Marine Corps

We all make our own sandwiches: A short story about life that got me through the Marine Corps

Two construction workers were hired for the same big job, and although they didn’t know each other, they soon started eating lunch together during their breaks. Each day, the two men would take a seat near their work, pop open the lunch boxes they brought from home, and exchange pleasant, if not superficial, conversation about their day as they ate and rested.

Each day, as both men opened their lunch boxes to survey what was inside, one would audibly sigh and exclaim, “God, I hate tuna fish.” He would then reluctantly pull the plastic wrapped sandwich out of the box, begrudgingly unwrap it, and unhappily chew away at the white bread, tuna, and mayonnaise combination, seemingly willing to weather yet another terrible meal in favor of staving off starvation. Finally, after a week of watching the same spectacle each day, the second construction worker interrupted the daily ceremony of tuna fish and misery:

“Hey man, if you hate tuna fish so much, why don’t you just ask your old lady to make something else?” He asked his lunchtime compatriot.

“Old lady? I’m not married?” The first man replied through a mouthful of his least favorite lunch.

“Then who keeps making you that?” The second man asked.

“Me.” Came the reply. “I make my own sandwiches.”

If I’m being honest, I’m not sure anymore where I first heard that story. It may have been in a book, or maybe it was conveyed to me by some older, wiser guy that spotted me wandering through life with a downtrodden look on my face… but wherever it came from, this short story about two construction workers eating lunch would go on to change the entire course of my life for the better.

At first glance, the story almost seems nonsensical: why would someone continue to make themselves the same lunch, day after day, despite hating it? What type of person would do such a thing? In terms of sandwiches, perhaps not many of us. In terms of life choices, however, I believe it’s something that we all do.

Your tuna fish sandwich may be continuing to work in a job that you hate, ignoring the bills stacking up in your mailbox, eating a third piece of cake despite knowing that you’re full. You may continue to entertain toxic relationships in your personal life, or you might be ignoring the positive efforts of your loved ones. We all do things that make our lives more difficult, and then defend those choices using words like comfort, easy, or worst of all, “deserve.”

“It’s just easier to keep this job than to start looking for another one.”

“I know he treats me badly, but I’m comfortable here and I don’t want to try dating again.”

“I had a hard day – I deserve another drink.”

Now, there’s nothing wrong with making hard choices and sticking with them, just like there’s nothing wrong with rewarding yourself with some cake, vodka, or both when you’ve had a long day or accomplished a goal. The problem arises when you make conscious decisions that will negatively affect your life, and then lament the repercussions as “bad luck” when it comes time to deal with them.

You’re overweight because of your eating and exercise habits. Your relationship is struggling because you need to either put more effort in or leave. Your job sucks because it isn’t right for you. You’re eating tuna fish because you made it. Life isn’t easy, and sometimes we’re stuck doing things that make us unhappy. There’s no getting around that – but often, we possess the power to remove negative influences in our lives, but we choose not to out of fear of change. You’ll keep plugging away at the same old 9-5 because you’re afraid to go looking elsewhere. You’ll keep eating that bag or doritos because the split second endorphin release you get with each bite is more valuable to you right now than how you’ll feel in the morning. You’ll stay with the wrong man or woman because, unhappy as you are, you’re too afraid of being alone.

In the Marines, I often felt as though I didn’t have any power over my own destiny. Where I went, what I did, and how I did it was all dictated by a chain of command and endless SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures)… but it wasn’t until I started leading Marines that I truly started to recognize how much autonomy I had in the execution of my duties. Sure, I may have been stuck in the duty hut for 24 hours – but it was my decision to spend it miserable, rather than studying for my degree. When it came time to deploy, I didn’t choose our destination or timetable, but it was my choice to either pursue learning a new language and culture… or spend who knows how many more hours staring at the wall of my tent and wishing I was somewhere else.

Making emotional allowances doesn’t make you a bad person, or even a weak one – they make you human – but once you decide to stop permitting yourself the convenience of yet another miserable tuna fish sandwich lunch, you might be amazed to find that things really do get better. Hard days will still be there, but they get easier when you stop convincing yourself to do what’s wrong for you, and start putting that effort toward doing what’s right.

