedback.  Who wouldn’t like feedback from an executive editor of a major publisher?

Naively, I expected the editor to do what she said she’d do.  I waited patiently for my rejection – hey, I’m realistic, it was my first try and it needed some work.  But I was very excited at the prospect of some feedback.  Sixty days (almost to the hour) later, I received a form rejection.  No feedback and hardly timely in my opinion.  I was pretty sure that my book had been logged into the system and at sixty days the time for review expired and out came the form rejection.  Had I sent it unsolicited, I would have been fine with that.  But it was requested, she supposedly had time then, and a promise was made.

So, I emailed the editor and very politely told her how disappointed I was by her failure to follow through on the feedback.  Three weeks later (really – three weeks!) she responded and informed me that she doesn’t read manuscripts – that’s what her staff does, and they didn’t give her any feedback, so she didn’t have any for me.  Huh?  You requested it personally, told me you had time to read it, promised ‘a bit of feedback’, but now you inform me that you don’t do your own job?  Why was your name on the rejection notice?   And what the hell does timely mean in an editor’s world?

In talking to several of my print published friends, this is apparently not unusual.  Those same friends also cautioned me to not respond in my usual fashion (indignation with foul language involved – I have a tendency to sound a little like R. Lee Ermy when I’m unhappy – because I shouldn’t burn any bridges.  I was warned that word would quickly spread in the publishing world that I was “difficult” and no one would ever publish me.  Somehow that thought didn’t really bother me.  What did bother me was the piss-poor behavior of the executive editor of a major publisher.  Apparently, expecting this woman to follow through on her promise in a timely manner was simply unreasonable.

Well… gosh.  Maybe I shouldn’t have shown up to work for all those years I was in the military.  Maybe I shouldn’t have polished my boots, put on my hat, or honored my word.  Perhaps, I should have simply promised to help my troops solve their problems and not bothered to.  Or I could have promised to visit my troops on Christmas Eve when they were standing guard on the flight line at 0200, and instead just sent one of my junior NCOs to do it for me.  Maybe I should have agreed to do my job at Christmas, but not shown up until Valentine’s Day.  Then after my junior NCO wrote his report – I could have simply signed my damn name to it.

Because after all, it’s only my f***ing job, and why should I respect you or myself enough to do it?

*sigh* Now you see why I can only work with people that I respect.