Afghanistan - The Halfway Mark - 33 Things I've Learned

33 Random Things I've Learned While On Deployment to Afghanistan

Today is the mid-point of my deployment to Afghanistan. I wasn’t really counting the days until now. I could have. There are plenty of products which enable you to do so, to include the Donut of Misery—an excel-based donut circle which counts down every day, interminably, that does more to remind you have how much time you have left, then how much time you have to go. But I didn’t want to put myself through any unnecessary mental anguish.

Tomorrow starts my countdown. I’ll start paying attention at that point and begin making plans.

This makes 90 days in Afghanistan and 121 days away from home.

These are some of the things I’ve learned during that time:

·         My agency has some of the best training. Learning how to drive, crash, shoot and move was not only a blast, but it made me better able react in the event of an attack.

·         There should be an IQ test for those attending the above training so other people don’t have the experience of someone firing at a target over your shoulder because they think it’s their turn.

·         Fried Bologna sandwiches made in rural Virginia are magnificent.

·         Cedar Lodge and The Harmons were put here on earth to nurture the hurt, wounded, and wanting.

·         Driving into Kabul is more fun than a Six Flags ride.

·         The OSTs are manned with enough handsome, muscular, tattooed young men with six figure salaries that if American women ever found out, they’d charter their own planes to Afghanistan.

·         Too many deployed persons don’t realize that if they act like assholes they’ll get treated like assholes.

·         My grandfather once told me to never be rude to the people who do your shoes, your hair, or your clothes. This is never truer here. And assholes wonder why they’re missing clothes in their laundry bags. (See above)

·         Mexican Food made my Indian contractors in an Afghani mess hall is less palatable than pre-chewed Chinese food at a nursing home.

·         If you can’t lose weight while deployed, you’re a glutton.

·         Don’t brag when you’re in a war zone or you’ll get called on it right away.

·         Don’t watch the eyes. Watch the hands. If you can’t see the hands, get ready.

·         Hewlett Packard won’t believe you when you claim you’re in Afghanistan.

·         Face time is free and the best way to communicate to a loved one or your publisher in New York.

·         If you’re doing Power Yoga in the gym, people will look at you strangely the first dozen times, then approach you meekly and ask to be let into the secret.

·         If they’re serving you fish in the mess hall and you’re in a land locked country, it’s like playing Russian roulette with your digestive system.

·         Perspective: When you’re in a place where people want to kill, wound, maim and mutilate you, you tend to realize what things back home really matter, don’t matter, who matters and who doesn’t.

·         It’s amazing how much someone can invest in being angry about something when they have absolutely nothing to lose. It establishes relevance.

·         Haggling in the markets and bazaars is a national sport and a fun game to play with prizes at the end.

·         If you’re walking upstairs, make sure the asshat in front of you doesn’t have his rifle slung over his shoulder with the barrel pointing at your head.

·         It’s cruel and unusual punishment to have a Belgian National Day celebration with free alcoholic Belgian beer in a country where General Order #1 precludes you from drinking alcohol.

·         Never ever ever ever ever have another war in a Muslim country (see above).

Download this novel now and
save it for later.

·         Bandwidth and download limits are more precious than gold.

·         You see people at their best and worse. You forgive them their worst, and love them at their best.

·         No matter how sucky your day is, think of the Army private at a forward operating base staring through a gun sight and remember that he wishes he was you.

·         You cherish the love of your wife, husband, or significant other above everything else.

·         You realize everything you are sacrificing and find it worth spending a time in hell if only because your presence will help the life of a soldier, sailor, airmen or marine return safely to his family.

·         You can’t swing a dead raccoon by the tail at ISAF HQ without hitting a General Officer.

·         If you hit a General Office with a dead raccoon at ISAF HQ, there’s really nowhere to run.

·         Act professional and pleasant and no matter how bad the other person’s day is the chances are they’ll return your demeanor.

·         You don’t have to know how to do something, you just have to know how to get the answer.

·         Don’t be ugly or you’ll be remembered as that guy.

·         The fourth or fifth time you’re attacked in the early hours of the morning, you actually consider rolling over and going back to sleep.

I have 90 more days until I get a ride on my own jet plane.

Now to buckle down, concentrate, and remain safe.

See you in 90.

Cheers

Weston Ochse

Currently in

Afghanistan

* * *

Please Note: This article is © copyrighted by Weston Ochse. Any reproduction in whole or in part without the author’s permission is prosecutable by public law.

Free Preview of Iraq War Heist Novel - BABYLON SMILES

For your reading pleasure, the prologue and first chapter of Babylon Smiles. 

Available in eBook Only

What is Babylon Smiles?  It's an Iraqi War Heist Novel. It's been compared to Kelly's Heroes and Three Kings. It’s the end of 2003. Billions of American dollars have been given to Iraq to refund their economy. Flown into Baghdad Airport, this money is transported by anonymous military trucks to banks in all the major cities. This money is unaccounted for. No one really knows all the details. So it only makes sense that someone might have a better idea about where the money should go. Enter the men and women of the 399th Transportation Company who must eventually choose between capturing Saddam Hussein or living lives of luxury. That is if they survive.

 

PROLOGUE

On March 19, 2003, the United States invaded Iraq with the intention of capturing Saddam Hussein and finding the weapons of mass destruction the Iraqi dictator had led the world to believe he had. U.S. troops took Baghdad on April 9^th. Crowds cheered. Statues were pulled down. Hope was in the air. In these early days of a war that would carry on for many more years than anyone could have ever anticipated there was a feeling of joy suffusing the populace. An entire society had been freed from the vice grip of oppression. Everyone was excited for awhile. But this was before the insurgents. This was before the roadside bombs. This was before the borders opened to foreign fighters. This was before all out intercine warfare. There was a time at the end of 2003 when we all thought it would be over soon; when soldiers were on their first tour into the box, anticipating going home and never imagining that they might be forced to come back again and again; when lifelong friends were made; when American banks shipped old dollars to stabilize a new Iraqi economy; when everyone trusted everyone and shipped this money in the back of Army trucks guarded by soldiers who didn't even know what they were carrying. This was a special time in Iraq because it was a time of opportunity. This is one story of that time. The names have been changed to protect the guilty and those who survived.