You might not have the option to leave that job you hate, but you can change how you approach it. You might not be ready to leave a household that makes you unhappy, but you can address your problems with your significant other. You’re still going to have make a sandwich in the morning if you want to eat something at lunch… but you can decide to make it something you’d want, instead of something you’ll tolerate.

In the Marine Corps and since, I’ve found myself in some pretty tough spots. I’ve been low, depressed, unhappy, and angry – but I resist the urge to blame my feelings on fate. I make my sandwiches, and sure, sometimes I don’t like them. I succeed or fail based on my own decisions, my own efforts, and when I’m met with setbacks, I do occasionally shake my fist at the sky in spite, but then I try to temper my existential woe with realistic objectivity. If I’m unhappy, what can I change? If I’m angry, what needs to be fixed? If I’m hurting, who can I talk to?

Just like that construction worker, we’re each faced with a decision every morning: are you going to make choices that lead to a better life… or will it be tuna fish again?

It’s up to you – because we all make our own sandwiches.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The problem with military leadership, as told by 3 monkeys and a step ladder

The military is made up of all sorts of people. The good, the bad, and the ugly all find their ways into uniforms, and although much of the training service members undergo is intended to improve upon our abilities to lead, some aspects of good leadership are innate and unlearnable. Some men and women just have it, and no matter how many PowerPoint presentations you show some others, they’ll simply never truly appreciate the unique cocktail of important traits required to build the sort of leader Marines, Soldiers, Sailors or Airmen want to follow into hell.

While there’s real value to systemic leadership education, and it genuinely can develop competent leaders or managers, the problem with the methodology so often employed in the military is a reliance on the system rather than the intent of the education. Marines are taught to adapt and overcome, unless there’s a test involved — in which case, you’d better be prepared to simply regurgitate whatever was taught to you verbatim. Class passed, credentials certified, and a leader is born.

Good leaders, of course, adopt aspects of these classes and incorporate them into their existing suite of interpersonal skills. Bad leaders, on the other hand, follow the prescribed lesson plan regardless of effect, and then blame their subordinates, rather than the strategy, for its failure.

Years ago, I had this concept explained to me through the tale of a group of monkeys, a step ladder, and a bushel of bananas:

Three monkeys were placed in a cage with nothing but a step ladder in the middle of the floor with a bushel of bananas hanging above it. The monkeys, being monkeys, immediately closed with the ladder, but as soon as the first paw hit the bottom rung, the zookeeper sprayed all three monkeys with a powerful fire hose. When the spraying stopped, the monkeys looked at each other, and being monkeys, immediately headed for the ladder, and the bananas, once again.

Another spray from the hose seemed to confirm it: those bananas simply weren’t coming down. One of the three monkeys, however, still felt like he might be able to beat the hose, and without the other two in tow, he made one last break for the ladder. Before he could grip a rung, however, the hose started up again — spraying all three, despite only one making an attempt.

Those three monkeys remained in the enclosure overnight, not once approaching the ladder again. In the morning, the zookeeper opened the cage door, took one of the three monkeys by the hand and led him out, returning a few minutes later with a different monkey. The new monkey entered the cage, looked at his two cellmates, then the bananas, and immediately made a break for the ladder. As he did, the zookeeper reached for the hose, but the other two monkeys, aware that they’d be sprayed for his attempt too, tackled the new monkey and wouldn’t let him anywhere near the ladder or the bananas. After repeating the attempt a half dozen times, the new monkey came to understand that monkeys aren’t allowed on the ladder, despite never being sprayed himself.

The next day, another of the original monkeys was led out of the cage, and another new monkey was introduced. Just as before, the new monkey made a break for the ladder and was stopped by the other two, this time comprised of one of the original monkeys, and the one that learned the same lesson the day prior. Another half dozen attempts later, the new monkey understood: the ladder, and the bananas, were off limits.

