Good question, but I really don't care. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that I don't care if we never do. I can't think of a single good reason to capture or kill the man. I suppose the argument could be made that we as a civilization need to feel that he has been brought to some sort of justice. Unfortunately, I'm of the opinion that capturing or killing him won't help, and if anything will make matters worse.
Here's my thinking: No mater how we get him, he's instantly a martyr. Killing him is a worst-case scenario. Gloating over is death will re-vitalize an enemy at a time when it looks (on the surface) like we're starting to make some progress.
What if we capture him? Then what? A trial? I'm no lawyer, but I can't imagine that this is an open-and-shut case. At least not in the sense that we normally think about it. There's probably very little admissible direct evidence linking him to the events of 9/11. Maybe we could get him on tax evasion charges...
No, I like Osama right where he is, probably in a cave somewhere, living out the last days of his miserable existence.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
Fallen Navy SEAL to Receive Medal of Honor
Navy SEAL LT Michael Murphy was killed in action in Afghanistan during Operation REDWING in 2005. On October 11, The Navy announced that for his actions on June 28, 2005, he will be awarded the Medal of Honor.
On October 22, the President, on the behalf of Congress, will present the Medal of Honor to his family.
The Medal of Honor was created in 1861, and is the nations highest military award for valor.
More information can be found here.
I can't help being deeply moved after reading through the accounts of LT Murphy's actions, and those of his fellow SEALs, in a way that is difficult to describe.
The sole survivor of that battle chronicled the experience in the book "Lone Survivor".
I'm also waiting for the inevitable comment somewhere that he "won" the medal. Personal awards for valor aren't "won". They are "awarded". Valor decorations are not something that you compete or vie for. Characterizing his actions on that day as some sort of competition demeans them in a small way. That may be just me, tho.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Transparency
The military is a strange place for a civilian to find themselves. There are a lot of differences that I wasn’t expecting, even though I grew up in a military family. Both my father and his father spent over 20 years in the sea service, but they never used the lingo at home. A floor wasn’t a deck, and a wall wasn’t a bulkhead. To me, the Navy was about keeping the Russians from “sucking the paint off your house and giving your family a permanent orange afro.” I had only seen it from the outside.
My first command was made up of sailors and officers that were more or less just like me. We were all reservists, all did the same job, and all had the same sorts of backgrounds. College-educated, in our 30’s, and few of us had any prior military experience. Our job can best be described as “white-collar.” It involved computers and Accelerating Our Lives ™ one PowerPoint slide at a time. It wasn’t until I got to my second command that I saw the “real” Navy from the inside.
I was re-assigned to a squadron here in DC. The squadron was (roughly) half active duty and half reservists. Comparing it to my first assignment is nigh-on impossible. I’m not talking apples and oranges. I’m talking apples and car tires. Both are more or less round, but that’s about it.
Not long after I got there, one of the active duty sailors had gotten himself into a bit of trouble with the base police. I’ll just say that the phrase “resisted arrest” was used in describing his infraction, as was the word “alcohol”. Funny how those two always seem to go hand-in-hand.
Our CO threw the book at him. Busted down to third class, took some of his pay, and anything else he could think of. A hard man, he was. Hard, but fair. Any one of us would have received the same punishment.
The next week was our change of command, we got a new CO. The following month, the squadron was mustered in the hangar for quarters. The new CO told the assembled masses the details of what this sailor had done, and what the punishment from the previous CO had been. Then he said that due to the exemplary performance record of this sailor, he was re-instating him back to his previous rank, and removing all other restrictions.
It was at that moment I noticed that the guy in front of me was weeping. It was him.
To a civilian, this was all very strange. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen out there in suit-and-tie land. People you work with may get drunk and fight with the cops, but details are always vague, and everything you hear is through the office grapevine. The boss certainly doesn’t call an all-hands staff meeting to discuss the details. I can’t think of a single civilian job where a boss has that kind of power.
It was then when I realized just how much authority a military commanding officer has. Especially in the Navy. The buck stops with them, and they hold the lives of every sailor in their hands. If absolute power tends to corrupt absolutely, it sure as heck better be transparent.
My first command was made up of sailors and officers that were more or less just like me. We were all reservists, all did the same job, and all had the same sorts of backgrounds. College-educated, in our 30’s, and few of us had any prior military experience. Our job can best be described as “white-collar.” It involved computers and Accelerating Our Lives ™ one PowerPoint slide at a time. It wasn’t until I got to my second command that I saw the “real” Navy from the inside.
I was re-assigned to a squadron here in DC. The squadron was (roughly) half active duty and half reservists. Comparing it to my first assignment is nigh-on impossible. I’m not talking apples and oranges. I’m talking apples and car tires. Both are more or less round, but that’s about it.
Not long after I got there, one of the active duty sailors had gotten himself into a bit of trouble with the base police. I’ll just say that the phrase “resisted arrest” was used in describing his infraction, as was the word “alcohol”. Funny how those two always seem to go hand-in-hand.
Our CO threw the book at him. Busted down to third class, took some of his pay, and anything else he could think of. A hard man, he was. Hard, but fair. Any one of us would have received the same punishment.
The next week was our change of command, we got a new CO. The following month, the squadron was mustered in the hangar for quarters. The new CO told the assembled masses the details of what this sailor had done, and what the punishment from the previous CO had been. Then he said that due to the exemplary performance record of this sailor, he was re-instating him back to his previous rank, and removing all other restrictions.
It was at that moment I noticed that the guy in front of me was weeping. It was him.
To a civilian, this was all very strange. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen out there in suit-and-tie land. People you work with may get drunk and fight with the cops, but details are always vague, and everything you hear is through the office grapevine. The boss certainly doesn’t call an all-hands staff meeting to discuss the details. I can’t think of a single civilian job where a boss has that kind of power.
It was then when I realized just how much authority a military commanding officer has. Especially in the Navy. The buck stops with them, and they hold the lives of every sailor in their hands. If absolute power tends to corrupt absolutely, it sure as heck better be transparent.
Friday, October 5, 2007
With My Spear and Magic Helmet...
I am, for lack of a better word, squeamish. I don't particularly like the sight of blood, and I especially don't like being in hospitals. I find this personal revulsion intellectually fascinating, because medicine and surgery are among the things that interest me the most. I have a handful of books on the subject, and have no problem watching either Discovery Health (aka the Surgery Channel) or other televised surgical procedures. If (heaven forbid) The Kid does end up needing surgery, the curious guy in me wants to watch, or at least see it on video. You can stick me with as many needles and draw as much blood as you want, but don't you dare show it to me beforehand. If I see the needle go in, you'd better get a pillow. Because I'm going to take a quick nap.
As my wife's due date neared, we had discussions about who would be in the room, and how involved I was going to be when the big moment came. This talk had to include a frank assessment of my ability to stay conscious in the presence of not only blood, but sharp and scary looking medical instruments. I said that I would do whatever was needed to be there with my wife. All of my friends with kids explained that I would be so excited and caught up in the moment that I wouldn't have time to pass out. Clearly, these friends have never seen me in a hospital. My biggest fear was passing out, bonking me head, and being sent to the emergency room. I'd miss everything. :-(
My wife's aunt and uncle had (of course) heard of my near-legendary ability to pass out, and decided to act.
About a month before my wife was due, a package from them arrived on our doorstep. It was addressed to me. Hmmm. Whatever could it be?
It was my very own, patent-pending, fainting cap. Actually, it was a rock climbing helmet with the following sticker on it:
Newby Dad High-Impact Fainting Cap
Proven to reduce severity of cranial injury due to high velocity
impact with floors, walls, or heavy objects wielded by mothers
in a state of high agitation
A pair of geniuses, they are. It went straight into the readybag next to the door.
When the big day came, it ended up being (for me) a worst case scenario. Emergency c-section. That meant an operating room. LOTS of positively medieval extraction and retraction devices in plain view. Blood. Incisions. In short, all the wrong things.
Did I wear it?
Yer dern tootin' I did. While I may not look very macho, I'd look decidedly less macho sprawled out on the floor.
Did I need it? Nope.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
We're Still Proud
A few years ago, I would guess late 2003 or so, I was leaving the local Metro station on my way home when I spotted a young Army private standing in front of one of the farecard machines. He was wearing his Class A uniform, with a fully stuffed pack on his shoulders. He looked like he was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
It was clear that he was trying to make sense of the farecard system we use here in DC, and not having much success.
Just as I was walking past the young private, the station manager emerged from his kiosk and walked toward the soldier.
"Hey, G.I.!" he shouted. "You're money's no good here."
The private turned and walked to the manager. A few brief words were exchanged, and I saw the manager hand him something. The manager then escorted the soldier through a small gate next that Metro employees use to bypass the turnstiles.
The soldier was on his way to wherever he was going.
I watched all this, and as the soldier was heading down the escalator, I walked over to the manager and thanked him.
That was 4 years ago, and you'd think that sort of thing wasn't happeneing anymore.
You'd be wrong.
It was clear that he was trying to make sense of the farecard system we use here in DC, and not having much success.
Just as I was walking past the young private, the station manager emerged from his kiosk and walked toward the soldier.
"Hey, G.I.!" he shouted. "You're money's no good here."
The private turned and walked to the manager. A few brief words were exchanged, and I saw the manager hand him something. The manager then escorted the soldier through a small gate next that Metro employees use to bypass the turnstiles.
The soldier was on his way to wherever he was going.
I watched all this, and as the soldier was heading down the escalator, I walked over to the manager and thanked him.
That was 4 years ago, and you'd think that sort of thing wasn't happeneing anymore.
You'd be wrong.
Good News
Looks like the kid won't need surgery after all. The opthl...
optam...
opthom...
eye doctor we saw thinks the problem will most likely resolve itself over time, and as long as she's not in any discomfort, there isn't a good reason to have the operation.
optam...
opthom...
eye doctor we saw thinks the problem will most likely resolve itself over time, and as long as she's not in any discomfort, there isn't a good reason to have the operation.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
How My Day Was Almost Ruined
I am a creature of habit. Actually, more of a creature of routine.
Every day, I leave the house at 6:11. I drive to the Metro station to get on the 6:43 train, and park in pretty much the same spot. I get a copy of the two freebie newspapers (the Examiner and the Express), and I sit in the third car, in the same seat every day. I sit in this car and in this seat because when the train reaches my destination, the escalator off of the platform will be next to the door nearest the seat. If I were to sit further forward on the train, my exit would be past the escalator, requiring a u-turn once I passed the escalator, and merging with the line of people going up.
I have to complete the Examiner crossword before I reach the Stadium station. That way, I can be reasonably sure of completing the Express crossword by the time I get to L’Enfant Plaza. That will give me enough time to read the entertainment sections of both papers, as well as the op-ed section of the Examiner.
I always fold the newspapers with the opinion section of the Examiner facing out (so people will think I’m smart), and leave the station through the last turnstile on the right. The newspaper goes in the second-to-last recycling bin just before the escalator to the street. There is a reason for the turnstile and bin, basically an efficiency of movement thing. It took a few weeks of mental calculation and experimentation with different routes, motions, and even strides, but I think I’ve got it down now. I’ve even counted the number of steps, just to be sure.
Yesterday, everything seemed to go wrong. I was 5 minutes late leaving the house. There were no Examiner papers to be had at the station. The third train car was “down” as in not working. I had to make a snap judgment. Should I:
a) Sit in car 2, thus requiring the dreaded “station u-turn?”
b) Sit in car 4, meaning a 50 foot longer walk to the platform escalator?
c) Wait for the next train and be another 4 minutes late for work?
I went with “b” figuring the extra walk wouldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, car 4 was rather full, meaning I didn’t get my usual seat. I got stuck with an aisle seat on the end, which meant that I couldn’t have a proper work surface on which to complete my only crossword. See below:
Upon arriving at the station, I discovered to my almost horror that my turnstile was broken, and the recycling bin I use was being emptied!!!
I arrived at the office pretty much convinced that the day was going to be ruined. Luckily, the rest of the day was uneventful, and today, everything was back as it should be.
Every day, I leave the house at 6:11. I drive to the Metro station to get on the 6:43 train, and park in pretty much the same spot. I get a copy of the two freebie newspapers (the Examiner and the Express), and I sit in the third car, in the same seat every day. I sit in this car and in this seat because when the train reaches my destination, the escalator off of the platform will be next to the door nearest the seat. If I were to sit further forward on the train, my exit would be past the escalator, requiring a u-turn once I passed the escalator, and merging with the line of people going up.
I have to complete the Examiner crossword before I reach the Stadium station. That way, I can be reasonably sure of completing the Express crossword by the time I get to L’Enfant Plaza. That will give me enough time to read the entertainment sections of both papers, as well as the op-ed section of the Examiner.
I always fold the newspapers with the opinion section of the Examiner facing out (so people will think I’m smart), and leave the station through the last turnstile on the right. The newspaper goes in the second-to-last recycling bin just before the escalator to the street. There is a reason for the turnstile and bin, basically an efficiency of movement thing. It took a few weeks of mental calculation and experimentation with different routes, motions, and even strides, but I think I’ve got it down now. I’ve even counted the number of steps, just to be sure.
Yesterday, everything seemed to go wrong. I was 5 minutes late leaving the house. There were no Examiner papers to be had at the station. The third train car was “down” as in not working. I had to make a snap judgment. Should I:
a) Sit in car 2, thus requiring the dreaded “station u-turn?”
b) Sit in car 4, meaning a 50 foot longer walk to the platform escalator?
c) Wait for the next train and be another 4 minutes late for work?
I went with “b” figuring the extra walk wouldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, car 4 was rather full, meaning I didn’t get my usual seat. I got stuck with an aisle seat on the end, which meant that I couldn’t have a proper work surface on which to complete my only crossword. See below:
That isn't me, by the way...
Upon arriving at the station, I discovered to my almost horror that my turnstile was broken, and the recycling bin I use was being emptied!!!
I arrived at the office pretty much convinced that the day was going to be ruined. Luckily, the rest of the day was uneventful, and today, everything was back as it should be.
In case you are wondering (and I know you are), I do have a routine for my trip home, but it isn't nearly as complex as the one on the way in.
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