"When I think of Weston Ochse, I think of a well respected member of the horror writing community, but then there's this other side of him that has spent 20-plus years serving his country in the U. S. Army... I've said before that I'm not a fan of combat fiction, but I'm a sucker for a good story and that's what you'll get in Babylon Smiles. Look for the reveal on the meaning of Babylon Smiles, too. That's kinda cool." Frank Errington, Reviewer

 

*December 10, 2003

Wednesday*

Associated Press

BAGHDAD, Iraq — After a series of successful raids on Tuesday, U.S. Officials deny capturing a top member of Saddam Hussein's government. More than 2,000 American soldiers of the 173rd Airborne Brigade cordoned off the northern Iraqi city of Hawija, about 25 miles west of Kirkuk, and detained more than 20 suspected guerrillas. A source inside the unit said one of their targets had been Izzat Ibrahim, a former senior aide to Mr. Hussein who is believed to be coordinating at least some attacks against American soldiers.

1

     An explosion rocked the brick and mud-daub buildings along the sides of the dusty lane. A plume of fire and disintegrating concrete shot heavenward until all that could be heard was man-made thunder rattling across the sky.

     A camel lurched away from its tether to stand in the middle of the cracked asphalt road. Children scattered and ran behind anything large enough to hide them. A woman waddled behind a goat shack, nervous eyes gazing for the cause of the impromptu violence. A lonely soccer ball rolled from the road onto the dusty plain, carried by a vagabond sirocco. The sound of gunfire split the twilight from both heavy and light caliber weapons. Another explosion, this one smaller than the first, silenced the exchange of gunfire.  

     A 40 ton, 8-wheeled military transport truck bucked and slid as it took the corner too fast. Private Schmidtke spun the wheel, fighting for control of the gargantuan HEMMET. Last time he'd been this afraid, he'd been hell bent for home after getting caught poaching deer by a Texas Ranger. The private's mad eyes searched the road for mines and obstructions as his mouthed worked itself into a frenzy around a wad of chewing tobacco as he whispered to himself-- Osh Kosh By Gosh. Osh Kosh By Gosh.

     "Camel!" Sitting in the passenger seat, Private Scirrotto pointed to the beast that stood directly in their way.

     "Shit!" Schmidtke swerved, barely missing turning the half-ton ship of the desert into Bedouin goulash on the steely front slope of the truck.

     "RPG. Two o'clock," Stilts yelled. The tall black sergeant swung the fifty caliber machine gun mounted on the roof to engage the target. The thunka thunka thunkas of burning lead and tracers obliterated the doorway and anything within five feet of the man aiming the rocket propelled grenade launcher at them.

     Rather than slowing, the truck gathered speed as it plowed through the smoking remains of a Honda sedan. The HEMMET was the biggest thing on the road and nothing short of the Great Wall of China was going to stop them. Schmidtke side-swiped a tinker's cart sending wood splintering into the air, then back to the ground looking all the world like a madman's game of pick-up sticks.

Me at a bazaar in Afghanistan

     Up ahead, he spied a hand grenade dangling from an overpass. Although he couldn't see anyone, he knew there was someone nearby to pull the pin with another length of fishing line. During the first days of the war along the road to An Nassariyah this type of ambush had been something new to the U.S. forces-- nothing like a grenade exploding at windshield-level to ruin the day of a listless convoy driver.

     Schmidtke pointed but Scirrotto had already seen it. The former sniper adjusted his hold on the M24 sniper rifle, eased the 10x Leopold M3 Ultra telescopic sight to his right eye, took aim and engaged the target. The grenade ate itself in a bright display of what could have been.

Private Schmidtke's mouth returned to his private prayer as he drove. Osh Kosh By Gosh. Osh Kosh By Gosh.

     Private Scirrotto scanned the horizon. 

     Stilts scanned the sky.

 

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Praise for Weston Ochse:

“Weston Ochse is one of the best authors of our generation.” - Brian Keene, Author of Ghoul and The Rising

“Weston Ochse is a mercurial writer, one of those depressingly talented people who are good at whatever they turn their hand to.”-Conrad Williams, August Derleth and International Horror Guild Award Winner

“Weston Ochse is perhaps the fiercest and most direct of the latest generation of dark fiction writers.” Rocky Wood , author of Stephen King: A Literary Companion.

 

“Weston Ochse is to horror what Bradbury is to science fiction -- an artist whose craft, stories and voice are so distinct and mesmerizing that you can't help but be enthralled.” - Dani Kollin, Prometheus Award-winning author of The Unincorporated Man

 

“Brilliantly rendered. What was so impressive about the piece was that I did not doubt the incredible heroism of the protagonist... nor his motivation." - Andrew Vachss on “Family Man”

“Ochse succeeds in creating a complex plot that casts a brutal overwhelming spell.” - International Thriller Award winner Tom Piccirilli on Scarecrow Gods

Raves for SEAL Team 666:

"SEAL TEAM 666 is like X-Files written by Tom Clancy: ingenious, creepy, and entertaining." - Kevin J. Anderson, #1 international bestselling author of DEATH WARMED OVER

"SEAL TEAM 666 is a wild blend of nail-biting thriller action and out-of-the shadows horror. This is the supernatural thriller at its most dynamic. Perfect!" -Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling author of DEAD OF NIGHT and THE KING OF PLAGUES

 

When I Used to be a Fisherman

I used to be a fisherman.

I'd spend hours dreaming about it. I'd clean my rod and reel and practice casting in my driveway. I'd get up at five in the morning, just so I could beat the morning sun and be there when the fish awoke hungry.

