1369
12-20-2004, 01:21 PM
It was June of 1999 and I was in Jump school. I was called to the main office and told I had to report immediately to my parent unit. It was a good thing that there was only one day left of jump school otherwise I wouldn't have graduated but I did and caught a flight from Columbus Georgia to Okinawa Japan. I got back to camp Hansen on a Friday night. We were based there because my platoon was attached to the MEU. I almost forgot to check in with the duty across the street. When I did at around eleven at night he looked at my ID and started rifling through his stack of papers… "Stare…yeah here you go Sergeant". He handed me my orders and a plane ticket. I almost shit myself. I was to meet some captain in six hours to get on a plane down in Naha and fly to Australia. I was still fucking tired from spending 36 various hours in planes and airports.
I went to our isolation hooch and was amazed to find it empty. My wall locker had the locks cut. All that was on it was a long letter from my Platoon Sergeant (Barry Morgan). He explained that the MEU was currently steaming to a place called East Timor and he would see me there. The platoon had dumped all my gear in a truck and took off. I packed what little I had and for the hell of it, I brought my guitar. I figured fuck em…what were they going to do? Shave my head and send me to Okinawa? In the morning I was in no mood to meet the fucking arrogant cock that greeted me. He made the effort to shake my hand but I didn't bother. I just offered my best "How you doing sir?" I would pay for it but I just didn't care. I called my old lady who was already busy fucking somebody else and then I was on another plane. On the flight the asshole captain handed me an inch thick binder of Intelligence reports and within five minutes I couldn't understand any of them. Shitloads of message traffic about different colored Berets and what militia was what and what they stood for etc…I was too tired to sleep, too tired to concentrate. I just didn't give a fuck. He even quizzed me. At that point I had been clean maybe a year. All I wanted was a big fat beer. Instead I sipped bad coffee and tried to pretend like I didn't want to shove the binder under the nearest seat.
We landed near Brisbane and it was on to another plane to finally end up in Darwin Australia. The fucking cock sucking lifers that picked us up at the airport had horseshoe haircuts and bad ass fuck faces painted on. They were classic pogues who had no idea what I was about. They hated the guitar and I loved the fact that they hated it. I relished in it. I was also happy that my hair was way too long. My cammies were wrinkled and I was a certified shitbag to them. By the time we got the Aussie base at Darwin I really didn't know what day it was or where I was. They called the place "Tin City" because it was a bunch of trailers all hooked together and it housed a various clump of UN troops. All of them doing absolutely nothing. French fags in tight little shorts giving me dirty looks. There were fat assed Army signal guys just lounging around. There was a ton of Corps zeros running around a clump of tents creating PowerPoint presentations and checking their email. They were doing conference calls back to Okinawa but I never saw any work being done. They just kept making the 6 PFC's in the camp do everything (until they all got busted for smoking weed). The Air force fucks were there too but they were staying in five star hotels, collecting max per diem in town and they only came around to get in front of me and scam a free meal at the chow hall. I was introduced to the main Colonel in charge of the place and he looked at me sideways for a second. "You're a Recon guy?" There were a million things going through my head. "Here it comes," I thought to myself as I stood there dizzy and slightly swaying. I was at the point where I was about to start laughing at nothing and everything all at once. I wasn't prepared for what he said next. He turned to some major and called him by his first name "Jack can we get this guy on the next C130 into Timor?"