The following morning, the zookeeper repeated the process again, this time leading out the last of the monkeys to be sprayed by a hose days earlier, and replacing him with a new monkey. The new monkey, again, tried for the ladder, but was stopped by the two that had already learned to avoid it. A half dozen attempts later, all three monkeys understood that the ladder, and the bananas, were not for them.

The thing is, none of those monkeys knew why. The last monkey to even see the fire hose was gone, and the three monkeys now avoiding the ladder simply did so because, well, that’s how it’s always been done.

Now, if the threat of the fire hose persists, it’s a good lesson to maintain, but without any knowledge of what threat they’re avoiding, the zookeeper and the fire hose may be long gone, but the monkeys will keep on going hungry.

Good leadership is about equipping your troops, your employees, even your family for success, not about blind enforcement of norms. Leaders may not always be in the position to disclose all elements of a mission, but we should always strive to avoid what I came to call “circus monkey syndrome.” Prepare your team to fight without you, and before you know it, they’ll be ready and willing to fight alongside you.

Feature image courtesy of Flickr

How to Survive Anything: Learn the 4 Life Saving Steps

It wasn’t all that long ago that I came across a serious accident. Two pickup trucks had collided head on at the mouth of a bridge near my rural home, and I knew it would be some time before emergency services arrived. I’m no paramedic, but in some circumstances, you’ve got no choice but to help or watch someone die.

That’s exactly the kind of situation where you’ll want to be familiar with the 4 Life Saving Steps, as taught by the U.S. Marine Corps and a number of other organizations:

Start the breathing
Stop the bleeding
Protect the wound
Treat for shock

When you come across a serious incident (or find yourself amidst one) following this order of operations will give you the best chance at saving someone’s life.

Make sure the person’s airway is clear and that they’re breathing. Then use a tourniquet or pressure to stop their bleeding. Once the bleeding is under control, clean and bandage the wound to protect it from infection. They’re likely going into shock, so lay them flat on the ground, elevate their feet by around 12 inches, and cover them in a blanket. If you have the means, make sure emergency services are on their way.

In subsequent videos we’ll dive into each step a bit more deeply.

Research says it takes just 15 extra pounds of gear to compromise your ability to fight

It’s the mental debate every war fighter has before departing for a mission, every hiker has before stepping off on a journey, and every camper has as they pack their bags: how much can I carry and still be as effective as I need to be? At what point is the extra weight of our gear doing more harm than good?

Well, according to research conducted by Marine Corps Captain Courtney Thompson at the Naval Postgraduate School (NPS), the number is lower than you might expect. The baseline for most combat operations is set at 43 pounds–which is the standard weight of the flak jacket, kevlar helmet, and other combat necessities, meaning any long-term survival gear has to tacked on to that number. According to Thompson’s research, combat effectiveness starts to really suffer after adding just 15 pounds to that combat load.

“Marines always have to be prepared to engage with the enemy,” said Thompson. “In doing so they typically have personal protective equipment, weapons and other gear. Ultimately, the goal is to make those Marines as lethal and survivable as possible, and my thesis works towards that same goal.”

That figure falls dramatically shy of the loads many Marines are tasked with carrying in combat, which regularly exceed 150 pounds and can, at times, climb up above 200 for those tasked with manning larger weapons systems. As a result, Marine Corps officers are required to carry 152 pound packs for nine miles at a twenty-minute-per-mile pace in order to complete the Marine Corps Infantry Officer Course–a physical challenge that has seen more vocal criticism in recent years.

(U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class James R. Stilipec/Released)

Unfortunately, despite Thomspon’s findings, it seems unlikely that anything will change for infantry Marines in the near future. Current combat loads are based on mission requirements, so until ways to reduce the weight of existing gear are found, things are likely going to remain heavy. That isn’t to say the Corps isn’t paying attention, however. Thompson was awarded the Stephen A. Tisdale Thesis Award by the Naval Postgraduate School Department of Operations Research (OR) for her efforts, and according to the Captain, her work isn’t stopping here.

“The commanding general of the Marine Corps Warfighting Lab is asking for my research and results,” Thompson said. “I also worked with a few people at Marine Corps Systems Command who’ve been looking at this problem specifically so they may use it to help support their further research.”

Feature photo: U.S. Navy photo by Cpl. Justin A. Bopp

Winning the fight: The biggest, strongest guy in the bar usually isn’t the one you need to worry about

For the security conscious, walking into a crowded bar usually isn’t your idea of a good time. Crowds are exceptionally good at concealing threats, and those who have built careers (either legitimate or otherwise) by being a threat know that.

These days, I’m a pretty big fella. At six feet tall and around 245 pounds, I’ve spent the better part of my adult life as a gym rat. I may be able to throw 350 pounds around on the bench now, but I didn’t cross over the 300 barrier until I was well into my twenties. Being the “big guy” is, in many ways, not something I’ve had a lifetime to grow accustomed to — and if I’m honest, I still don’t fancy myself as all that big — but then, that may be a product of my raising. Here’s a shot of me (reminder — six feet tall and probably 230 in this shot) with my rugby team from back home a few years ago.

I’m the guy in white shorts. They grow ’em big in Vermont.

Growing up as the “little guy” did a lot of things to me. I’m never afraid to stand and swing with a larger opponent because that’s all I’ve ever done, but it also made me quick to fly off the handle as a young punk, eager to prove that my size wasn’t a handicap in the land of giants. It’s a tale as old as time: the smallest guy in the crew also tends to be the craziest, and I was happy to solidify my place within the stereotype.

In the Marine Corps, I found myself in a very different environment. Suddenly the largest guy in the room, my affinity for weight lifting and combat sports even set me apart from many of the Marines I hung out with. The Marine Corps will give you some good training, but ultimately, it will train you to its own established lowest common denominator. If you let it, the Corps will spit you out after four years as a guy with a bare minimum in hand to hand combat training and a burning hatred for formation runs — but if you want to be better than that, often, all you have to do is ask. And ask. And ask again. Get an endorsement signed by some officer you never met, and then ask some more.

To be fair, I had to do a lot of asking.

Eventually, all that asking landed me a spot on the Corps’ first formally endorsed mixed martial arts team, Fight Club 29. I already earned my brown belt and played two years on the Corps’ West Coast Champion football team before I was given my shot by our Battalion Sergeant Major and terrifying mountain of a fighter, Mark Geletko. Fighting in competitions, I’d come to learn, was much different than fighting in real life — but what makes a winner isn’t. Work hard, be humble and look for lessons to learn – in my opinion, that’s really all it takes.

After some training, I had my first fight with a guy that didn’t look like much of a threat. I was nervous, but I was confident — and then I was very nearly choked out by a shlubby piece of shit with painted fingernails with my wife, my Marines, and my coach all watching. Thankfully, I managed to outlast the choke and go on to win the match, but my brush with embarrassing defeat gave me some important lessons — primary among them being, “don’t assume someone is soft just because they look soft.” That shlubby piece of shit, I learned, was a very capable submission grappler.

After weeks of cutting weight to get down to 185 pounds, my second fight nearly ended before it began when my opponent backed out at the last minute. Fortunately, one of the fighters in the weight class above me also backed out, and the event coordinator approached my coach and I with a proposition: If I was willing to fight someone that outweighed me by twenty pounds, I could still fight. In hindsight, it seems like a decision we should have put more thought into — twenty pounds is a significant advantage (even if it’s made of fat) and I was still smarting from a difficult cut in weight, but I’ve never been afraid to fight the bigger guy, and I agreed before my coach even had a chance to start worrying aloud.

I’ll be honest with you, the fight didn’t go great. Had it been in a bar, I think I may have lost, but because it was in a competition, I was able to outlast my opponent and steal the decision. Half jokingly, I’ve always credited my ability to take punishment for the win – he secured the first round by kicking the living shit out of me, and I won the next two because he was still so tired from kicking the living shit out of me. When the fight ended, I had no idea that I’d won. We were both hurting, both exhausted, and he was too much of a handful for me to allot much attention to my coach or thoughts of points awarded. I was scrambling — looking for submissions, looking for opportunities, and trying to keep my head attached to my body.

Even shaking hands ten minutes after the fight I still looked surprised to have won.

A few years later, as I was training in Brazillian Jiu Jitsu for a short time under Abmar Barbosa, a black belt with a laundry list of world titles — many earned through open weight class competition despite walking around at 180 pounds or so — I once again found myself the biggest guy in the room. And let me tell you, that didn’t mean shit on those mats. I did successfully manage to submit his assistant coach once over the span of a few months, and every time I rolled with Barbosa himself, he smiled and joked his way through somehow gently destroying me, offering tips and words of encouragement along the way.

Over the years, I’ve rolled and swung with tough competitors of all shapes, sizes and genders. I’ve trained alongside women that could kick through bricks and men who could shoulder press me, and the one thing I know for sure as a result is that the big guys aren’t usually the ones you need to worry about in an untrained environment. Sure, some can be really capable fighters, but outside the world of those who do it for a living, most big guys either avoid fights through intimidation or win them through sheer size and leverage. An untrained Grizzly bear of a man can do a whole lot of damage, but a trained opponent can usually mitigate that long enough to put them down.

Technically, I’m a little bit bigger than former UFC Heavyweight Champion Randy Couture but we all know who would win that fight.

Coming from the conventional forces, I had limited experience with special operations service members (other than the Force Recon/MARSOC guys I met around the Corps) when SOFREP hired me, but over the years I’ve had the honor of meeting lots of former and current pipe hitters from SOCOM’s stable. One thing that may surprise many is that most of them are pretty unassuming guys. Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Army Rangers and the like tend not to be huge dudes that are worried about their one-rep maxes, because there’s little practical value in that sort of thing. They train to be the best at what they do, and maintaining three percent body fat and huge delts doesn’t help on nearly any real life mission.

In many cases, these guys need to blend in with crowds – which means looking like The Mountain from Game of Thrones can be more of a liability than it is a benefit in the Special Operations community. If you’ve ever walked around with some guys from CAG or SEAL Team 6, you’ll notice that it isn’t their size that intimidates you, it’s the aura of confidence, their demeanor, and often, the tell-tale strut that’s hard to describe but immediately recognizable — like a guy that’s trying to keep his flip flops on while managing a wrecking ball in his pants. I don’t know if they teach you that walk at BUDS or if it’s just a matter of body mechanics changing after swimming a thousand miles, but it’s nearly universal among elite operators in my experience.

I may be a pretty big guy these days, but the lessons I’ve learned over the past fifteen years or so of competition and combat training tell me that size really doesn’t mean much in a fight. In my head, adding muscle just means added torque on the submissions I’d know whether I weighed 150 or 250 — but it’s really the knowledge that makes me dangerous. Judging a book by its cover (and assuming the small or unassuming looking guy isn’t a threat) is a great way to find yourself getting the life choked out of you in front of your wife in a tournament, but in a life or death situation behind a bar, it’s a great way to lose your life in general.

Take it from a pretty big guy — spending a few hours a day in the gym won’t make you a fighter, and real fighters often don’t look the part. Never underestimate an opponent, and look for body language that’s indicative of athleticism and training. Boxers tend to square their shoulders when confronted, gunfighters stagger their stance.

And if you ever come across a guy walking like he’s wearing flip flops with a bowling ball in his pants, just clear a path.

Image courtesy of Warner Brothers’ Sherlock Homes (2009) on Facebook

Teaching an old dog new tricks: I may not be the Marine I once was but I’m cool with that

Since becoming a dad, there’s been a running joke among my friends and family about how fatherhood is making me soft. It’s a fair observation to make: I do spend a lot more time watching animated animals sing nursery rhymes now, and words like “cute” and “adorable” are now a part of my day-to-day vocabulary… but the truth is, I’ve been getting soft for a long time.

This morning, I poured myself a cup of coffee with a beautiful kiddo on my hip and walked out onto my back porch. As may be the case for many of you, my porch is a sacred place. It offers privacy, seclusion, a view of the turn off for my road a half mile away so I know in advance if anyone’s coming to visit… and most days, it serves as my weatherman.

“Welp, looks like it’s gonna be a rainy one,” I said to my wife through our kitchen window this morning. It was already raining, but I like to pretend the screws in my knees and ankles provide some kind of weather-based clairvoyance. The truth is, they hurt all the time, they just hurt different on rainy days.

My daughter is still new to the world and the strange ways it replenishes and sustains itself. Water falling from the sky, bugs zipping from plant to plant, it’s all foreign, and sometimes frightening, unless she’s got a handful of dad’s sweatshirt. Rainy days have been fewer and further between than sunny ones around here lately, so this morning’s rain added a new element to her confused uncertainty. She’d reach a hand out, trying to grab at the water pouring down from my clogged rain gutters (yeah, yeah, I know, I’ll get to them). When the water refused to be contained within her tiny fingers, she turned to me with a newly learned indignance: this water isn’t cooperating, Dad.

As I stood there quietly sipping my coffee and watching this tiny person with my wife’s good looks and my father’s eyes grow angry at water’s refusal to do as it’s told I realized what a different man I am than the one I still see myself as. It wasn’t that long ago that a rainy day like this meant soaked boots and chafing. It wasn’t that long ago that I was putting extra socks in zip lock bags to keep them dry. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d be grateful to the rain for keeping me cool and for not being snow.

We all lose a step or two as we get older, but lots of us work to keep that number from growing. We spend time in the gym and at the range. We read articles, talk to others with similar interests, push ourselves to improve but as I stood there holding my daughter under the protection of my porch roof, looking out at the falling rain, I knew that I’m not the same man that led Marines through terrain more treacherous than my steep backyard I lament mowing. I knew that I now lack that “whatever will be, will be” attitude about my environment. Now, I have comfort on my side.

The title of a column I used write for SOFREP called “Old Man Fitness” was born back when I was coaching high school football. I was a young kid in my early twenties, but already far stronger and more physically dominant that the students just a few years my junior on the field – something they attributed to “old man strength.” I laughed it off, but as I got older, I also got stronger (through a great deal of work) and I began to recognize the truth in their jokes: old man strength is real, or at least, it seems like it is. But if that’s true, why do I feel so soft from my vantage point on my back porch on rainy days like today?

Well, to be honest, i think it may be because old man strength isn’t real but something better is.

During my years playing football for the Marine Corps, playing rugby in college, fighting in bars and in cages, I was young, proud, and studious. I prided myself on the effort I put in to learning the proper form, the right execution of my steps, my shooting, my striking… always sure I’d eventually face some adversary that was larger, stronger, and more capable than I was. I always felt like the underdog, even when I was the clear favorite, and I credit that mentality for my undefeated (but short lived) career as a fighter, the stack of football trophies on my mantle, and the scrapbook full of newspaper clippings I keep tucked away in my office closet.

Now, with age on my side but much of my youthful vitality stripped away by injury and time, I feel like I could still probably kick that guy’s ass. Why? Well, because he was an idiot.

Twenty-something me relied on his training and form in all things he could; he was a good student and a pretty decent athlete too… but when the going got tough, he was all about one thing: just f*cking smashing his problems until they stopped moving. It worked most of the time, and when it didn’t, young Alex healed fast.

I don’t heal like that anymore, but what I lack in recovery I make up for in experience. I know how to fight that younger, stronger opponent because I felt him lose, I watched him adjust and change, shifting styles, techniques over the years to become more capable, more efficient while exposing himself to less risk. I got soft because I got better at not getting hurt.

Now, I know that young buck from a decade and a half ago could out-run me. He might even be able to out-lift me, but he sure as hell couldn’t out-smart me.

And, if that didn’t work, I haven’t forgotten how to just f*ckin’ smash stuff. We all get soft eventually… but as far as I’m concerned, I earned it.

Images courtesy of the author