My mother taught me how to fish when I was just a tiny git. I had a bamboo pole with a line and a bobber

I was 7 or 8 catching Perch in South Dakota

and a hook and I was crazed with fishing. In fact, when I was about three years old we lived in a place called LaGrange, Wyoming, about an hour north of Cheyenne. About two miles outside of town there was a little stream full of crappies. Every morning my mother and I would dig worms in the back yard, and every afternoon we'd go down to this stream, and I'd pull in fish as fast as I could bait my hook.

I have such amazing memories of fishing.

On my grandfather's boat on Pactola Dam, South Dakota, night fishing, pulling up so many rainbows and almost setting the boat on fire with lantern fuel.

Me and my dad fishing the Tellico River in the Appalachians. It was so rainy, no one else was fishing and we were having one of those days where only the big fish were biting and they never stopped. We had to buy a new cooler to take all of them home.

Or the day we discovered the new trout stream by the pig farms in some backwater Tennessee county, where it seemed all the trout were at least twenty inches long. The fish were there to be had as long as we were careful not to get shot.

Or when we all went camping  on Tellico again and we had to fight the water moccasins who came up on us when we were cleaning the fish one evening.

Or the last time I went fishing with my dad, when my old friend Chuck took us on his boat on the Columbia River. After three hard days of fishing, both my father and I caught 25 pound salmon.

About 15, holding up a pair of catfish I caught
on a trout rig. The big one took an hour to land.

Or the last time I went trout fishing in Rapid Creek, high above Pactola. The creek wasn't any wider than a Cadillac, but I caught a thirty five inch trout out of it, and as we walked home, we passed a boy scout troop and I saw the wonder in their eyes as they saw me carrying the fish at my side, much like I was when I was a kid, hoping to one day catch an immense fish just like the one I'd caught.

Or the time me and a friend were fishing for giant catfish on Chicamauga Reservoir. I wrote about this in a story called Catfish Gods. When I wrote it more than 15 years ago, I understood that fishing wasn't about catching.

Fishing is more about being a part of something than anything else. A fisherman cares about the water and nature more than most people. How we take care of our world directly affects a person's ability to fish.

Then there's the solitude. Although, a lot of the time when you're fishing you go with others, you're always fishing within yourself. Fishing with my grandfather on the lake or my father on a river, we always went together, but we'd end up alone. Even with one of them five feet away, it's just you, the water, your pole and the possibilities that run deep beneath the surface.

Oh, how I miss fishing.

My Father and I in 2012 on the Columbia River

So I thought a lot about fishing today. I'm not sure why. I can't tell you what brought it on. But I can say that it's something I miss terribly. I've felt incomplete without it. In fact, I'm 48 years old now and I don't even own a fishing pole. Where it went, I just don't know. One thing is for sure. You can't call yourself a fisherman without a fishing pole.

So here's my plan. I'm eventually going to leave Afghanistan. When I do, I'm going to get a fishing pole and
some new gear and I'm going to become a fisherman again. Someone better tell my wife that we might even start camping, so she can start praying I change my mind. I want to get back in touch with the beauty of nature. When you're alone on the water, quiet as you attempt to become one with the land, there's a special beauty that you become a part of.

To steal a cliche, you achieve a lightness of being you aren't normally afforded.

I want to feel this again. I want to do this again. I want to be a fisherman. Not because I want to catch anything. I've caught enough for a campfire circle full of stories. No. I want to be a fisherman because I want to be a part of the universe again. No more looking in. I want to be inside and looking out.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

HP vs MOM: A New Hard Drive and We're Too Cheap to Give You a Screwdriver

WRITTEN ON 13 July 2013:

If you haven't read up on this ongoing saga, you can read it from the this link.

So when last I left  you with the saga of my broken HP laptop, my mother had called the CEO of the company.

Did I tell you I received an email from the Vice President of Escalations.  She said two things. Your mom called  and  we read your blog.

SCORE!

I warned them, but they wouldn't listen. My mom just retired. She doesn't know what to do with herself. She's just begging for someone to give her something and HP provided it by F$cking with her son.

Plus, thanks to you all, there were over 1000 hits on my blog regarding the HP fiasco.

Needless to say, HP wasn't pleased.

So what happened, you ask.

Then the VP of Escalations asked me to call her. I explained I was in Afghanistan and couldn't use their 1-800 number. It took several times. I think she thought I was a big old fibber. I wonder how many people use this as an excuse.

So, I communicated with HP for a week, as we tried to figure out what was wrong with my system. Then they took the weekend off. Seems as if the multi-national computer corporation known as HEWLETT-FREAKING-PACKARD has no support on the weekends. I, on the other hand, had no choice but to work on the weekends. After all, I'm defending the country HP has their offices in.

Sigh. Just another sign that they don't get it.

Then we communicated another week and finally figured out that my hard drive tanked. Yep. I couldn't wait to tell them, but I had to wait. Why, you ask? another weekend.

But then the VP of Escalation didn't contact me for four more days. I guess she must have had a vacation. When she did, she arranged for another hardrive to be sent. I asked her if she could include a screwdriver, but she said, no. We don't provide that. I explained I was in Afghanistan and that I don't have access to tools or an Ace Hardware. She ignored my comment and shipped the hard drive, stating it was going by FedEx and would be here in two days. I emailed her back explaining that all FedEx was going to do was get it into the APO system and it would take a lot longer than that, but she ignored me. Instead, I got a form letter saying that I had 10 days pack up the old hard drive and return it or else I'd be charged.

That the part was shipped on the 24th of June. The computer broke on the 8th of June. 16 Days to finally get HP to respond and help me fix their broken machine. And 16 days later, the part arrives. That's 32 days so far without a computer. 

I'm currently looking for a screwdriver small enough to replace the part. I have some friends who work IT issues. I bet they have some.

SERIOUSLY, HP, How hard would it have been to include a little screwdriver?