I was laughing to myself as I went to the makeshift armory to get my M16 I had never zeroed and my flak jacket that was too small for me. With my helmet that was too big and my two magazines of rounds I wandered onto the C130 with the arrogant captain and laughed at the way zeros always call each other by first names but when enlisted do it we are being "undisciplined". I actually slept on the 30 minute flight to East Timor and felt like a new man. My official job was to make my way to the port and see if it was possible to land an LCU ship there because "You Recon guys are good in the water right?" When we landed some tricked out Air Force wanna bees wearing the latest Gucci, Black Hawk gear came running on the plane screaming "Shots fired!!!!" over and over. I just looked at them as they stared at us and I said "OK, what the fuck you want me to do about it?…ain't shit I can do in here". They got out of my way then the captain and I stepped outside. I couldn't hear shit. All I could hear was the plane behind me. We stood there for a second and shrugged our shoulders in unison. I was starting to like this captain. We saw some figures in the distance by the airport's main building and walked that way. We got close enough to hear an Aussie army chick tell us "Don't worry mates, the fucking local wankers couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun anyway" she pointed to the two Air Force guys and said "Those two seppos out there have been screaming shots fired every fifteen minutes for the past few days." We were met by an Army lieutenant, a Navy Ensign and a Marine PFC. We all crammed into one of those white UN vehicles. Of course I got shit canned to the back storage area, with my rifle sticking straight up in the air and my legs crossed into some strange yoga pose. My face was pressed against the glass and I started to hate the captain again. There were speed traps set up in the war zone. The place was still on fire but there were Army MPs giving speeding tickets out because somebody from the UN had hit a local the day before. While we were driving a van full of nuns passed us on the right and waved. We got to the UN compound and I was amazed to see chicks with Aussie guns guarding the sand bagged front gate. Inside, it was the same old story. A bunch of zeros trying to figure out what to do with their danger pay and a small detachment of enlisted engineer types doing all the work. I talked to a few of them and learned that they were doing their jobs (electric, water, building etc) and they were also handling their own security because Clinton didn't want any infantry types on the deck. There were a few platoons of grunts on the way but they would never do anything but cut squares while these guys worked themselves to death. All the while they were surrounded by field grade zeros who ate Aussie MRE's and commented on how bad vegemite was. Eventually the Captain, the Navy ensign, the Army lieutenant, the PFC and I all got in a HMMV and headed to the port. The Army and Navy officers both had 9mm Berettas with one mag each. They had no idea how to use them. The Captain was up front and he no weapon. The PFC was driving and he had no weapon either. We had no radios, no plan for anything if shit went bad and a crude idea of how to actually get to the port. We ended up in some dirt intersection and the PFC became confused. We paused too long and all of a sudden there were about 100 small brown people all over the vehicle, making universal hand and arms signals…the peace sign was popular and they all smiled but what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up was the simple fact that every other one of them had a different colored beret on. Most of them had their hands in their pockets and they just kept smiling at me. A guy I know named Jim Boland saw the same smile in Hue city in 1969. My buddies in Iraq and Afghanistan see that same smile every day. Behind that smile is nothing but hatred. In that instant I was amazed at how calm and how sharp my senses were. I slowly lowered my weapon to just above their heads and put my thumb on the safety. In a fraction of a second I had accepted that I would shoot if I saw a gun. No questions asked. After a few tense seconds the PFC found his balls and punched the gas. We made it to the port and I saw some more smiling brown people wearing purple berets. Apparently they were the "Good Guys".
So there I was. I had traveled around the world and my mission was to see if we could land LCU ships at the port. I was convinced that we could because I ended up standing in knee deep water on a cement ramp built specifically for landing LCUs. One of the little brown "Good Guys" told me where it was. After my mission was completed I got back in the HMMV and we left. We had to stop along the way at a place where the locals were burning some trash so the Army and Navy officers could borrow my rifle and take turns getting pictures of each other with their war faces on. "Make sure you get the smoke in the background Bob" the one said to the other. Over the years I have witnessed such stupid shit so many times that I don't trust anybody who displays their "War" pictures on a mantle. I also don't trust "Warriors" who just can't wait to tell me what bad asses they are and show me how many medals they've earned. It's always the fucked up quiet guys with an old cigar box full of crumpled pictures that are the real deal. Guys who never talk and have shaking hands.
There is an old joke that talks about the two types of people in combat. One is a guy who talks all kinds of shit and then when the bullets start flying he's under the HMMV in the fetal position screaming "I've got children!!!" The other type of guy is the weirdo nobody eats next to. The guy who smells funny and talks in one syllable sentences. He always seems to be the one that comes alive while tracers zoom overhead. You can find him on the 50 cal screaming "Allah sucks cock!" while he returns fire with no regard for his safety. Also a good guy in peace time usually becomes a great guy when it gets bad. A total scum sucking asshole in peace time is even more of an asshole in war. I never found out which one of those people I was but my time in the barrel seems to be approaching.
