'Warriors'
04-Jul-2010, 1915 hours
CPT Paul Blofis, US Army (Ret.)
1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment
Blofis Family Farm, Bowdon, Georgia, USA
To say that Percy was astounded would be an understatement.
We were at my family's farm for a family reunion. However, our family didn't just include those related by blood or marriage.
It included those related by uniform.
The Blofis family had a history of men (and some women) in uniform, with service members, law enforcement officers, and firefighters encompassing a large portion of the family. These Blofis men and women would end up finding secondary families within their respective services, which the rest of the family would soon welcome with open arms.
For example, there's my brother, Martin, a retired Coast Guardsman in Hawaii. It was there that he met his wife, Leilani, a retired Honolulu Police Department officer. The two were talking to Uncle Silas, a retired Sheriff.
As for Pa, John Blofis, he was in Vietnam and Korea as a Marine. He sat at a table, sharing a drink with Papaw—Marty, a Marine that served in the Pacific Theater in World War II. Papaw actually had a twin brother that served not in the Marine Corps, but in the Army, being part of the famed 5th Ranger Battalion at Normandy, helping to secure the Dog White sector of Omaha Beach.
That twin was Grandpa Paul, one of the survivors of the Germans' fierce artillery and machine gun fire, with the actions of him and his fellow soldiers earning the Regiment its motto: "Rangers lead the way!"
Unfortunately, Grandpa Paul would go on to die a hero at the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944, not too long before the war ended. Papaw would go on to request that Pa name me in his honor.
I never met Grandpa Paul, but when I became a Ranger, I remember Papaw saying that it was like going back in time—the uniforms had changed, but my resemblance to his lost brother was uncanny.
"So let me see if I've got this right," Percy began. "Your family consists of people that put their lives on the line for a living?"
"That sounds about right," I replied with a shrug. "But it can't be like what you've done, right?"
"I'll be honest, based on what I remember about World War II and Vietnam in history classes, those were hell in their own right. The Middle East, too."
"Yep," I said, recalling my past deployments, including the Battle of Takur Ghar during Operation Anaconda. I lost brothers that day, and despite my training, I felt lucky to be alive.
"Paul... in our world, we do this stuff every now and again, but you all seem to do it all of the time. How do you do it? How do you handle all the pressure, the pain, the fact that it just doesn't end for you?"
"Now, to be fair, we spend more time waiting and training than actually facing danger," I recalled, mentally chuckling at the reminder of my old platoon sergeant's aphorisms. "Like the saying goes: 'hurry up and wait!'"
"Even then!"
"Well, I'll tell you somethin', kid. Patriotism does play a part, but it ain't the sole reason why we fight. Consider your world. Sure, you technically fight for Olympus, but do you really?"
"I'm not sure if I understand the question," he replied after a few moments of thinking, bearing a countenance of confusion.
"You fight for Olympus, but you don't fight for Olympus," I explained. "You fight for the ones beside you. It's the same for us: we sign up to fight for our country, but when we're deployed, it's all about the ones beside us. It's always been about our battle buddies, our brothers. That's not to say we don't care about our country and the people we left behind, but when you're at war..."
"Your goal is to get your fellow soldiers home," Percy finished, seeming to understand. "I think I understand."
"I'm glad you do, son."
We fell into a comfortable silence, watching over the rest of the small crowd in the warm summer evening as we sipped glasses of lemonade. I kept glancing at my stepson, who only stared at the people talking and laughing together. His gaze seemed pondering, almost wistful.
From what I'd heard, the people from his world rarely got happy endings, for whatever reason: whether it was the acts of the immortal humans that called themselves "gods" or the acts of terror by the monsters from Hell. Nonetheless, I trusted none of them save for Poseidon, and even then it wasn't a matter of trust, but having the least distrust. Furthermore, it was only because Sally had some trust of him that I distrusted him less than the rest of his brethren.
The "gods" and "goddesses" of Olympus, in short, were nothing but a bunch of moronic young'uns that were about as efficient and useful as Congress—the antithesis of progress.
I hoped that if Percy didn't separate himself completely from that godforsaken world, he would at least have minimal contact with it, or find a good life within the world. Maybe the third option was possible, but realistically speaking, it wasn't likely.