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan


 

David Gerrold About Heinlein and the Democratization of Wisdom

I've been a fan of David Gerrold since I read the first four books of his seven book War Against the Chtorr trilogy (sic) (You have to follow and read the link to see what I mean.). I read the chtorr books while pulling duty on the DMZ in Korea. There was something about reading an alien invasion novel, while staring out across a no-man's land mined with deadly explosives and rippling with barbed wire. This was my introduction to the man, and besides Facebook, it's the only time I've ever interacted with him.

Still, he's been around, you know? He was there when one of my literary idols, Robert Heinlein, was on the convention circuit, and is able to give us rare glimpses through the porthole of time back to those moments.

He's also a forward-thinking, take-no-shit, I-have-no-patience-for-bullshit, sort of guy.  He's more in the face than I'm willing to be, but I find myself agreeing with him many more times than not. His words especially resonated when he talked about how long he'd spend researching a subject before he posted, only to have people immediately comment, in his words, he 'feel(s) insulted by the assertion that his (the other person's) ignorance is equal to my research. '

Borrowed shamelessly from Westercon 66 Website

I call this the democratization of wisdom. By commenting, a person becomes equal. Nevermind how ignorant and or assinine the remark is, in the level playing field of the internet, this comment is equal to someone else's research in some people's eyes. It's infuriating. I'm glad that Mr. Gerrold spends his time railing against it. I can't. Between my job in the military and full time writing, I do not have the energy to expend. I've long ago learned that about myself. I can choose to fight the unmitigated stupidity around me and do nothing else, or I can ignore it, and try and plod through my attempt to be the next great version of myself as a writer.

I spend most of my time ignoring it.

So thanks, Mr. Gerrold, for stepping in for this old soldier and fighting on my behalf.

Enough of my words.  Here are Mr. Gerrold's. I  hope you like them as much as I did.

The following is borrowed with permission from Mr. Gerrold:  I used to admire Robert A. Heinlein as the best writer in all of science fiction. I still admire him enormously, but after rereading several of his books this year, I became painfully aware of how he stacked the deck and depended on coincidence. Friday is a good example. It's a good read, but it's a flawed book that reveals some of Heinlein's worst habits.  

But I also knew Robert as a human being, a colleague, a mentor, a friend, and a man who loved to laugh.

But the Robert I knew lived inside the bubble of his own celebrity. And eventually, he figured out how to cope with it. He put up a wall to protect his privacy -- not just the twenty foot high electric fence surrounded by a moat filled with rabid crocodiles, but a psychological fence as well. He didn't answer his mail, he had a printed form with check boxes. And his phone number was given to only those he wanted to talk to.
But when he went to cons, he was gracious to everyone -- well, almost everyone. Robert demanded courtesy from the people around him. He demanded a standard of integrity from himself and from those he interacted with. 

I will never compare myself with Heinlein, because I still admire him so much, but I have begun to understand why he was so firm about his own rules. First of all, there were many people who wanted to interrogate him, challenge him, confront him, argue with him, correct him, or just suck up the oxygen around him.  

That might be flattering if you've never recovered from your Junior High School self-esteem issues -- but if you're honestly interested in the adventure of humanity and the thrills of discovery that science makes possible, then that kind of attention is worse than useless, it's annoying. It uses up time that would be better spent peering through telescopes or seducing redheads. For a working writer, that's a slow kind of soul death, like being gummed by tribbles.  

I've said more than once that I'm not interested in an argument. And there are two reasons. The first is that I'm not interested in an argument. It's annoying. There's only one of me, but apparently there are several hundred people who follow my posts and who want to argue with me. It's time consuming. It's annoying. It sucks the oxygen out of the room. And while some people might like the idea of having an argument with some famous author, the famous author is exhausted. Maybe not by the first argument or even the third, but certainly by the thirtieth. Any author can tell you this -- I hate having the same conversation over and over and over. Especially with people who aren't interested in listening, only arguing.  

But the second reason I don't like arguments is that too often, I end up feeling insulted. 90% of what I do is research. (The other 10% is lying awake nights planning revenge.) When I post something here, it isn't just a casual observation -- it's usually the final percolation of months of consideration. I'll have prowled the dark corners of the web as well as the brighter locii. I'll have read both sides. I'll have taken the time and made the effort to examine the logic (or lack of) on both sides (or more) of the issue. I'll be looking for the human side, the humane side, the compassionate side because that's who I am. I'm looking for the compelling evidence that makes the case. So eventually, when I finally post what I'm thinking, it's a distillation of those conclusions. 

So when someone comes along and reads my post and immediately starts typing -- without having done the same research, working on the assumption that I need to be educated on the issue -- yes, I feel insulted. I feel insulted by the assertion that his ignorance is equal to my research.  

Robert once said to me, "We can't have this conversation because you don't know what you're talking about." He was right. I hadn't done my research. Now I was willing to listen and be educated, but Robert wasn't obligated to teach me. He pointed me toward the source material and told me to go educate myself. That's a lesson that struck home.
I am not "the famous author." I'm a working stiff. I tell stories. Like Robert, I'm competing for your beer money. If you like what I write, that's nice for both of us. If you don't, that's okay too. But Bob Dylan said it best, "Just because you like my stuff doesn't mean I owe you anything." I don't.  

What you owe me -- and every other human being on the planet -- is respect. Courtesy. Dignity. Grace.  

Some people have said that respect must be earned. They have it bass ackwards. It is disrespect that must be earned. Unfortunately it is too easy to earn it and too many people have earned more than they should.

Some more of Mr. Gerrold's work

But if Robert was a role model for me as an author -- yes, he was -- then he was also a role model for me as a human being caught in the limelight. (Limelight contains kryptonite.) Like Robert, or any other author who has earned an audience, I have discovered the necessity of holding the audience at a careful distance -- not because I do not like the audience, but because I do not like those who presume an invitation to argue.
When I say I'm not interested, I mean it. There's no payoff for me. I'd rather play "show me the belly" with the terrier. That's more fun, more rewarding, and gets my ears and nose washed.  

