El Gringoqueño

We recently endured two straight weeks of rain, over 24 inches of constant precipitation from morning, through the afternoon, during the night. It has been tough. I don’t think I’ve endured being inside for so long in a good many years. You get used to being able to go out everyday and do some sort of activity. In Puerto Rico, you get sudden cloud bursts, but in a few minutes that tropical sun mops it up and life goes on.

Monday was my first morning bike ride in over two weeks, and it felt good. My chain had rusted a bit from the humidity. Annoying. You leave your keys a couple of days on the key holder and you get rusty keys. Such is life.

"I’d like a dozen eggs, " I said to Estéban.

"There are none," he replied.

I sighed, drat. No eggs. I got my milk and headed out. It started raining again. Can’t catch a break, can I?

Tuesday rolled around, and it’s a welcome relief, sunny and mild. Ooops, what’s this? Black clouds were rolling in. I headed out in a hurry, hoping to beat the inundation that was sure to come.

"Any eggs today?" I asked.

Estéban chuckled and checked with the guy behind the counter. "Yeah, looks like there’s enough. We can spare a dozen."

I thought to myself. Weird, they’re still short on eggs. Then it hit me. Chickens don’t lay when it’s raining hard. It bothers them. An unhappy chicken is a non-laying chicken. I remembered the last time we were hit with tropical storms, there was a short term egg shortage on the island.

The guy next to me, curious, asked idly how much they were. "How much is a dozen?"

Estéban, got a twinkle in his eye. He chuckled and recounted an incident where a woman asked him that same question.  "’¿Cuanto es una docena?’ she asked me, "Twelve little eggs, I told her. Doce huevitos. You know she got mad? Told me that was more than she had expected."

The whole bakery started rolling. Chuckles went all around, and the mood was genial.

I watched the testimony and questioning of Secretary Rumsfeld today and it became crystal clear to me that his people just dropped his pants. Either he’s not paying attention to what’s going on, or he’s pissing people off who could be his friends. Somebody leaked this investigation. Maybe he wasn’t managing the situation closely enough, and it just "got out", or his people decided that going over his head to the public would embarrass him. Either way it shows a failure of leadership and he’s got to go.

When I was mobilized in Puerto Rico there were numerous problems with the facilities, training, and planning. Even before my unit had gotten there, there were news stories about the conditions, strict restrictions on free time, and severe morale problems. After having had the pleasure of spending a few weeks there, and hearing about soldiers vandalizing toilets and showers, I became convinced it was a failure of leadership. Demming said that 85% of your problems are management and only 15% come from labor. This to me was never clearer when the commander of the brigade showed up one day to "lay down the law" to all of the bad little soldiers who weren’t playing nice. He promptly got back into his car and drove his fat ass home to his cozy house. My point is this: soldiers will endure the harshest conditions, the strictest rules, and the worst possible conditions if they know their leadership cares, is in it with them, and will sacrifice everything for them.

Good officers know soldiers are the ones who fight, are the ones who sacrifice, and are the ones who die. They are the point of the sword. We officers wield it. Would we blame the sword for our pathetic failures? The sword was too heavy. The sword wasn’t sharp enough. The sun was in my eyes. I’ve heard it all, and you know what? It’s a poor officer, Secretary of Defense, or President who blames soldiers for problems.

It should tatooed on the heads of all leaders: "My success is due to this fine sword. These is no equal to it in all the world." and conversely: "My failure is mine alone. I did not do honor to this sword. In more capable hands it would have yielded victory."

The failures in Iraq go all the way to the top. They go all the way to the cowboys in charge, who believe a big sword makes them somebody. It is the unconquerable soul of man, and not nature of the weapon he uses, that ensures victory.

And Secretary Rumsfeld does not understand that the sword HE wields is a human sword. The sword is not made of metal, Apache’s, F-16’s, Strykers, or any other technological "magic bullet." He has forgotten, throughout his rampaging through the defense department, who he works for, who’s the one fighting the war, who’s the one dying. He’s forgotten, pissed off, trampled, belittled, and made a mockery of the entire military.

And they fucked him. They fucked him hard.

Soldier’s will do that to you when you don’t have their respect. Sure, heads will roll for not, "keeping this in-house,", but you can be sure there’s an officer worth his salt staring Rumsfeld down saying, "You can take me down, but I got you, you bastard. I got you!"