The Balloon Goes up..

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

Many of you who read this know that quote above and many of you know that I have always subscribed to the "Quiet Professional" ethos that was beat into my head as a young Ranger. I don't talk much if at all about any of my accomplishments or things I did or participated in. I will share humor that is relatable simply because we can all relate to it. I don't see my accomplishments as worthy to stand with the warriors of today.

But as 12 /20 approaches and as the 20th anniversary of Just Cause has arrived, I look back and realize that I have stood in the arena, my face has been marred by dust, sweat and blood. I have know the greatest of enthusiasms and devotions and spent myself in a worthy cause. And I have dared greatly and my place will never be with those cold timid souls who neither know victory or defeat.

So, for this weekend, I'll hold my shoulders a little further back, I'll stand a little taller and I'll share a story with those great men who I was lucky to have served side by side with.

The apartment was 800 square feet. It was just off Abercorn, past the Krystal Burger about 4 miles from the Hunter Army Airfield Gate. It was 2 bed room, 1 bath decorated in junior enlisted "motif". The couch was a twin bed with plastic milk crates for end tables. The recently purchased enterainment center was warping under the weight of the television as only Wal Mart craftsmanship can. The dining room table was chrome and bamboo put together with an allen wrench also purchased at Wal Mart.

1989 had been a busy year for myself and 1/75 Rangers. We deployed early in the year to Panama for the Jungle Operations Training Course, then I would head off to Ranger School which with Pre- Ranger comes to about 90 days. Shortly after that return we deployed to Jordan to train with their special forces. It seems right after that we began a JRT rotation with all the other special operations forces. Which led right up to December the 15th. Married 1 year, home about 3 months. Oh and just like a Ranger, I almost forgot, Erica was born in August of 1989, so a busy year indeed and I was ready for block leave.

We were finally getting Christmas leave and the parents had chipped in to purchase the tickets for us 4 to fly home. This JRT rotation was interesting as typically each module was a different objective somewhere in the world / US that we would fly away to and rehearse a different mission. This time we kept hitting the same objective, just in different locations. The last one was in Florida and the pyro that was on the objective was quite impressive and there was actually a C130 on the concrete runway we were jumping. Usually, for saftey, all aircraft were removed. Two things about this last mission. My Squad leader, John Malloy, landed on the wing of the C130, fell off and broke his shoulder. My good friend, Eddie Noland, lost his Kevlar helmet on the jump and I found it on the way to exfill, which means he owed me a case of beer. So, I was sad about John but happy about the beer. I was even more excited about block leave! Time to get some real mexican food in Texas, see La Famila and re charge the batteries. Two weeks later the train would be leaving the station and who knew what 1990 had in store.

I had one thing in my way, PLDC, Primary Leadership Development Course. It is the first in a series of mandated promotion schools run by Big Army. It is every Rangers nightmare. The thought process in those schools is nothing like we are used to and it is in most cases a waste of time. I was already Ranger qualified which is known as "The Army's premier Leadership School". And I had the damn thing the day after block leave. So, in the middle of the living room floor of the apartment, I had all my gear out. Getting it inspection ready as the entire course is pretty much a daily inspection. Taking tie downs off, removing tactical tape, etc. Call it a guess, but I was probably about 5 beers into a 6 pack as well.

The rest of the boys, were at a party at Doc Cooks house. If I did not have to get all my crap ready for the school, I would have been there with them. Then my phone rang... "Specialist Jurena..xxxxx notification". Now the call out rosted dictated who called you and this voice, though familar, was not the one who called me. So I said, "bullshit, who the hell is this". The response was "It's your Platoon Sergeant and this is not bullshit". It was then, at that very second, I knew. There was a huge knot in my stomach. I'd often heard the Grenada guys say, when it's real, you will know. And I always thought that was just macho talk, but I knew.

He then wanted to know if I knew where the rest of the boys were and of course I did. He told me to go get them. I don't remember what I told Lisa, the clock is ticking and I now have to get across town to round up what I knew were going to be shitfaced Rangers. I think I told her it was real, she asked about Texas, I said.."go". Then I had to gather up all my damn gear that I had just taken apart, shove into my duffel bag and I was gone. Married a year, gone again.

When I got to Doc Cook's house things were in full swing. Lots of booze and plenty of women. Some wives, some not. I pulled Dismus Myers aside who was the ranking E6 and my squad leader. He was trying to get me to do a shot when I whispered in his ear. He called bullshit at first and I told him, he could call bullshit all he wants but by this point we had 1 hour to be at work, or else. Dismus tossed all the broads out of the living room and told everyone the scoop. The place cleared out faster than if the boys had been caught with the Generals daughter and he had just come home.

As we approached HAAF, the activity everywhere told me all I needed to know. It was "Go" time.

December the 19th was typical South East weather. Cold and rainy, probably 40 degrees and alternating between a drizzle and a hard rain. Rehersals had to be done, manifests called and pre-jump completed. Though I will give my jumpmaster credit, he looked at the platform we were supposed to practice our falls off of and the standing water around it and said.."fuck it, we are not doing them". It was absolutely miserable.