Now I gotta go. One of the alligators in the moat is choking on one of the neighbor's kids and I've gotta go do a Hamlisch maneuver. (That's where I run to the piano and do three choruses of "What I Did For Love.")

If you've never read Mr.Gerrold's books then you should really start. I'd begin with A Matter for Men. But you've probably experienced his work withouth knowing it. He made Tribbles part of the popular lexicon. He's writtten for Star Trek (Original), Babylon 5 and Land of the Lost, to name a few. He's as fine an imagimatist as there is.

Thanks for reading this blog.

Now go read one of our books.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan 

Monster Tuesday -- Eat or Be Eaten!!

Okay you crazy kids. Listen up! Pay attention. There's going to be a test at the end of this and you better not fail!

Available on eBook and AudioBook

I'm getting ready to repost an article by an author I adore, David Gerrold. It's about his impressions of Robert Heinlein and a bunch of other stuff. But before I do that, let me explain something.

Several people have said that Blaze of Glory reminds them of David Gerrold's War Against the Chtorr series. I suppose it does, although my imagination was far more limited than Mr. Gerrold's in his books. I admit that I did read them. I admit that I love them. I also admit that the medium-sized versions of the maggies have a passing resemblance to the Chtorr.

But that's it.

You want to read a faced-paced, character-driven novel that was almost made into a movie by Wesley Snipes, then read Blaze of Glory. And then read the essay at the end that explains the horrid story why, involving Reggie Bannister, a fire, a lawyer in a shark skin suit, and a naieve young soldier.

You want to read grand saga of world domination by a supposed alien invasion, then please go grab Mr. Gerrold's series. You can find them linked here at his site.

To summarize.

Blaze of Glory good.

Blaze of Glory compared to War Against the Chtorr- outstandingly good, but maybe they were smoking a little something.

Blaze of Glory for only $2.99.

Blaze of Glory on audibook. Listen to the opening chapter for free.

Cover art courtesy of professional photographer and digital artist Danielle Tunstall. Ask me about how easy it is to work with her.

Cover design by me.

And if you really want something special, try out the new novel by the author of God's and Generals and The Killer Angels, Jeff Shaara, also called Blaze of Glory, about the Battle of Shiloh. I already ordered my copy.
 

Examiner.Com Blows Me Away

I can't ask for any better than this--

"Weston Ochse is quite simply one of the best writers around today. He has the ability to write touching and inspiring tales or stories of adventure and intrigue. “Border dogs: A SEAL Team 666 adventure” is a great story for a very low price. If you have not read the novel, you will still be able to enjoy the story and get a sample of what you are missing. I knew I was in for a treat when I stumbled across this one and I was not disappointed."

From a review of Border Dogs at Examiner.Com. Follow the link to read the whole review.

For those of you who are pining away for more SEAL Team 666 action, have you read Border Dogs? You can either read it free online at Tor.com, or spend .99 cents  if you want to read it on your kindle. It's a prequel story that takes place along the Mexican-American Border, featuring chupacabra. Love these little rascals.

And if you've already read this and SEAL Team 666, make sure you pre-order SEAL Team 666: AGE OF BLOOD. As always, the popularity of the series is in your hands. Before they let me write another one, folks like you need to vote by ordering.

And if for some reason you haven't read the original SEAL Team 666, welcome back from your alien abduction. :)  You can find it here at one of your favorite local bookstores. Just follow this link to Indiebound and it will get you there.


Cheers.

And thanks for Reading.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan


 

Happy 4th of July from a 7th Grader

We sometimes get cards and letters from school kids. They're really pretty cool. I always take a moment to read at least one of them when they come in because it reminds me of when I was a kid.

I picked this one up today. It's written by a young man named Chris. He's in 7th grade somewhere.


Here's what it says-

Dear Dude,

Thanks for supporting our country. I'm with you on this. I really want you to be a strong warrior and keep going. It sucks that you have to be there. I'd be there two (sic), but I'm in 7th grade and my math teacher won't let me. Anyway, I hope you are healthy through the holiday. We're having a cook out at my house. My dad makes hot dogs and hamburgers. If you are alowwed (sic) to have hot dogs, think of me when you eat one and I'll think of you.

Love you, Chris

I love it when he says 'I'm with  you on this.' So mature. So perfect.

I hope I have a hot dog tomorrow. If I do, I'll silently salute you, Chris. 

Happy 4th of July.

Love you too, bro.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan 

New Horrorworld Interview from Afghanistan

Horrorworld has interviewed me while I'm in Afghanistan. They want to know what's going on with me. If you want to read what they asked and what I said, you can do it here free of charge.

If you don't know about Horrorworld, you should. It's been around as long as I've been writing and is a clearinghouse for all things horror, to include ways to get in contact with all of your favorite authors.

http://www.horrorworld.org/interviews.htm

Courtesy of Col Brian Wilson

 

FATHER'S DAY IN AFGHANISTAN

Father’s Day has always been a man’s day to me. 

Growing up, I saw my father and my grandfather as larger than life characters. Not only did they tower over my little tow-headed self in size, but their accomplishments and community stature loomed large. I was intimidated by them as a child. Their shadows were long and no matter where I went, I never seemed to escape them. 

But then came Father’s Day. It was a day of détente, where no matter how bad I was I couldn’t get in trouble, and no matter how good I was, I’d never be noticed. For perhaps the first time, I realized that there was a day dedicated to someone other than myself. I remember making gifts out of wood, glue and moss. I also remember going to the local drug store and, forcing myself not to buy comic books—which was a tremendously difficult thing, especially with Turok's run in the early 1970s—I’d buy a gift I thought was a grown up gift to buy. I think once I even bought my father a bottle of Hai Karate cologne. It was the commercial of the man, side-kicking the bikini-clad girls on the beach that made me do it.

Darn girls. What do they know?

