SPQR stands for “The Senate and People of Rome” and
was emblazoned on the standards of Roman Legions, symbolizing the power and
reach of Rome through its legions. After the Marius Reforms they became a truly
imposing military power. Reforming themselves into the well
organized, masters at adaption of tactics that we know of today.
The Legions used cutting edge
technology for the time, recruiting the first real professional (contracted)
army of its age. They signed troops up for 20 year stints, and upon retirement
you could either rejoin under a special unit of veterans where you had
prestige, and lessened duties, or retire and receive land of your own in the border
lands. This was brilliant of the Romans for any number of reasons, but long
story short, it gave the border lands and other freshly conquered territories
additional troops and Romans if the locals were to ever rebel and land to the
Empire.
The Romans also organized their
military exceedingly well. Splitting it into squads (tent parties), platoons
(century), Companies (cohort), and Division or regimental levels (Legions).
They invented essentially the modern military, and we use much of their wisdom
and knowledge to this day.
Legions were able to operate
independently of each other or in concert to achieve goals and persecute the
foes of the Empire. The Roman legion changed the rules of warfare in many ways,
they built roads and other public works as they went so that future generations
or missions could move quickly through Roman territories. Instead of making
camp each night Romans would actually make fortifications, digging ditches,
filling moats, placing spikes, etc… in order to protect their camps from attack
and subterfuge.
Roman Legionaries carried most
of their tools and weapons with them on the march freeing up wagons and slaves
for provisions, siege equipment, etc… A few things to note about the Roman
Legionary are the (more or less) full armor, the tower shield, and the javelin
(each Legionary was issued 2). These were of the utmost importance to Roman
dominance in the region as its soldiers were far better protected than its
enemies, and that its soldiers had both ranged and melee availability. As the
enemy closed on a Roman legion or vice versa the Romans would throw their
javelins’ (specifically designed to twist and bend on impact, meaning that even
if it didn’t kill you it twisted inside you making it harder to remove and more
likely to incapacitate you for a kill).
A bunch of asshurt dems are mocking the Tennessee wildfires because it’s a red state. Gatlinburg is pretty much gone, hundreds of homes have been lost, not to mention the death toll of all the wildlife, and these fucking assholes are cheering because people there voted for Trump.
It’s a state of emergency here, people stand to lose everything they have.
Fuck these motherfuckers.
Typical pieces of shit. People have died in that fire.
Without having been involved in combat, this veteran says he’s left wondering what kind of man he is.
Editor’s Note: This article by Nathan Eckman originally appeared onTheWarHorse.org, a nonprofit newsroom focused on the Departments of Defense and Veterans Affairs.
As a Marine infantryman I wanted to kill like I’d been trained to do. The fact that I haven’t weighs on me. It’s a different burden than that of soldiers who have been trained to kill and do. It’s different, too, from the legless infantryman’s. Its weight comes from the scars I don’t have. It’s not on par with that of children who have lost a mother or father at war, or parents who have lost a child. I’m a veteran, but faux, disingenuous, a wannabe. When I’m thanked for my service I’m confused. There are no fewer terrorists alive because of my actions. And I wish there were. I feel slighted, as though I served in time but not in duty, because every place I went peace endured.
I can’t pinpoint any moment when I knew I’d join the military. I decided gradually, influenced by a myriad of selfish and selfless desires. Admittedly, I’m a product of the post-9/11 nationalism campaign. In elementary school I witnessed the nation sticker the back of its cars with American flags and prayers “for our troops.” On the radio I heard songs glorifying the fight of men and women in countries whose names I couldn’t yet pronounce. As I grew up my consumption of media did too. Entertainment stepped aside for education; music made way for news articles and books. But the message remained the same. In high school I devoured memoirs by Navy SEALs and dispatches from war correspondents. In my downtime I played Call of Duty. And I learned that being an American, at least one worth remembering, meant becoming a warrior.
I answered the call to enlist in 2011, and I served. I fired my rifle into paper targets at the School of Infantry. Months later we were still practicing, yelling “bang” in lieu of actual rounds, frugally training for a fight I slowly realized would never come. Fallujah fell. Training continued. A ragtag group of “JV” terrorists filled power vacuums across the Middle East. Videos of public assassinations swept across the dark web. And still, we trained just in case. It was a helpless feeling. For a moment, it had seemed like this generation’s good fight was at hand — our World War II. In another moment it became apparent we would never be authorized to step foot on foreign soil to kill anyone, evil as they may be. For four years we stared down our scopes at inanimate targets and imagined that one day — soon, we told ourselves — we’d fight like those we had listened to, read about, and mimicked in our youths.
To me, “veteran” was synonymous with “warrior.”