"Hey," I said, having a thought. "That reminds me: we gotta get you trained with a rifle."
"For what?" Percy asked, confused.
"So we can go huntin', kid! You gotta spend more time in the real world! Plus, consider it father-son bonding time!"
He appeared to want to object, but his reluctance faded, and was replaced with a slight eagerness.
"I... I think I'd like that."
"Attaboy," I said, patting his shoulder. "You'll be better than Artemis in no time at all!"
"... she's the literal goddess of hunting, Paul."
"Nah, just a stuck-up woman that refuses to die. Besides, you're gonna be huntin' with an AR-15. Lemme tell you, with a good rifle and training, you'll be bringin' home the bacon like a pro!"
"So, how are my favorite boys?" Sally asked behind me as she came up to us, bending down to our level.
"I was just tellin' Percy that I wanted to take him huntin' and teach him to shoot," I replied. "You should join us! It'll be a... bang-up time!"
As expected, Percy groaned while Sally rolled her eyes, trying to suppress her giggles.
"That was awful, Paul," he complained.
"Yes, which is precisely why your mother is laughing her head off."
"I am not!" she protested, failing to wipe the smile off her face.
"What is this? My brother making stupid jokes?" Martin said as he came up to us on the porch.
"Hey, they're better than anything you ever came up with!" I laughed. "What's goin' on?"
"Papaw's callin' us. Get your rear in gear, boy!"
"Sweet mother o' mercy, Martin! Alright!" I groaned, standing up. "I ain't as fast as I used to be, seein' as I've only got the one leg!"
"Yeah, yeah. We both know that's a load o' nonsense. Hell, you'd still be in the Regiment if it weren't for all the injuries on top of the missin' limb. Get your ass up, Cap'n Peg-Leg," he ordered, referencing the nickname my buddies in the Regiment gave me after I got a prosthesis.
"Stand down, Petty Officer," I retorted with a shove to the shoulder, referencing the fact that he retired a PS1 (Port Security Specialist 1st Class).
"Hey, nephew! You comin' with?" Martin asked.
"Me?" Percy asked, looking up at him in confusion.
"No, I meant Sally," he replied sarcastically. "Papaw's requestin' your presence, kiddo. Time for you to learn about the ways of the Blofis men!"
"Go on, Percy," Sally said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be fun!"
"It's tradition, kiddo. Can't miss it," I insisted with a grin.
Soon, we had all gathered in the yard by the bonfire, circled around Papaw who sat on a stool. Despite all the chaos around him, he was quiet as he looked up into the night sky, a small smile on his face.
"Hey, hey, HEY! SIMMER DOWN!" Pa barked, quickly shutting up the crowd. He may have been old, but he possessed the power and authority of a battalion sergeant major—which he was in 'Nam.
When the crowd went silent, Pa stepped away from the center, and all eyes fell on Papaw as he stood, leaning slightly on his cane.
"Son, could you pass me the—" he asked as Pa quickly handed him a small glass of Jack Daniel's. "Thank you," he said as he turned back towards us. I held my own glass of whiskey, and all of the adults did the same. Percy and the other minors held glasses of lemonade.
"Friends an' family, thank y'all for comin' out here tonight. I'm honored that y'all gave your time to come down here, some from as far as Hawaii. Tonight, we have celebrated the Fourth of July and the birth of this here great nation, and there've been some mighty purdy fireworks!"
"That's what we're here for, Gunny!" someone in the back—probably Louis Caruso, a slight pyromaniac—said, making everyone break out into laughter.
"You're crazy, boy," Papaw chuckled. "I did enjoy those flashes of red, white, an' blue, though. However, as we celebrate freedom, the first thing that comes to mind for me is its cost. I know it ain't Memorial Day or Veterans' Day, but I still wanna take the time to remember the fallen."
At his words, the mood turned from cheerful to almost somber.
"We stand here today missin' family and friends of family: Sarn't Beasly, MIA in 'Nam; Lance Corporal Kaye, lost in the Gulf War; Corporal Prickett, who worked to save lives at the Twin Towers; Sarn't Chapman, who gave his life in Afghanistan; Privates Raymond and Jimmy Bell, Screamin' Eagles KIA in Normandy; Paul—" he choked at his brothers name. I swear to God that he shed a tear, but I know he wouldn't admit it to my face. "Paul... at Hill 400 in the Hürtgen Forest."
For a few moments, all that could be heard were the crackles of the fire and the buzzes of cicadas. The silence was, ironically, deafening.
"And yet, we continue to fight. Warriors like Paul are what keep the enemy away from home and let us live free. There is always a price for freedom—and I know it all too well thanks to bein' alive for damn near a century—but like the sayin' goes: I prefer dangerous freedom to peaceful slavery."
"HELL YEAH!" Martin cheered, raising the spirits of the crowd and bringing a smile to Papaw's face.
"And now, all y'all raise your glasses," he said, raising his own. "To the warriors that fight day and night, to keep this great nation safe; to the ones that give it their all to help their fellow man; to those that defend the innocent; to the ones that didn't make it back home; to the missing-in-action, to the prisoners-of-war, to the fallen; to the ones that, while just normal men on God's green Earth, possess valor, courage, honor; to those damn few."
"Damn few," we repeated as we drank.
"Now, I was never a paratrooper, and neither was Paul, but we were good friends with the Bell brothers, who told us all about this wonderful song," he chuckled. "If y'all don't know, it's alright. Just sing the main tune! And-a-one, and-a-two, and-a-one, two, three, four!"
(Sing along! Obviously, I do not own this!)
He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright,
He checked all his equipment and made sure his pack was tight;
He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar,
"You ain't gonna jump no more!"
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
"Is everybody happy?" cried the Sergeant looking up,
Our Hero feebly answered "Yes," and then they stood him up;
He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock,
He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop,
The silk from his reserves spilled out, and wrapped around his legs,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
The risers swung around his neck, connectors cracked his dome,
Suspension lines were tied in knots around his skinny bones;
The canopy became his shroud; he hurtled to the ground.
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
The days he'd lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind,
He thought about the girl back home, the one he'd left behind;
He thought about the medic corps, and wondered what they'd find,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
The ambulance was on the spot, the jeeps were running wild,
The medics jumped and screamed with glee, they rolled their sleeves and smiled,
For it had been a week or more since last a 'Chute had failed,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
He hit the ground, the sound was "SPLAT", his blood went spurting high;
His comrades then were heard to say "A hell of a way to die!"
He lay there, rolling 'round in the welter of his gore,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
There was blood upon the risers, there were brains upon the chute,
Intestines were a-dangling from his paratroopers suit,
He was a mess, they picked him up, and poured him from his boots,
He ain't gonna jump no more.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!
We ended the song on that final cheer, and it wouldn't be out of the question to say that we could be heard for miles. I always felt a rush of adrenaline and courage when I heard the song, but what made me happiest was seeing just how well Percy was fitting in, with the boy having sung along. Now, he was shaking hands and getting pats on the back, and even striking up a conversation with Papaw.
"Your son seems to finally be fittin' in," Martin said beside me, a bottle of Jack Daniel's in hand. "Though, let's be real: even if you were his biological daddy, his looks would definitely be comin' from his mama, 'cause that'd be the only way he'd look good."
"Shaddap, idiot," I laughed as he poured us some whiskey.
"To us, and those like us, brother," he toasted.
"Damn few," I agreed, remembering the faces of my fallen brothers.
Damn few.
There are two purposes behind this. First, I had to start the CPT Blofis (Ret.) anthology somehow, so why not bring his family into the mix?
However, there is a more important reason: I intended to post this on Veterans Day to honor the troops that protect this nation (sorry about the extreme delay).
These men and women are normal people, like the rest of us, but rather than take advantage of the multitude of opportunities this nation offers—building richer, more prosperous lives—instead choose to take on a mission the rest of us are not willing to take on. They are normal people with superhuman wills. As such, this post is dedicated to the damn few that put on the uniform to serve. Some fight, some heal, some build, some transport, and so much more, but all of these service members come together to form a fighting machine to protect the USA.
There's a line from one of my favorite movies that sums up the spirit of this well:
"For all those who have been downrange, to us and those like us, damn few." - Chief Special Warfare Operator Dave, Act of Valor