Then, eventually, as time progressed, my shadow grew to almost equal proportions and I became a father too. I’ve been given my share of homemade gifts, store-bought gifts, and cards for when my kids just didn’t have the cash. Each of these gifts, no matter how small or how large, was lovely, an offering of love and childhood fealty. I still have many of them. Some are on dressers or desks or shelves, still others are in drawers, me unable to get rid of them, each gift an inextricable piece of my children.

And now here I am at 47 years old, a father of two, a son of a father and mother, and a husband to a wife. It’s Father’s Day in Afghanistan and I’ve been encased in melancholy all day. Part of it was because of the Bram Stoker Awards Weekend I missed in New Orleans. I face-timed my wife several times and got to see a lot of people I think of as close friends. Although I might see them once a year, I’m the sort of guy who would run across a busy highway to save them if I saw them in trouble. I think when I saw Mikey Huyck, it kind of choked me up. See, Mikey and I go way back to the days I first started writing.  Although years might go by without us speaking to each other, we hold a special friendship which no one can really duplicate. Seeing him, I realized just how badly I’ve been missing him. And then there was seeing Rocky. I’ve loved that big lug Australian man since I first met him years ago. I’ve always been there for him and he’s always been there for me and I’m afraid that I might have missed my last chance to see him before… well, some things you just shouldn’t say. 

And I’m in Afghanistan.

I called my father yesterday. His shadow is as large as ever. He’s a great man. He’s earned great respect and we give it to him along with great love. My kids emailed me, showing their love.  My wife wished me Happy Father’s Day too, for the millionth time wishing aloud that she’d rather I be home than here. Normally, I tell her about duty and sacrifice and all those crazy ideas I learned from John Wayne movies and presidential holiday speeches. But not today. Today, for the first time, I really wanted to be home; or if not home, with my wife and Mikey and Rocky.

But I’m in Afghanistan. Sunday is just another day here. Father’s Day is an American holiday and on this NATO base it’s largely ignored. Still, several of my coworkers took time to wish me Happy Father's Day. Each time I smiled, but each time it was a dagger hurled through my heart, reminding me where I wasn’t, what I wasn’t doing, and who I wasn’t doing those things with.

I took an hour for myself midday. I went on top of the US NSE—basically a third floor covered patio that overlooks the camp and outside the walls. There’s always a breeze. I found a chair, tuned up some old Robert Flack in the headphones, and read some from my copy of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. I’m still early in the book and the lead protagonist Hans, a whining German hypochondriac, has still not realized that the world doesn’t revolve around him and that other people, especially their families, are an intrinsic ingredient to the overall health of the collective. I read for a bit. I listened for a bit. And I dozed. You know that sort of nap where you know you’re indulging but you don’t care because it feels so good—it was that kind of nap.

When I awoke I was still in Afghanistan. I sat up. I watched the people for a time. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, civilians and contractors. Men and women, young and old, American and ally. Unlike Hans, I thought outside of myself. Each and every one of them has someone or something to miss. What makes me special? Who the hell am I to indulge in a little self-pitying melancholy? I reminded myself that although I’m in a warzone, I’m at the Headquarters for all of Afghanistan with all the niceties therein. What about those fathers and sons out on forward operating bases? Somewhere in Nangarhar Province is a father at an observation post manning a gun position and the last thing on his mind is that it’s Father’s Day. There’s a father driving an up-armored vehicle down a dirt track in Paktika Province, ass clenched because he’s not certain the road is actually clear and that there’s a better than average possibility that he might hit a roadside bomb. And there’s probably a Special Forces A Team operating near Khost, within sight of a Taliban safe haven, preparing to take action on them before they can take action on us. I doubt they’re weepy-eyed over the idea that they’re missing Father’s Day.

I started this by saying that Father’s Day is a man’s day. In my taxonomy of understanding, a man isn’t merely the sum of his XY chromosomes. A man has always been someone who will do the hard thing for the right reason to contribute to the greater good without intentional personal benefit. My grandfather was a man. My father is a man. These warriors I witness every day are men. The men away from my base are men. And I’m pleased to say that I am a man. I might get a little emotional every now and then, but those episodes are just pit stops along my long journey through manhood.

I chose to come here. I could have stayed home. I had plenty of opportunities. But I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to be that man my father and grandfather showed me how to be. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss my wife, even though we talk every day. But I’m here for a season of duty. I’m here to serve. I’m here to build my shadow.

It’s Father’s Day. I just got an email from my dad thanking me for the inscribed beer glasses I gave him. He said they’re going to get heavy use. You go dad. You deserve it. And when I get back, we’ll drink some together. 

Cheers, Dad.

Weston Ochse

Currently in
Afghanistan

 

GRUNT LIFE Update #1 - Free Excerpt

So Solaris Books has contracted me to write a military science fiction novel. I can't tell you how excited I am to write this. I've been trying to work with Solaris for years. They are top notch in the Science Fiction community and have published some of my favorite books and authors. To be a part
of their catalogue is humbling and thrilling. To make it even more fun, I get to write this while I'm in Afghanistan. Makes you wonder if my being here effects the content of the story. You be the judge.

PLOT: A private company grabs several thousand PTSD sufferers right at the point where they're about to commit suicide and makes them an offer they can't refuse. If you want to kill yourself, fine, but why not make it mean something by doing it in the protection of your own species. Thus was formed TF OMBRA, who is mankind's singular hope for the savior of planet Earth.

Here's an (unedited) excerpt from Chapter 1:

-GRUNT LIFE EXCERPT-

By Weston Ochse © 2013

-1-

//--END EXCERPT--//

It was my love of movies that made me choose the Vincent Thomas Bridge to kill myself. Although it was relatively convenient, joining Long Beach to my home of San Pedro, California, it had also gained a certain notoriety over the years. That it had been a shooting location for the films Gone in Sixty Seconds, Lethal Weapon 2, To Live and Die in LA, Heat and The Island was a bonus. The real reason I’d chosen to jump from it was because of my love of film director Tony Scott and the fact that he’d jumped from the same bridge back in 2012. The director of Top Gun, The Last Boy Scout, True Romance and the incomparable Man on Fire had one day parked his car on the bridge, climbed over the rail, and leaped to a better life. Some people said that Tony hadn’t meant to kill himself that it was the result of a bad combination of drugs that had given him suicidal thoughts, but I knew better. The truth was that sometimes life was just shit and there was nothing to be done about it.