And the warless, like me, are not. But the idea that only warriors or those directly affected by war in obvious ways can speak to war’s effects with authority isn’t true. In many respects the difference between those who served like I did was a matter of luck. We signed the same contract, shipped off to the same training grounds and entered similar units. For months we all ran around jungles, deserts and oceans refining our tactical abilities. At-home memories of loved ones faded and love did too. Divorce and breakups were a common occurrence. All for our country, we said, swimming toward the bottom of another liquor bottle. We were as prepared as any other unit, but it was the Pentagon that chose which units went to war. Ten thousand here, 15,000 there were sent off to fight, and we stayed behind. War wasn’t a reward for the most prepared, but a strategy to which we were never privy. The stories of those who have served in combat dominate war lit — novels, memoirs, stories short and long. Yet roughly 90 percent of the military doesn’t experience that kind of war; our stories remain largely unwritten. I’m not the kind of veteran who’s asked to write a memoir, who’s remembered in books, or who’s written about in news stories. But like most veterans I have a story: I’ve been affected by war, though not by its obvious horrors.
Every time someone discovers I served in the Marines they ask if I deployed. I respond quickly and clarify quicker because I’ve learned what they usually mean. “Yes, I have deployed. No, I didn’t go to Iraq or Afghanistan.” My tone has changed since I left active duty in January 2016. At first I clarified with sadness. I was disappointed in what I hadn’t done. Now I’m more matter of fact. I know how great a blessing it is to be home and unscathed, but I can hold both feelings at once: pride that I joined and chagrin that I didn’t help as I’d hoped. And so I’m a veteran, but not the kind I want to be.
When I speak to my generation of fight-less veterans they too are conflicted. Yes, we’re veterans, but of a lesser kind than those who fought. We wanted war, and thought it would give life meaning. But we’re not blood thirsty. Right? The men and women given the highest honors have endured the worst war has to offer. They’ve earned glory through focused thought and spilled blood, palatably packaged as “fighting for our freedom.” Standing by is a lot less glorious. I wonder how we’ll be remembered. Certainly not with the same adoration or the same glory. Without having seen combat, I feel as though I don’t have a clear identity as a veteran. I’m unsatisfied by this conclusion. I need to know what it means to be my type of veteran, because for me, combat is still something I only hear or read about or watch on TV, a horror witnessed from afar.
War was supposed to be my transformation. I wanted to fight as a rite of passage. I thought combat was where men discovered life’s greater meaning: the horrors of humanity and the goodness of it, in others and themselves. Carpe diem, I imagined saying, because each day after war would feel like an undeserved gift. And I wouldn’t just say it, I would seize the day, because after war, what couldn’t I do?
Without having been involved in combat I’m left wondering what kind of man I am. Would I have frozen or fought when the first bullet was fired? Would I have considered risking my life if it meant protecting one of my own? Not having seen combat I feel my country owes me nothing, because didn’t I give them the same? Just a few years of my life on standby, no blood, no victories. Yet, I’m honored with the same title as those whose scars are physical and at times psychological and whose glory rests in their victories and losses, both tactical and personal — often respectively.
There were a handful of contrived reasons I gave for enlisting: education benefits, a sense of adventure, fulfilling a societal need and, among others, an expectation I had for myself that serving would make me a good American. All those reasons could have not existed and I still would have joined. The real reason was uncomfortable to admit: I yearned for values and character stronger than I’ve ever known in myself. I longed to matter in a way small town U.S.A. does not allow.
I’ve seen something in the eyes of those warriors who have killed too many. A prerogative, a deep inner wisdom and a knowing sense of self. If only I could have been exposed to the brutalities of war, then maybe I would understand better life’s preciousness. Instead I’m left wondering just how ungrateful and self-centered my thinking must seem, how shallow I must be to want those scars. I don’t know pain like vets who’ve lost their mobility. I don’t know joy, not like those guys who thought they’d never breathe again and who today sit at their wives’ sides. War, notorious for destroying lives, in a strange way, expands many more.
I will never know if I am the kind of man I admired in the documentaries and books I cherished as a kid. I doubt I’ll ever feel like I am wholly a veteran, worthy of the thanks, praises and even the discounts endlessly showered on us today. But I don’t want to chase conflict, because war makes no promises, and neither survival nor sanity is guaranteed. And though I know this, I wonder why I’m unsatisfied, why I feel less capable because of it, why I can’t fully understand what it means to be a veteran, and why, despite the irony of which I’m very much aware, I believe I need to have killed a man to become a man.
Pretty much sums up the feeling of my entire generation of grunts that missed the tail end of the GWOT.
Anything posted on this blog is not the official voice or opinion of the Marine Corps, but that of myself. None of the pictures are mine unless I say so. This blog contains profanity as it is that of a Marine. If you have any questions regarding the Marine Corps or myself, feel free to ask. Anon is turned off but I'll answer all personal questions privately. If I don't know the answer, I will do my best to find it for you.
