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The Warrior's Code of Honor(Click the image for more detail.)By Paul R. Allen. As a combat veteran wounded in one of America’s wars, I offer to speak for those who cannot.   Were the mouths of my fallen combat friends not stopped with dust, they would testify that life revolves around honor.   In war it is understood that you give your word of honor to do your duty to stand and fight instead of running away and deserting your friends.   When you keep your word despite desperately desiring to flee the screaming hell all around, you earn honor. Earning honor under fire changes who you are.   The blast- furnace of battle burns away impurities encrusting your soul.   The white- hot forge of combat hammers you into a purified, hardened warrior willing to die rather than break your word to friends – your honor. Combat is scary but exciting. You never feel so alive as when being shot at without result. You never feel so triumphant as when shooting back – with result.

29 Jun 02 Robert Arizona Gwin robertgwin@webtv.net. Hi: I was on Operation "Short Spurt" May-Aug 1963, & re-enlisted at LAON AB, France, I was in the Medical Squadron. The trip from Fort Dix to Baltimore lasted approximately three hours. It had occurred to me that it was the first time in eight weeks that I actually was sitting in a. Alejandro, rey. nam 1967-68, year of the monkey, usn corp man, tet 1968, hue do or die, went mentally ballistic, ended up da nang nav. hosp. pitching mail.

You never feel love so pure as that burned into your heart by friends willing to die to keep their word to you. And they do. The biggest sadness of your life is to see friends falling.   The biggest surprise of your life is to survive the war.   Although still alive on the outside, you are dead inside – shot thru the heart with nonsensical guilt for living while friends died.   The biggest lie of your life torments you that you could have done something more, different, to save them.   Their faces are the tombstones in your weeping eyes, their souls shine the true camaraderie you search for the rest of your life but never find. You live a different world now.   You always will.

Your world is about waking up night after night screaming, back in battle. Your world is about your best friend bleeding to death in your arms, howling in pain for you to kill him.

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Your world is about shooting so many enemies the gun turns red and jams, letting the enemy grab you. Your world is about struggling hand- to- hand for one more breath of life. You never speak of your world.   Those who have seen combat do not talk about it.   Those who talk about it have not seen combat. You come home but a grim ghost of he who so lightheartedly went off to war.   But home no longer exists.   That world shattered like a mirror the first time you were shot at.   The splintering glass of everything you knew fell at your feet, revealing what was standing behind the mirror – grinning Death – and you are face to face, nose to nose with it!

The shock was so great that the boy you were died of fright.   He was replaced by a stranger who slipped into your body, a MAN from the Warrior’s World.   In that savage place you give your word of honor to dance with Death instead of running away from it.   This suicidal waltz is known as: “Doing your duty.”You did your duty, survived the dance, and returned home.   But not all of you came back to the civilian world.   Your heart and mind are still in the Warrior’s World, as far away from the civilian world as Mars.   They will always be in the Warrior’s World.   They will never leave, they are buried there.   In that far off hallowed home of honor, life is about keeping your word. Back in the civilian world, however, people have no idea that life is about keeping your word of honor .   They think life is about ballgames, backyards, barbecues, babies and business. Your earning honor under fire; Your blood sacrifice; Your loss of serenity/peace of mind in the hard blast- furnace of battle; bought and paid for their freedom to indulge in this kind of soft civilian thinking.   The distance between the two worlds is as far as Mars from Earth.   This is why, when you come home, you feel like an outsider, a visitor from another planet.

You are. Friends try to bridge the gaping gap between you.   It is useless.   They may as well look up at the sky and try to talk to a Martian as talk to you.   Words fall like bricks between you.   Serving with Warriors who died proving their word has made prewar friends seem too un- tested to be trusted – thus they are now mere acquaintances. The brutal truth is that earning honor in the white- hot forge of combat hammered the soft civilian you into a hardened Warrior accustomed to dancing the suicidal “Doing your duty” waltz with Death.   This unspeakable,  indescribable, life changing experience picked you up like a whirlwind and hurled you so far away from home that when you come back you feel like a stranger in your own home town, a visitor from another world, alone in a crowd of those you once knew.

The only time you do not feel alone is when with another combat veteran. Only he understands that keeping your word, your honor, whilst standing face to face with Death gives meaning and purpose to life. Only he understands that your terrifying — but thrilling — dance with Death has made your old world of backyards, barbecues and ballgames deadly dull. Only he understands that your way of being due to combat- damaged emotions is not un- usual, but the usual and you are OK, you are NORMAL for what you have been thru — repeat NORMAL! There are countless hidden costs of combat that Warriors pay.   One is adrenaline addiction.   Most  combat veterans – including this writer – feel that war was the high point of our lives, and emotionally, life has been downhill ever since.   This is because we came home adrenaline junkies.   This was not our idea, we got that way doing our duty in combat situations such as: Crouching in a foxhole waiting for attacking enemy soldiers to get close enough for you to start shooting; Hugging the ground, waiting for the signal to leap up and attack the enemy; Sneaking along on a combat patrol out in no man’s land, seeking a gunfight; Suddenly realizing that you are walking in the middle of a mine field.

Circumstances like these skyrocket your feelings of aliveness far above and beyond civilian life: Never have you felt so terrified – yet so thrilled; Never have you seen sky so blue, grass so green, breathed air so sweet, etc.; because waltzing with Death makes you feel stratospheric aliveness from being filled to the brim with adrenaline — pressed down and running over! This unforgettable experience of being sky- high on aliveness/adrenaline is why you come home basically “thrill- crazy” – that is, to use a slang expression, you do things now that you once thought were “crazy” in order to obtain thrills/excitement.   To say this another way, after the indescribable, life- changing thrill of being shot at without result — you now have a compulsive, compelling craving for similar profound stirring of your thoughts or emotions — read: thrills/excitement/aliveness from danger.   (This is a description of being addicted to adrenaline). QUESTION:  Do you know that you are suffering from adrenaline poisoning and have become an adrenaline addict/junkie? ANSWER:  No you do not, because being wacked- out on it 2.

You do not think anything is wrong with being constantly high as a kite on adrenaline because it is not un- usual but the usual – the common everyday condition you are in when fighting for your life.

Parkway Rest Stop » Fort Holabird or the Twilight Zone? The trip from Fort Dix to Baltimore lasted approximately three hours. It had occurred to me that it was the first time in eight weeks that I actually was sitting in a relatively comfortable seat. In basic training, there are virtually no chairs.

True, one sits in training rooms and in the mess hall, but those chairs are built for function, not for comfort. Sitting on a bunk is just not the same as sitting in a real chair. I wonder if today I would find a seat on Greyhound bus quite as wonderful as it seemed then. More importantly, however, the trip meant three hours alone – away from other soldiers and drill sergeants for the first time in more than eight weeks. It had been easy to forget that the world did not stop at the Fort Dix gates, but rather it was humming along quite nicely. The tiny island of civilian life on the Greyhound bus gave me three hours to stare out the window and think about the past eight weeks, about my life prior to those eight weeks, and how strange it seemed that things I had nothing to do with and had no control over placed me on this bus headed south to some damned place no one seemed to know anything about. Once in Baltimore, I dragged my jam- packed duffel bag off the bus, and asked a few people where I could catch the bus to Fort Holabird.

One person said, “I heard of Fort Meade, but I really don’t know anything about Fort Holabird. Are you sure you don’t mean Fort Meade?” A couple other people were equally as ignorant about Fort Holabird. I thought Christ, these people live here, and they never heard of the place? What the hell…??? Finally, I asked the information person at the bus terminal, who mercifully knew what bus I should take to get to this mystery military post. Shortly thereafter, duffel bag and I boarded the local bus that would take us to the base.

I asked the bus driver to let me know when we got to Fort Holabird. No problem,” he said.

I was more than a little relieved to confirm that I was on the right bus and that the driver actually knew where the damned place was. The uniform again provoked stares, smiles and glares from the other passengers. By this time, I was becoming accustomed to it. Besides, I was tired, and I just wanted to get to wherever the hell I was supposed to be.“Here’s the base, son,” the driver said, as he stopped the bus by the gate, in front of a guardhouse.

I struggled with the duffle bag down the bus aisle and thanked the driver as I turned to step off through the bus doors. As I got off the bus, I was horrified to see an MP (military policeman) looking at me and walking at a brisk pace from the guardhouse in my direction. Oh hell. Here it comes. He was a tall, staff sergeant, the same rank as my drill sergeant. I didn’t think it possible, but the MP looked even more frightening than the drill sergeants I had just spent eight weeks with. He was wearing the white MP helmet and a black MP armband.

His trousers were bloused over his spit- shined airborne boots, and he wore a 4. I braced myself for what I was certain would be a ration of shit about something or other I was not doing right. Before I could say that I was reporting for duty (that’s what one is supposed to say), he said, “Hi. You need help with that bag?”I said, “Pardon me?” What did he say?? He repeated, “How ya doing? You look like you could use some help with that bag.”I was speechless.

I could only nod my head in the affirmative, something that would have unleashed a torrent of invective from a drill sergeant about the importance of “sounding off like you got a pair!”The MP looked at me for a moment, and I thought, OK, let the hollering begin. He didn’t holler; He said, “You look beat,” and he effortlessly tossed my duffel bag over his shoulder and carried it to the guardhouse.

He set it down and asked, “Where on the base are you headed?” Still in shock, I told him that I had no idea where I was headed. I just knew that I was ordered to come here. He smiled – he actually smiled – and said, “No problem. Let me take a look at your orders.”He took a quick look at the orders and said, “O.

K. The building you have to report to is about a quarter mile down this street on the right side – big brick building – you can’t miss it. When you get there, ask for Sergeant Perez. He’ll get you squared away.” I thanked him and began walk in the direction he had indicated. The MP shouted behind me, “Wait!” I thought, OK, I knew that this was too good to be true – this must be some kind of trap. Now, the hollering will begin. I turned in his direction and said, “Yes?” He said, “It’s really too far for you to walk with that bag. I’ll have someone drive you.” OK, Jimbo, this must be some kind of a Twilight- friggin’- Zone thing.

There is no way that white- helmeted, bloused- trousered, pistol packin’staff sergeant MP just said that he would get me a ride because it was too far for me to walk with a heavy bag. But, that’s what he said. The MP got on the phone, and in a minute or two a corporal appeared in an Army car and said, “You the guy who needs a ride?

Hop in.”. During the short ride to my destination, I couldn’t think of anything to say to the corporal, other than to thank him for the lift. Here’s the barracks building” he said. Sergeant Perez should be in the orderly room. He’ll check you in.”I found the orderly room, and, just as promised, Sergeant Perez was there. He was a sergeant- first class (three stripes up and two rockers). Again, I found myself thinking that it was absolutely impossible for a sergeant- first- class to be anything other than mean and ornery.

When I entered the room, breathless from having lugged the bag up the stairs, Sergeant Perez looked up from the papers on his desk, and said, “Yes? What can I do for you?” Wait a minute. This is the way civilized people speak. Sergeants don’t talk this way. Watch Choke Online Metacritic there.

What in Christ’s name is going on here?“I’m reporting for duty, sergeant.”“Oh, you must be one of the new students. Admission Full Movie In English. You’re a little early, but that is not a problem.” Did he say “students?”I could no longer contain myself.

I blurted out, “What is this place?”“You don’t know?” the sergeant said.“No I don’t, and I have not been able to find anyone who knows anything about this place.”“This is the United States Army Military Intelligence School.”I stood there in silence trying to process it all. After a few seconds, I asked, “What will I be doing here?”“Let’s take a look at your orders, and we’ll see.” I handed him my orders, and he said, “You are a 9. C. You’re an interrogator.”“An interrogator?” He remained patient, despite my stupidly repeating everything I had just heard.“Yes, that’s what a 9. C is. I also see that you speak German.”“Well, I took the German test. How can you tell from looking at the orders that I speak German?”The sergeant explained, “It says that your MOS (military occupation specialty) is 9. C2. L2. 9. The “9. C” tells me that you are an interrogator, and the “2.

L2. 9” tells me that you speak German.” I couldn’t help thinking back to that miserable bastard at Fort Dix who tried to intimidate me into not taking the German test. The sergeant, still looking at my orders, continued, “Oh, now I know why you might be a little puzzled by all this. I see that you are a draftee. We don’t get many draftees.