     I stared out across the lights of the harbor. A cruise ship was pulling in. Beyond this the giant cranes used to load and offload containers of consumer goods glowed with warning lights. The San Pedro hill to my right was dotted with a thousand lights, each one housing someone in a home, watching television, eating dinner, fucking, or simply staring off into space. To my left was the great plain of Long Beach where another million souls did the same, unaware that a man who’d been awarded two silver stars and three bronze stars was about to swan dive just so he could see if there was something else on the other side of oblivion.

     I’d come prepared. I wore black fatigues, boots and gloves. A black skull cap covered my head and I’d painted my face with black camouflage. I wasn’t there to draw attention. I wasn’t there to make a statement. I was there for one final selfish moment, to do something for myself. I’d stepped over the rail and had backed into the shadow of a beam ten minutes ago. Cars sped past behind me, many of them with their windows open to catch the sea air, leaving me with a random montage of music by which to die.

     Grasping the beam behind me, I leaned forward and stared down at the stygian black water. I let my mind wander back to Iraq, then to Afghanistan, then to Mali, then to Kosovo. Like a badly edited film it flipped back and forth with no context other than death. The death of children lying like discarded dolls in the middle of an Iraqi street, at the bottom of a Serbian burial pit, or atop a mountain near Tora Bora. The death of women, raped and left bent over, a position so much like prayer, but never so fierce. The death of men, body parts raining like confetti at an end of the world party where those with the better ammunition and weapons were bound to attend if only they could survive the deaths of so many of their own. Death. Death. Fucking more death.

     Somewhere along the lines I’d ceased to be a hero and had become a death merchant. The very term hero had become a laughable idea. “Who do you think you are, a hero?” my platoon sergeant had once asked. I’d wanted to respond that I did, that I was, but I knew that the platoon sergeant had already turned that corner. It was then that I’d realized that there would come a time when I’d be just like him. If I'd ever get to the point where I didn’t know the difference between a hero or a zero and lose my grasp on what’s right and wrong, I promised myself that I'd end it.

     So there I was.

     On the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

 

 

More Updates will be coming soon.

Leave comments.

Now back to work.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

Recent Military eBooks Finds and My Old Favorites

This is Free

After 27 years in the military (and still counting), it's no wonder why I like military books. I remember as a kid, the first military stories I remember were written by Rudyard Kipling. Remember KIM, from The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition. It was the story of the orphaned son of an Irish soldier, who not only is saved, but is introduced to the world of military intelligence. Or A Man Who Would Be King, the tale of two ne'er-do-wella who adventure and make their way to becoming, not only kings, but gods. Or the poem Gunga Din? I was raised on these and remember them with fondness. Any wonder why I joined the military? I wanted to be like them all. I wanted to be like Kim.

Of course these were old tales. What about new tales? I'm a fan of science fiction, fantasy, thrillers, horror, and pretty much everything that has a military bent. I thought I'd share some of my recent finds, along with some of my own work, explaining what I was trying to do when I wrote them.

One recent find was the science fiction ebook, Poor Man's Fight. Written by Elliott Kay, it's premise follows the idea that education isn't free and federal service is required in order to pay it off. For some it's more than others. Kay does a terrific job bringing us into his universe, and the sort of boot camp I'm glad I was never a part of.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)

Of course, anything by Joe Haldeman is amazing, especially The Forever War , which I recently downloaded again because I wanted to read it for the fifth or sixth time, experiencing once again the service of the men who fight for a world they will never ever see again, thanks to the unforgiving time dilation of the universe.

Marko Kloos deals with overcrowding and the lack of food shortages in Terms of Enlistment. I really liked the way he protrayed the different services and found his combat extremely believable.

John Scalzi's Old Man's War pays homage to Old Man's War and opens its own new volumes into the idea that a person can serve their country after they turn 70, uploading their consciousness into a more powerful version of the best they ever were. I love me some Scalzi!

Robert Beuttner's Orphanange provides the idea that when Earth is attacked, we can only retaliate with Vietnam War-era weapons and our orphans, in the hopes that these scraps and rejects can save us all. You just hope it's enough, right?

In my own Babylon Smiles, I tried to paint a picture of what life was like in 2003 Iraq, before the insurgents and road side bombs. I had help from a lot of veterans and haver been told that I got it right.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)

SEAL Team 666 and SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood, both published by Thomas Dunne Books, are both of my forays into supernatural special operations. I tried to make the reality of the SEAL Team as close as possible, while thrusting them into situations where superior firepower might not even matter. Ghosts, demons, humunculi, chupacabra, and all sorts of various creatures are fair game in these books. Age of Blood was just turned in and will be available in November.

Border Dogs is a novella prequel to SEAL Team 666 and brings the team up against narco-trafficers and patriots. I wanted to highlight some of the border issues with this one, while providing some, what I think, is interesting backstory.



And Butterfly Winter. I wanted write a story about what would happen to bombers on a plane that refused to drop its atomic bombs at the end of the world. It's a story that has made grown men cry. The problem lies in the title. Frankly, it just sucks for a military book. I'm going to change this soon. No one wants to by a military title with the word Butterfly in the title. What was I thinking? ::face plam::


I've also written a lot of popular short stories, such as the Bram Stoker finalist Righteous, which you can listen to free here, or Hiroshima Falling. I've been asked if I can collect them into one place and will probably turn them into an eBook for all of my military fans.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)


And lastly, I'm working on a military science novel for Solaris Books. Titled GRUNT LIFE, it's about a private company that contracts several thousand men and women right at the momen they're about to commit suicide in order to turn them into the only fighting force that might be able to save the planet from the coming invasion. It's coming along great. Written in first person, I'm really feeling the story. Of course, I'm writing it from Afghanistan, so that in and of itself is interesting.