The night prior was spent writing your "goodbye" letter and giving it to the person you wanted to deliver it. Honestly, I never wrote one. I think I told someone to tell my family I loved them, but I just was not going to sit down and write one last letter, it went against everything I learned as an athlete about visualizing your victory. I slept in Steve Ellison's room and we talked about life and beer and love and everything else, but I don't think he wrote a letter either. For all of us testosterone was not in short supply and we all felt bullet proof, at least at that moment.

As we stood there freezing, it was suddenly time to get your ammo issued. Now, I knew what "basic load" was but until they hand you a sand bag with it in there, you just don't realize that it is not or does not seem to be very much ammo. I'm thinking that if I'm jumping into someones country and I have to fight until I can get re-supplied, this sure does not seem like I'm going to last very long. Everyone felt the same way. Then we got the opportunity to ease our fears, this would prove to be a tactical error, but more on that later. Somehow, someone was able to get into the back of the ASP and start shuttling crates of ammo out the boys. Next thing you know we have way more ammo than we were supposed to have. In fact, I pretty much jettisoned everything out of my rucksack except, ammo, water and other squad items I would need. No food, no hygiene kit,nothing. Again, this would prove to be a bad move later. Speaking of food, the "last supper" at Sabre Hall was steak and lobster. That's right, fatten up the hogs before you lead them to slaughter. Another strange thing, it was like the entire clergy from Savannah was there, all wanting to pray over us, for us, etc. It was just an odd scene, a feast presided over by clergy, with like Motley Crue, Kick Start my Heart blasting in the back ground.

We broke off into chalks, hugged our buddies, shook their hands, looked them in the eyes and said, "I'll see you at the rally point". My machismo was a bit down at this point because honestly, you did not know if you were going to see them again or not. It was a bittersweet moment. Doors closed, finally some warmth as your BDU's were soaking wet. It was dark outside and in the bird, I can remember knowing we were gaining altitude over the Savannah mall wondering if anyone other then our families knew we were locked and loaded and going to invade another country.

Actions in country tomorrow...

Now if I was a SEAL, at this point, my writings would spend 5 or 6 chapters on the training that made me a Ranger. I think Marcus Luttrell has an amazing story but if I don't know how he got there, I've either not read another SEAL book or I missed the Trident on the front cover of his.

If you don't know "Us" or who we are, then perhaps navigate away or do a quick Google Search of "75th Ranger Regiment".

If you don't know the "why" then I would also suggest you do some quick internet research of why we invaded Panama. You will find multiple reasons all recoreded in the history books. Now let me give you the layman's version.

No soldier has ever assaulted a bunker in pursuit of any political ideology. Nor have we ever deployed based on our beliefs co-inciding with some politicians.

As "Hoot" from Black Hawk Down Says.."When I go home people'll ask me, "Hey Hoot, why do you do it man? What, you some kinda war junkie?" You know what I'll say? I won't say a goddamn word. Why? They won't understand. They won't understand why we do it. They won't understand that it's about the men next to you, and that's it. That's all it is." And there you have it, in its simplest form.

At that moment in time, I could care less about Panama. My Brothers had saddled up and I had trained with them, sweated with them and bled with them. At that moment in time, this was exactly were I was supposed to be. By the way, "Hoot" was not a fictional character, nor were most in that movie.

Somewhere, I started to get hot. The heat in the bird became stifiling and I was wearing my field jacket liner underneath my wet BDU's. I stood up to take it off and I almost fell down. The bird was under red lights, so it was a very "un real" environment. It was then I realized, that for the first time since junior high, I was having the onset of a migrane head ache. Here I was, part of the Praetorean Guard, rolling in a C141, outboard seats only, about to do Ceaser's work and I was having the worst head ache in 10 years. I was very concerned that in front of my boy's I was going to look weak, and honestly at this very moment I was. I pulled my 2 quart out and drank the entire thing. It had been cold and rainy and I'm pretty sure I drank only coffee all day. Amazing how quickly we forget all the things we know are important, like hydration.

I sat down and closed my eyes. I realized at this point.. I was scared. I'm not afraid to admit it, at least not now. I was going to exit this aircraft and invade a country that had declared war on us. People, were going to die and I could very well be one of those people. I was a city kid from a suburb of Houston and while this all sounded great after physical training, yelling "HooaH"! and talking about wanting to kick ass and take names, I was suddenly less than a few hours out from having to execute this plan. How I got here is another book or long blog post all together but as bad ass as I thought I was at this moment, I'm not sure I was ready to do this. I knew that I was concerned for my fire team, Derome West was right next to me and was to follow me out the door, just behind him was Russell, who was literally just out of RIP. My concern was that I would not be able to bring these guys back home alive. For whatever reason, the glass just seemed half empty on several fronts.

I have no real explanation for that, we trained harder and under more realistic conditions than the majority of the United States Army. We shot more live rounds and trained with more "sister" units than the majority of the United States Army. Perhaps it was because the squad was juggled around a bit as was our platoon. Our platoon sergeant, Stan Goff, had left us to got Special Forces assessment. Our platoon leader had blown himself up with a grenade just prior to the alert. My squad leader had broke his shoulder on the last rehearsal. So, Charlie 2, was a bit re-organized as was Charlie 2, Third squad. Somewhere in the