As much as I've bitched and made fun of the Navy, I couldn't ignore some of the nice and decent people I've met recently on the ship. People just trying to get through the day like the rest of us and willing to work together. I've focused on the negative all my life. Even I couldn't ignore people like the Coke distributor who paid for all our food and supplies with his own money at the commissary because he heard we were having one last platoon party before we left for Iraq. Everyday I come in contact with amazing people who are there to help or just say hello. Even as I write this the pizza guy shook my hand and said good luck because he noticed all my gear lying around the living room. I am surrounded by good men in my platoon. I've gotten to know them and their families over the last 15 months and there is an overwhelming sense of duty amongst them. Many of us had friends and brothers killed or wounded in Iraq.
At this point I have learned some hard lessons about what I am truly capable of, what I really want out of this life and where I'm headed next. I also think it's only a matter of time before I am told to stop the web page. The kiss of success I guess. Things were simpler when only 50 people read my shit. I'm glad and excited about all those Jimmy Stare stories I keep hearing. God bless those crazy fuckers in Camp Fallujah, Afghanistan (Fast Eddy and Stahl), Jimbo, Willy and the rest at Second Battalion and Company, On Ship, In Okinawa, In Europe and in the states etc. People from all over the world Like Duane from Strider knives pushing my music at his conventions. People like Mike Anthony on the right coast pushing me on his radio station. Lori, Tom, Greg, Lisa and the rest up in Jackson CA. All of them military or former military or friends of the military, sending me emails and encouragement. At a time when I can't get a gig to save my life in Southern California I have been reaching more people than I ever dreamed of on a regular basis with words and pictures on the web page. In a lot of ways I've become slightly successful. I still don't make shit for money but I can't put a price tag on some of the things I've been told. Like the drunken kid who told me he cried when he listened to Brass Button Collar because he was reminded of his dead buddies. Then he went on to tell me he would mail me whatever I needed in Iraq but if I didn't need anything then I was on my own because he needed beer money. Brutal honesty from Jarheads is such a wonderful thing that I tend to take for granted. There's another guy who is covering one of my songs in his shows. One couple asked me to play one of my songs at their wedding because it was how they fell in love. The song was one of the most depressing I had ever written. While I was at that wedding some hot chick told me a story about when she was in Thailand at some bar and there was my CD in the stereo. She went on to tell me that the bar whores and the owner talked about me as this weird guy, covered in tattoos that didn't drink but liked to fuck two chicks at once. They said all I did when I wasn't fucking was surf. Every night I would play and sing in the bar and all the hookers would hang out to listen. What a strange experience to find myself being told of my exploits in Thailand by a gorgeous brunette at a wedding in San Diego.
If I wasn't married I probably could have gotten laid from the web page too. When I bitch and yell about getting the fuck out I am constantly reminded by men next to me that I would not be able to deal with one little thing on the outside: Civilians. Maybe they're right. They tend to know me better than my own family. It's been some rough years. Lots of pain and frustration, but everybody's got that. I responded by making a web page and making fun of shit, sometimes bitching about shit and other times just putting up pictures to tell the story for me. Right now things don't look good as far as future updates are concerned. Email is basically non-existent on the ship. When I can get to it, it takes me 40 minutes to check two emails because it's so slow. So updating from ship will be impossible. That's why I started the message board. That way I can get the scoop straight from the drunken masses. I can't really respond but it's nice to read once in awhile on ship. I also can't stop the fuckers who use it to advertise stupid shit.
Every morning for the last year or so when I was home, the little cat would meet me at the computer. She'd run around my leg and bother me until I would pet her. It always seemed like I was running late and I had to rush out the door. I made a point to always kiss my old lady goodbye and just hold her for a second before I left. Last year when I was planning for this deployment she would say, "Why are you worried about that stuff, you don't leave for a year" but recently she has said that "It's gone by so fast". On this last morning as I play with the cat and kiss the old lady goodbye, I feel like I'm ripping something off of me and leaving it behind. Later I will be standing on the bow of that ship just watching the water pass and thinking about things. I never planned to be like this. It just happened. Somehow I wound up with the beginnings of a family and a small zoo to go with it. Something to come back to. Something to take care of. I was the guy who was never getting married and just going to live on a beach in Fiji with my back pack but here I am, heading out into uncharted waters. My old lady will sell DVDs and CDs until the stock runs out, then that will be it until I get back. I'm taking all the stickers with me to decorate the third world on my "Southwest Asia Tour" so she won't have any. I guess I'm just trying to say thanks and goodbye at the same time. I'll see you when I see you. Until then, stop telling people about the web page, stop placing stickers everywhere and don't tell anybody about my movies or music because somebody with more rank than me will eventually tell me to shut it all down. Let's keep it our little secret.
R.I.P.
Gunnery Sgt. Javier Obleas-Prado Pena
Wolf Weis
Sgt. Benjamin C. Edinger
Capt Alan Rowe
I went to our isolation hooch and was amazed to find it empty. My wall locker had the locks cut. All that was on it was a long letter from my Platoon Sergeant (Barry Morgan). He explained that the MEU was currently steaming to a place called East Timor and he would see me there. The platoon had dumped all my gear in a truck and took off. I packed what little I had and for the hell of it, I brought my guitar. I figured fuck em…what were they going to do? Shave my head and send me to Okinawa? In the morning I was in no mood to meet the fucking arrogant cock that greeted me. He made the effort to shake my hand but I didn't bother. I just offered my best "How you doing sir?" I would pay for it but I just didn't care. I called my old lady who was already busy fucking somebody else and then I was on another plane. On the flight the asshole captain handed me an inch thick binder of Intelligence reports and within five minutes I couldn't understand any of them. Shitloads of message traffic about different colored Berets and what militia was what and what they stood for etc…I was too tired to sleep, too tired to concentrate. I just didn't give a fuck. He even quizzed me. At that point I had been clean maybe a year. All I wanted was a big fat beer. Instead I sipped bad coffee and tried to pretend like I didn't want to shove the binder under the nearest seat.
We landed near Brisbane and it was on to another plane to finally end up in Darwin Australia. The fucking cock sucking lifers that picked us up at the airport had horseshoe haircuts and bad ass fuck faces painted on. They were classic pogues who had no idea what I was about. They hated the guitar and I loved the fact that they hated it. I relished in it. I was also happy that my hair was way too long. My cammies were wrinkled and I was a certified shitbag to them. By the time we got the Aussie base at Darwin I really didn't know what day it was or where I was. They called the place "Tin City" because it was a bunch of trailers all hooked together and it housed a various clump of UN troops. All of them doing absolutely nothing. French fags in tight little shorts giving me dirty looks. There were fat assed Army signal guys just lounging around. There was a ton of Corps zeros running around a clump of tents creating PowerPoint presentations and checking their email. They were doing conference calls back to Okinawa but I never saw any work being done. They just kept making the 6 PFC's in the camp do everything (until they all got busted for smoking weed). The Air force fucks were there too but they were staying in five star hotels, collecting max per diem in town and they only came around to get in front of me and scam a free meal at the chow hall. I was introduced to the main Colonel in charge of the place and he looked at me sideways for a second. "You're a Recon guy?" There were a million things going through my head. "Here it comes," I thought to myself as I stood there dizzy and slightly swaying. I was at the point where I was about to start laughing at nothing and everything all at once. I wasn't prepared for what he said next. He turned to some major and called him by his first name "Jack can we get this guy on the next C130 into Timor?"
I was laughing to myself as I went to the makeshift armory to get my M16 I had never zeroed and my flak jacket that was too small for me. With my helmet that was too big and my two magazines of rounds I wandered onto the C130 with the arrogant captain and laughed at the way zeros always call each other by first names but when enlisted do it we are being "undisciplined". I actually slept on the 30 minute flight to East Timor and felt like a new man. My official job was to make my way to the port and see if it was possible to land an LCU ship there because "You Recon guys are good in the water right?" When we landed some tricked out Air Force wanna bees wearing the latest Gucci, Black Hawk gear came running on the plane screaming "Shots fired!!!!" over and over. I just looked at them as they stared at us and I said "OK, what the fuck you want me to do about it?…ain't shit I can do in here". They got out of my way then the captain and I stepped outside. I couldn't hear shit. All I could hear was the plane behind me. We stood there for a second and shrugged our shoulders in unison. I was starting to like this captain. We saw some figures in the distance by the airport's main building and walked that way. We got close enough to hear an Aussie army chick tell us "Don't worry mates, the fucking local wankers couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun anyway" she pointed to the two Air Force guys and said "Those two seppos out there have been screaming shots fired every fifteen minutes for the past few days." We were met by an Army lieutenant, a Navy Ensign and a Marine PFC. We all crammed into one of those white UN vehicles. Of course I got shit canned to the back storage area, with my rifle sticking straight up in the air and my legs crossed into some strange yoga pose. My face was pressed against the glass and I started to hate the captain again. There were speed traps set up in the war zone. The place was still on fire but there were Army MPs giving speeding tickets out because somebody from the UN had hit a local the day before. While we were driving a van full of nuns passed us on the right and waved. We got to the UN compound and I was amazed to see chicks with Aussie guns guarding the sand bagged front gate. Inside, it was the same old story. A bunch of zeros trying to figure out what to do with their danger pay and a small detachment of enlisted engineer types doing all the work. I talked to a few of them and learned that they were doing their jobs (electric, water, building etc) and they were also handling their own security because Clinton didn't want any infantry types on the deck. There were a few platoons of grunts on the way but they would never do anything but cut squares while these guys worked themselves to death. All the while they were surrounded by field grade zeros who ate Aussie MRE's and commented on how bad vegemite was. Eventually the Captain, the Navy ensign, the Army lieutenant, the PFC and I all got in a HMMV and headed to the port. The Army and Navy officers both had 9mm Berettas with one mag each. They had no idea how to use them. The Captain was up front and he no weapon. The PFC was driving and he had no weapon either. We had no radios, no plan for anything if shit went bad and a crude idea of how to actually get to the port. We ended up in some dirt intersection and the PFC became confused. We paused too long and all of a sudden there were about 100 small brown people all over the vehicle, making universal hand and arms signals…the peace sign was popular and they all smiled but what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up was the simple fact that every other one of them had a different colored beret on. Most of them had their hands in their pockets and they just kept smiling at me. A guy I know named Jim Boland saw the same smile in Hue city in 1969. My buddies in Iraq and Afghanistan see that same smile every day. Behind that smile is nothing but hatred. In that instant I was amazed at how calm and how sharp my senses were. I slowly lowered my weapon to just above their heads and put my thumb on the safety. In a fraction of a second I had accepted that I would shoot if I saw a gun. No questions asked. After a few tense seconds the PFC found his balls and punched the gas. We made it to the port and I saw some more smiling brown people wearing purple berets. Apparently they were the "Good Guys".
So there I was. I had traveled around the world and my mission was to see if we could land LCU ships at the port. I was convinced that we could because I ended up standing in knee deep water on a cement ramp built specifically for landing LCUs. One of the little brown "Good Guys" told me where it was. After my mission was completed I got back in the HMMV and we left. We had to stop along the way at a place where the locals were burning some trash so the Army and Navy officers could borrow my rifle and take turns getting pictures of each other with their war faces on. "Make sure you get the smoke in the background Bob" the one said to the other. Over the years I have witnessed such stupid shit so many times that I don't trust anybody who displays their "War" pictures on a mantle. I also don't trust "Warriors" who just can't wait to tell me what bad asses they are and show me how many medals they've earned. It's always the fucked up quiet guys with an old cigar box full of crumpled pictures that are the real deal. Guys who never talk and have shaking hands.
There is an old joke that talks about the two types of people in combat. One is a guy who talks all kinds of shit and then when the bullets start flying he's under the HMMV in the fetal position screaming "I've got children!!!" The other type of guy is the weirdo nobody eats next to. The guy who smells funny and talks in one syllable sentences. He always seems to be the one that comes alive while tracers zoom overhead. You can find him on the 50 cal screaming "Allah sucks cock!" while he returns fire with no regard for his safety. Also a good guy in peace time usually becomes a great guy when it gets bad. A total scum sucking asshole in peace time is even more of an asshole in war. I never found out which one of those people I was but my time in the barrel seems to be approaching.
As much as I've bitched and made fun of the Navy, I couldn't ignore some of the nice and decent people I've met recently on the ship. People just trying to get through the day like the rest of us and willing to work together. I've focused on the negative all my life. Even I couldn't ignore people like the Coke distributor who paid for all our food and supplies with his own money at the commissary because he heard we were having one last platoon party before we left for Iraq. Everyday I come in contact with amazing people who are there to help or just say hello. Even as I write this the pizza guy shook my hand and said good luck because he noticed all my gear lying around the living room. I am surrounded by good men in my platoon. I've gotten to know them and their families over the last 15 months and there is an overwhelming sense of duty amongst them. Many of us had friends and brothers killed or wounded in Iraq.
At this point I have learned some hard lessons about what I am truly capable of, what I really want out of this life and where I'm headed next. I also think it's only a matter of time before I am told to stop the web page. The kiss of success I guess. Things were simpler when only 50 people read my shit. I'm glad and excited about all those Jimmy Stare stories I keep hearing. God bless those crazy fuckers in Camp Fallujah, Afghanistan (Fast Eddy and Stahl), Jimbo, Willy and the rest at Second Battalion and Company, On Ship, In Okinawa, In Europe and in the states etc. People from all over the world Like Duane from Strider knives pushing my music at his conventions. People like Mike Anthony on the right coast pushing me on his radio station. Lori, Tom, Greg, Lisa and the rest up in Jackson CA. All of them military or former military or friends of the military, sending me emails and encouragement. At a time when I can't get a gig to save my life in Southern California I have been reaching more people than I ever dreamed of on a regular basis with words and pictures on the web page. In a lot of ways I've become slightly successful. I still don't make shit for money but I can't put a price tag on some of the things I've been told. Like the drunken kid who told me he cried when he listened to Brass Button Collar because he was reminded of his dead buddies. Then he went on to tell me he would mail me whatever I needed in Iraq but if I didn't need anything then I was on my own because he needed beer money. Brutal honesty from Jarheads is such a wonderful thing that I tend to take for granted. There's another guy who is covering one of my songs in his shows. One couple asked me to play one of my songs at their wedding because it was how they fell in love. The song was one of the most depressing I had ever written. While I was at that wedding some hot chick told me a story about when she was in Thailand at some bar and there was my CD in the stereo. She went on to tell me that the bar whores and the owner talked about me as this weird guy, covered in tattoos that didn't drink but liked to fuck two chicks at once. They said all I did when I wasn't fucking was surf. Every night I would play and sing in the bar and all the hookers would hang out to listen. What a strange experience to find myself being told of my exploits in Thailand by a gorgeous brunette at a wedding in San Diego.
If I wasn't married I probably could have gotten laid from the web page too. When I bitch and yell about getting the fuck out I am constantly reminded by men next to me that I would not be able to deal with one little thing on the outside: Civilians. Maybe they're right. They tend to know me better than my own family. It's been some rough years. Lots of pain and frustration, but everybody's got that. I responded by making a web page and making fun of shit, sometimes bitching about shit and other times just putting up pictures to tell the story for me. Right now things don't look good as far as future updates are concerned. Email is basically non-existent on the ship. When I can get to it, it takes me 40 minutes to check two emails because it's so slow. So updating from ship will be impossible. That's why I started the message board. That way I can get the scoop straight from the drunken masses. I can't really respond but it's nice to read once in awhile on ship. I also can't stop the fuckers who use it to advertise stupid shit.
Every morning for the last year or so when I was home, the little cat would meet me at the computer. She'd run around my leg and bother me until I would pet her. It always seemed like I was running late and I had to rush out the door. I made a point to always kiss my old lady goodbye and just hold her for a second before I left. Last year when I was planning for this deployment she would say, "Why are you worried about that stuff, you don't leave for a year" but recently she has said that "It's gone by so fast". On this last morning as I play with the cat and kiss the old lady goodbye, I feel like I'm ripping something off of me and leaving it behind. Later I will be standing on the bow of that ship just watching the water pass and thinking about things. I never planned to be like this. It just happened. Somehow I wound up with the beginnings of a family and a small zoo to go with it. Something to come back to. Something to take care of. I was the guy who was never getting married and just going to live on a beach in Fiji with my back pack but here I am, heading out into uncharted waters. My old lady will sell DVDs and CDs until the stock runs out, then that will be it until I get back. I'm taking all the stickers with me to decorate the third world on my "Southwest Asia Tour" so she won't have any. I guess I'm just trying to say thanks and goodbye at the same time. I'll see you when I see you. Until then, stop telling people about the web page, stop placing stickers everywhere and don't tell anybody about my movies or music because somebody with more rank than me will eventually tell me to shut it all down. Let's keep it our little secret.
R.I.P.
Gunnery Sgt. Javier Obleas-Prado Pena
Wolf Weis
Sgt. Benjamin C. Edinger
Capt Alan Rowe