 

HP Has a Solution to my Computer Problem in Afghanistan--NOT!!!

So I pulled out my broken computer this morning and let it do it's Kabuki Dance of Death one more time because I decided I need to start the day with a laugh. It gives an error code when it's trying to boot up, so I typed that code into trusty old Google. Looks like it might just be a Windows 8 issue--- as in it crashed.

Oh!

Hunky fucking Dory!

That's easy to fix then.

So I googled the code.

This is what I got from the makers of my computer. Here is their helpful information posted at the HP Official site.

You might have to Click on this to make it larger, sorry.

What you'll note is that all of the commands rely on Windows actually loading. Well, if Windows has crashed, then how can it load? And no, the F-Keys aren't functioning.

Note also that this was posted by an 'HP Expert.'

And finally, note that HP encourages you to click on the 'KUDOS' button at the bottom to 'Accept as Solution.'

Then note that as of the creation of this post, 1,788 persons have viewed this 'HP Solution' and not a single one has accepted this as a solution.

Seriously, HP?  Did you pay this person? Is there any oversight? Is it a guy in his underwear playing WOW in his basement or is it an actual living breathing HP-certified helper? Do you know this has been on your site for two years?

Question: If windows has crashed, how do you expect us to follow directions that rely on windows to be open?

Sigh.

I used to be so happy with my HP and the laptop.

I used to think it was the Schnizzle!

Note to HP. You can have the shiniest and bestest looking computer in the universe, but if your computer crashes and stops working and if your 'Help Desk' people are complete morons, then that is the last impression you are leaving on a customer, and anyone that customer decides to speak with into eternity.

Also, a special message to the CEO of HP.  My mother has written you an email. She's already had one reply 'escalating the issue.' You have no idea. You better duck. You better hide. Because she's not going to let off. Trust me when I say that the only way you can piss off a mother more, is if you fuck with their kid when he's deployed fighting a war. And get this, she just retired. So she has all.... the time... in the world... to make sure that you and all of her friends understand the issue at hand.

...and the drama continues.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

SPLAT! My Laptop Commits Suicide in Afghanistan!

So there I was, early morning, ready to put some serious words down on the page and I noticed that my screen was frozen.

Frozen? I have a top of the line HP Envy. How the hell can it be frozen? It cost more than my all-in-one HP desktop. It cost as much as a used car. In fact, with what it cost, I could feed an Afghan family of six or a year. But I needed it. Or at least I thought I did. After all, I was going to be doing all of this stuff in Afghanistan with it. Skyping, watching movies, listening to music, writing, etc. As it turned out, my wife and I use Facetime in my iPhone and we never even used Skype. So I use my expensive laptop for the other things.

Still, I thought it would be faster. After all, I suped it up. Here's what I had (yes, notice the past tense):

*dv6t Quad*
o Windows 8 64
o System Recovery DVD with Windows 8 64
o 3rd generation Intel Core i7-3630QM Processor (2.4GHz, 6MB L3 Cache)
o NVIDIA(R) GeForce(R) GT 630M Graphics with 2GB of dedicated video
memory
o 12GB DDR3 System Memory (2 Dimm)
o 750GB 5400 rpm Hard Drive with HP ProtectSmart Hard Drive Protection
o NO mSSD Hard Drive Acceleration Cache
o 6 Cell Lithium Ion Battery
o 15.6-inch diagonal Full HD Anti-glare LED-backlit Display (1920 x 1080)
o Blu-ray player & SuperMulti DVD burner
o HP TrueVision HD Webcam with integrated dual array digital microphone
o Intel 802.11b/g/n WLAN and Bluetooth(R)
o Backlit Keyboard

I mean, hell! This was the HP Snizzle Version. Yes, you did see that it said 3rd generation Intel Core i7-3630QM Processor. It's essentially the Lamborgini of processors. If last year's computer was a javelin, this is a fucking bottle rocket with a warp drive second stage system, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell the difference. It still had the classic PC lag.

AND with all the bells and whistles it had WINDOWS 8?  Seriously? I paid $4.99 to get rid of Windows 8 just so I could go back to the classic look. Windows 8 Blows!

Sigh.

This is not really my computer,
but it might as well be

But it doesn't matter now.

After my computer froze, I turned it off, and it's never come back on again. It recognizes that it has a problem. It gives me a frowny face like it's being operated by a 12 year old girl and tells me it's going to analyze and correct the disk, but then it hangs fooooooorrrrrrrrreeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeeerrrrrr, or at least six hours before I tried to restart the process again.

I even tried the boot disks, but the computer won't recognize the CD drive. So what are the boot disks good for then, other than to throw out the window next time a sketchy man on a scooter gets too close to our uparmored SUV?

News at Eleven: Soldier Decapitates Taliban Bomber with HP Boot Disk.

As unlikely as it sounds, it could happen. I mean, if this product of the Tennessee education system can publish more than a dozen novels, then seriously! ANYTHING. CAN. HAPPEN.

So what am I to do. I have a novel deadline with Solaris Books that I will not miss. Thankfully, I was using Drop Box, so my work in progress has been saved and is complete. I lost several other stories and articles I'd started and left under documents, but I can live with that. Ha. Listen to me. I can live with that, he says. I have to live with it because I was the douche canoe who didn't save them in Drop Box.

So now here I am in Afghanistan, without a computer, with only a Kindle Fire and an iPhone and all this writing to do. I can't tell you the last time I was anywhere where I didn't have a keyboard and the ability to type something.

Two things are certain:

• I'm going to have a fight on my hands with HP.
• I'm going to need a replacement system sooner than later.

Stay tuned, I suppose, so we can see how I make it out of this mess.

If nothing else, come back for the drama.

Cheers.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan