(suggested donation $5)

Blood Stripe

By Timothy P. Holmberg 
(Author's Note: This story is being developed to a longer format - version date 8-5-12)

Dedication

Now, I set thee, mine lantern upon the water
To thee, I release the sorrows upon my brow
In thee, I place the poisons swaddled in my flesh
Their furies, I give over to thee, to fuel thy flame
I commit thee to the ocean’s cool womb 
I render thy fate to the winds . . .

When morning’s light paints the dome of the sky
When sun’s rays drive the winds upon the waters
You and I, mine lantern, 
shall know each other no more . . .


I lovingly dedicate this book to my father, 
The wizard, if ever a wizard there was.






Even a year after the county health worker unfolded the paper with my test results, I did not yet fully understand how much three simple letters could turn a life so completely upside down. That one little pin prick on my right middle finger would become a period at the end of a career before I even knew it. There have been many times since, that I wished I could have pulled that drop of blood back into my finger.  That things could just go back to the way they were.  The letter in my hand was the latest betrayal; maybe even the final; I guess that will be up to me. I have peeled the scab off of this wound so many times now, but it still hurts the same - still bleeds the same.

What do I do next? 

Do I unsheathe my sword for one more battle? Do I come about and take fire to the other side? 

The Marine Corps’ motto was Semper Fidelis (Always Faithful). 

“I’ve been faithful to the Marine Corps for nearly 20 years, so now, certainly the Marine Corps will be faithful to me,” I used to think. I dipped my forehead into the cradle of my two hands and exhaled the frustration. But it was no use, there was a fresh batch behind it.

I don’t think I will ever fear HIV as much as I fear what ignorant people can do with it. But then again, why would I have anything to fear from people who told me “Everything is going to be fine. We are there for you.” . . .

November 12, 2009, @ 1621 (MCAS Miramar, VMFAT 101) 
I took a deep breath and swiped my ID through the card scanner.
Click - the mechanical latch released the turnstile, and I pressed through the security gate. I had passed through that gate thousands of times, but now I felt like an outsider as I entered the squadron grounds. I tried not to feel the lump in my throat, or the speeding of my pulse as I strode towards the shop. But each step I took was measured carefully; measured to look ‘normal’; so no one could see any discernible difference. But there was a difference. A microscopic difference that brewed just beneath my skin. A battle that had begun three weeks hence, and only now had revealed itself.

I made my way to the hanger building hatch. A junior co-worker came through just as I reached for the handle – 

“Hey Sergeant”
“Hey, take that test yet?” I volleyed back, without thinking of the irony in my question.

The young Lance Corporal had been dragging his feet for months on taking a qualification test, so I prodded him whenever I saw him. It had become automatic, but it was working. 

“Going right now.” he replied. 

“Hope your results are better than mine,” I thought.

As I entered the shop, I waded through an ocean of green coveralls. It was shift change-over, and so that meant both crews were present. Our shop space was entirely too small to accommodate the 110 people I was responsible to. A chorus of “Hey Sergeant’s” echoed like gunfire as I weaved my way towards the shop’s Admin. Hut. The air permeated with the smell of sweat and stale oil from the departing crew, mixed with cologne and aftershave from the arriving crew.

I was nervous now as I stepped into the hut, I had not rehearsed any of what I had to do. The division chief was distracted with another Sergeant, and our Officer In Charge sat in his chair idle and looking for something to do. 

“Sergeant Holmberg, what can we do for you?” Maj. Williams leaned forward in his chair. 

I swallowed my hesitation and asked him if we could speak in private. He peaked one eyebrow and looked at me for a second before motioning me to the back door. I sought out a spot away from earshot of anyone, and planted myself in the customary position - feet parted by 12”, hands clasped behind my back. I faltered for a second, before I finally said, “I need to speak to the Commanding Officer about a confidential health matter.”

He had not been prepared for that. There were only a small hand full of health matters that required the CO to be notified, and I was clearly not pregnant. Maj. Williams was a smart man, and I could see he had put the sparse pieces I offered together. His eyebrows arched high as his lips mouthed the word “oh”, but no sound came out. “Are you sure?”, this time audible.
“Yes,” I replied. He didn’t need to look in my eyes to see how serious I was. 

I could hear my pulse now in my eardrums. 

There was no guide book for what I was doing, but I knew I needed treatment and answers. The Marine Corps had orders and instructions for everything, and I had found the rare crack to fall into . .

SecNavInst 5300.30D – Management of Human Immuno-Deficiency Virus . . .

The jumble of letters and numbers was appropriate for such a vague and confusing dialectic on how to deal with HIV positive service members. It had the feel of an instruction that was written by people who wanted to say something but were afraid to say it; and so wound up saying nothing at all. Its writers had apparently envisioned that all service members would learn of their HIV status through the military, but I had not. There were some things I simply did not entrust the military with telling me, and this was one. All of the instruction’s procedures spoke of how the Commanding Officer was to inform the service member; who to have present; who was not allowed to know, etc. But I was the one carrying the burden of knowledge, and I needed to find a way to unload it. 

I could have hidden it, but not really. It would have burned me from the inside out. As the saying goes, “You can’t un-explode a bomb.”

I was now trying to figure out how to make my way out of the crack, so their mechanical order could take over. So I could return to the cadence of a preordained path and away from improvising. 

I normally liked to improvise, 
no,
I loved to improvise.
But now, I just wanted to hear a steady drum beat - to plant my heels on the ground in time to the beat and march. It did not even matter where to. Major Williams could see it on my face to. So he marched me up stairs to see if he could help find the cadence I needed. 

He found an empty seat in an unoccupied flight briefing room and planted me there while he did some improvising of his own. For a half an hour, Maj. Williams unsuccessfully plowed the upstairs hallways, looking for the squadron CO. Our frustration was mounting in unison, when he managed to reach the Flight Surgeon by cell phone. His advice was to go home and report to him at the squadron’s medical department tomorrow at 0800 for screenings before we went any further. He wanted us to have confirmation before informing the CO. After all, you can’t un-explode a bomb.

The courage I had been accumulating melted away like a wave that had crested too soon. Maj. Williams dispensed with the administrative gauntlet, “Go home and take care of what you need to,” he said, “I don’t know how I would deal with this if I were in your boots, but I don’t think I would want to be here right now.”

I gritted my teeth to hold in the emotions that were bubbling under my skin. I could not look him in the eyes, and I realized, that was why I needed to take his advice and go home.

As I pushed the hatch open to head to the gate, the young Lance Corporal caught up to me, “I passed Sergeant,” he trumpeted. I shook his hand and quickly maneuvered my eyes away from his glance. I hardly broke stride, and I felt bad about that, but I knew if I lingered more than a second, the gates would fall.

I hopped into my car and shut the door quickly – and then let out a long, slow breath. I sat there watching my second home, not wanting to leave, but not able to stay. It was dusk now and a thick band of cobalt sky was slowly sliding west as the sun marched onward to a new horizon. The half lit faces of the hangar’s buttresses jutted towards the sky like the rib cage of a corpse.  

The lone trumpet began to sound Evening Colors, and I looked off to silhouetted palm trees near the air traffic control tower as I always did. They were bathed in a back drop of fiery orange and crimson. For almost 20 years, the trumpet’s song at sunset had been my private cherished reward at the end of each day. I listened now more intently than ever. 

@ 1900 (Fiddler’s Cove Marina, Slip E-6)
I held up the FOB on my key chain to the marina gate – Click. The sound of the gate latch releasing brought back the day’s events in a rush. The full moon had crested the eastern mountains across the bay, its light was tap dancing on the black stage of the wind wrinkled seas. Everything about this place had always given me solace, and it didn’t fail me now. The brine in the air; gentle breezes; the wafting of the eel grass in the shallows – even the percussion orchestra of riggings taping aluminum masts – I breathed them all in and let them cool the fires that had been lit only a few short hours ago. Pacing each step slowly, I headed to my slip at the far end of the docks. It had been a year since I had bought my boat – my home - and I never regretted it. Over the last year, I had worked diligently to restore her. Rot still ate at some of her planks, but slowly, I was bringing her around. She was a forty six foot, 1965 Chris Craft Constellation, the height of the art of wooden boat building. “We’re now more similar than ever”, I thought as I ascended the boarding ladder steps on the port side, “both restoration projects.” She’d helped me chart a new course in life, so I had named her the Compass Rose. Down the steps into the main salon, down again to the galley and dinette, and then finally down one more set of steps, and I landed in my bed. 

After a few moments of letting the day evaporate from my body, I sat up and looked at my computer. There was still one more thing to do before the day was done. This task would be the hardest. 

So I took a deep breath and drove my fingers down onto my keyboard like the bow of a ship pressing against the seas - there were others that needed to know what I now knew. A host of conversations that need to happen. 

Conversations that began with, “I have something I need to tell you . . . “

(all dialog SIC)

Me: Hey man, need to let u know that I went in for my twice a year test and the result was poz. Very sorry to have to tell you this, but I know I need to tell u so u can get tested. Since u were the top, I am pretty sure that u will b fine, but please let me know ur results.

Friend 1: This is really disturbing. I’m sorry for your result. I’ll get tested tomorrow and let you know the results. When did you last test show negative results?

Me: Last test was about six months ago. I really hope this does not affect you, but please let me know either way.

Friend 1 tested negative.

Friend 2: Wow! That’s probably the last thing I expected to hear. Not sure what to say, how are you doing emotionally?

Me: Ya, last thing I hoped to have to tell you, but I know with ur job it’s important for u to know so u can check. Doing OK right now. I think this is the hardest part. I think living out here on my boat is helping a lot. It’s peaceful here and that helps. Just waiting to see what this is going to mean for my job. Please make sure that you let me know how your test comes out.

Friend 2: of course, still am going to be there with you as a friend. Want to meet up and give you your birthday present. Still have it sitting here, lol.

Me: Ya, should get that to me soon. If not I might have to file a stolen property report. lol.

Friend 2: Lol. Soon then for sure.

Friend 2 tested negative.

Friend 3: Great! You send me this message on World AIDS Day!!! 

No, seriously. I appreciate you letting me know. Of course I am panicking as hell now and I received your e-mail as I arrived into Xxxxxxxx for work and I get back at the weekend, so I cannot check till Monday next week. And it is my Birthday this weekend. But I guess it will teach me a lesson!

So of course you get, it and I complain!

But really, are you OK?

Best regards,

Friend 3 Tested negative.

Friend 4: OMG, ur fuckn kidding me. When? Jesus, I can’t believe I am hearing this. I can’t have this happen. FUCK.

This was the last contact I had with Friend 4.

Eleven recipients later, I closed my burning eyes to extinguish their fire. Pushing the keyboard back, I started to think back; to dissect and sleuth out who I should be saying FUCK to. “Me”, was my answer, as I halted my own inquisition. There was nothing healthy to be gained from finding someone to stand at the other end of my pointed finger. I had done my duty. At the other end of one of those messages was someone who could no longer live in denial, if they ever had. 

November 13, 2009 @ 0730 (MCAS Miramar, VMFAT 101)
I swiped my card and waited patiently for the Click. The emotions that bubbled last night had numbed all my nerves, and I felt a strange calm as I pushed through the gate. The sun’s rays had just crested the foot hills that skirted the base’s eastern edge. I was never a morning person, but I loved the stillness of the flight line in the morning. Off in the distance I could see the bobbing heads of our squadron’s maintenance department as they walked the far end of the flight line looking for debris. My timing was perfect, I though. No one would be in the halls and corridors. No excuses to make for why I was there during day shift. I ducked into the bathroom and rounded the corner to my locker.

“Morning Sergeant, what are you doing here during day shift?”
Petty Officer Jones was habitually late.
“Doctors appointment,” I blurted without thinking. I could feel my cheeks starting to glow.
“Heart giving out on you? You know you’re getting older now Sergeant, gotta take care of yourself more.”
He patted me on the shoulder as he headed out the door. I’d first enlisted in 1990 and was now pushing 40, thus I had the uncomfortable distinction of being as old if not older than most of the senior enlisted. I had earned the unofficial title of Grand Old Sergeant of the Marine Corps.

I retrieved my shaving gear from my locker and lathered my morning stubble. On the last few razor strokes I felt the bite of the blade . . . “Shit! . . . Fuck!” The red trail began to weave down the underside of my chin and onto my neck. Within that stream of bright red, swam thousands of liberated invaders. I quickly dashed for the nearest stall - “typical” I shouted. No toilet paper. Finally in the fifth stall I found my salvation from disaster. I wadded eight feet of toilet paper in my hand and pressed it against my chin. After five minutes of compressing the paper against my chin, I peeked underneath to see if the torrent had subsided. In two seconds, blood jumped from the wound and retraced its path down my chin. “Shit!”

Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead, as I turned the wad of toilet paper to a fresh side. I realized any moment now the bathroom would be full of maintenance personnel all relieving themselves of their morning coffee. I dropped the blood stained wad and quickly threw on my uniform. As I retrieved the wad and repositioned it on my chin, the Maintenance Chief walked in. I quickly greeted him and offered, “running late for a medical appointment,” before he could ask what I was doing there. 

He waved me on, and I dodged out the door.

Ascending the last step to the hangar’s second floor, I rounded the corner to head to medical.

Great! No line. 

As I entered medical, three faces looked up from their work to asses me. Corpsman Rodriguez was the first to query, “So what brings you up here?” I explained that I was supposed to be meeting with the flight surgeon at 0800.

“He’s not here this morning”
“Ah, well, we had an appointment so . . .”
“What is it that you need? Maybe I can take care of it.”
Hmmm, this was getting more difficult by the minute, “Can we speak in private?”
“Sure,” he motioned to the hallway.
Once we were out of earshot, I explained, “I am here for an HIV screening.”
“But you’re not due.”
“But I am supposed to get one.”
“I just screened your record, and you are not due for another year”
This time I flattened my eyebrows and said quietly through clenched teeth,
“But I neeeed to get screeened”
“Oh, okay” I could see the revelation unfolding in his eyes.

After a few short key strokes he informed me that I was set, and that the Flight Surgeon would be in at 1000. “Well, at least the bleeding would stop by then,” I thought.

On the way to the parking lot, I fished my iPhone from my pocket to check for the email I knew would be coming:

Email from Friend 5: OMG, when?

Me: Yesterday

Friend 5: Ok, man, now I’m nervous. Am trying to remember if you came inside?

Me: No, so hopefully this does not affect you, but you should get tested. I went to the county health clinic. They have free testing there during the week. Anonymous. I can go with you if you need, or Google them for directions.

We had used what I now refer to as the ‘Catholic method’ of prevention (pulling out). Stupid, yes. We were both in the military, and as many gays in the military do, we assumed we were less of a risk since we get tested regularly. I had run out of condoms, and offered that we could just do oral, but that quickly morphed into, just the tip, and then, well, you get it.

Friend 5: Are you sure? Did they confirm it?

Me: I go in for that today, but 99.998%

Friend 5: What’s going to happen at your job? Are they going to kick you out?

Me: No, just read the [instruction] and I’m supposed to be able to continue on, but no one seems to know exactly. I’ve heard different stories. Really frustrating.

Friend 5: really nervous man. I really can’t have this happen to me. Call me xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Me (texting): I know the feeling, but I just tell myself that when I go to get tested that you don’t get infected at the office, they just tell you what the deal is, and it’s better to know. Please make sure you let me know how it turns out.

Friend 5: will text you when I get the results

It was now just shy of 1000, so I headed back up to medical. The flight surgeon was waiting at his desk, and pointed me towards the empty seat, “What can I do for your Sergeant?”
I was confused. “I was told to come see you this morning about the health matter Maj. Williams told you about yesterday.”
“He did not say what it was, so what is it that you need help with?”
I could sense a game of some kind, so I cut to the chase, “I need to talk to you confidentially . . .”
He immediately stood up and said, “everyone OUT!”

I looked down for a moment, this was exactly the kind of scene I had hoped to avoid. Now everyone would be standing in the hall way nattering about what I could possibly need to talk confidentially with the flight surgeon about.
The rumors about me had reached most ears in the squadron within the first few weeks of my arrival. It was not hard - 40 year old Sergeant, never been married, and never talks about tits or weekend sex romps at the strip club from days of yore. For the final nail in the sexuality coffin, I had an expansive vocabulary and was an unashamed democrat. In Marine Corps math, that meant HOMO. Now, as I sat in his evacuated office, I could take on the gay scarlet letter and make it certain. In military jargon, we called it “The hiv”.

Once the door closed, I began, “I went to the county health clinic yester . . . “

Someone opened the door to the office evoking an immediate “OUT!” from the flight surgeon. I continued, “I went to the health clinic yesterday and was tested for HIV. The test was positive.” I could tell by the look on his face he already knew what I was going to say. “Why the game?” I wondered.

“I scheduled an HIV test with Corpsman Rodriguez this morning,” I offered in order to break the silence.
“Those are not the tests that you need . . .” the door cut him off again. “OUT!”
“May I lock the door sir,” I politely queried.

That afternoon, I made my way to Balboa Naval Hospital. In an hour, they had their tubes of my blood and the irreversible process was now underway. “If I’d only had those vials this morning I could have saved them the trouble,” I mused.

I sat at home waiting for the call to confirm what I already knew. On my boat, everything seemed so distant; the military; the doctors; HIV. I sat back in the lounge chair and tried to let my mind float with the tide. At 1600, I decided my mind had floated enough, and so I called the flight surgeon for the results. It was not that I held any slim hope for a negative result, I just wanted to finally get on with it. I wanted to replace some of the question marks in my head with facts and information, I wanted to know what was going to happen to my career; my health; my future.

The test result was easy enough to get - Reactive (positive). But the other answers were much more elusive. The more I learned, the more I realized that I would not find the kind of clarity I had hoped for.

November 14, 2009 @ 0600 (MCAS Miramar, VMFAT 101 Hangar Deck)
I nodded to the Corporal between sips of coffee. He straightened to a board and opened his throat wide to clear the way for the call to attention - “Ahyaah-tehn-Shon!” The effort was there, but he still had a hint of self-consciousness that caused the diaphragm to sputter the last third of the call. The platoon dragged their left feet to meet their right with a disjointed, grazing hiss; but no pop as the heels met. I had always been the exception to the air-wing rules when it came to military bearing and courtesies. I found no excuse or reason in what we were doing to allow ourselves to look like slop. But my coffee had not kicked in yet and I still had not adjusted to being abruptly placed back on the day shift. I watched in resigned disgust as the shop platoon continued to grow by the moment as late stragglers sheepishly tucked themselves in at the back of the formation. 

When I first arrived at the shop a year and a half ago, I was dumbstruck at what an unmitigated mess it was. Myself, and a handful of Sergeants were charged with managing 110 personnel while the senior shop managers went off to surf or play golf. Legions of student pilots filed through our squadron’s doors on their way to the fleet, all of them relying on us to keep the F-18’s they flew in the air. With aircraft that were pushing 20 or more years of service, that was no small task for any crew. But when I arrived, most of our shop personnel could not even carry out basic maintenance tasks like servicing engine oil properly. I had tried to convince a fellow Marine Reservist to come to the shop and help sort it out. He left after two weeks and told me if I were smart I would do the same. “They are going to have an accident, and I don’t want to be here for it.” His words were sadly prophetic. Within two months of him saying that, squadron aircraft 253 flew into a house at the end of the runway. Four people died including a grandmother and an infant.

My response to that tragedy was to jump in with both hands and try mightily to lift the shop out of its funk. I volunteered for active duty, leaving behind an easy civilian job only three hangars down from the squadron. I rebuilt the engines the squadron was breaking, and I naively thought that I could use my skills to make a difference.

Now almost a year into my effort, I felt that we had made some real strides, but I knew our shop’s change for the better was still fragile and perishable.

I half listened as the Corporal called out the names on our roster. The Sergeant who was normally running day crew poked his head out of the door to see if anyone noticed his absence. I rolled my eyes and went back to my half listening. 

My sudden reshuffle to day crew meant that I was not incorporated into the machinery yet, so I took the opportunity to take care of a couple nagging administrative errands I needed to catch up on. I grabbed a tuition assistance form I had been trying to get approved and went to the adjutant’s office (CO’s secretary). The adjutant was not in yet, of course, and I was about to turn to head back down stairs when the CO walked in.

“What do you need?” he inquired.
“I was just looking for the adjutant to get a signature on this form sir,” I responded.
“Well, since he is my secretary, I suppose my signature ought to work just as well,” his dry wit was something I could readily appreciate. I followed him into his office and waited patiently as he skimmed the document. A quick scrawl, and he handed it back to me. I thanked him and prepared to execute the proper military departure, but he stopped me short.
“Go ahead and close the door and take a seat Sergeant Holmberg,”
I drew a deep breath and took the pressure off of both of us, “So, you heard already.”
“Yes, I spoke with the flight surgeon yesterday.”
Colonel Woods was a soft spoken man, but very thoughtful and measured in his words and actions. He had taken the helm of our faltering squadron in the aftermath of the accident. Sergeants don’t have relationships with commanding officers. But somehow, in our interactions on the flight line, I had sensed from him an appreciation for the work I was doing at the unit. He did not put up with pretenses or lofty bull shit. He wanted action, loyalty, and caring - and he gave them in return.
“Things are going to be alright,” he started, “I know right now, that seems hard to visualize, but you’re going to get the care you need. We’re going to be there for you to help you get through this,” his words were genuine, but they were not foremost on my mind. I still needed some sense of what my future was going to be, “I’m hoping to be able to extend my orders and continue here once I get through evaluations with medical.”

“Well, your service to the squadron has been outstanding from what I have seen and heard, so I have not problem with that. But I’m still not sure what the requirements are in your case since you’re reserve component,” he said as he flipped through the instruction. I knew he was not just patting me on my back to make me feel better.
I was due to stand down off of active duty in a month and a half, and this was the point at which I needed to request an extension. Col. Woods assured me that he would check into the situation, and I had no choice but to accept that my fate was not in either of our hands.

December 2, 2009 @ 1631 (MCAS Miramar, VMFAT 101 Smoke Pit)
I walked over to the awning that covered the smoking section. I was not a smoker, but it was the only place outside of the hangar you could sit down and get away from the din. I scanned the dense crowd for a seat, but since shift change-over had just concluded, the area was a swarm of puffing, cackling green hens. 

Yes, I said hens, and I meant it. 

Whining, complaining, gossiping hens. If any country ever wanted to spy on us, all they would have to do is build a smoking area, hand out cigarettes and invite Marines to take a break. Of course, I only went there out of sense of duty. I felt it was important to keep a finger on the pulse of the squadron rumor mill, especially since I imagined I’d become a significant topic of late. 

“Hey Sergeant!,” PFC Roswell darted up from one of the benches and pointed to the empty spot next to him. I quickly slid into the empty seat. In the center of the table, the cigarette butt can was already smoking like a Catholic incense challis. Roswell held his cigarette pack up towards me.

“No thanks,” I said, “don’t smoke”

“Then why do you come over here?”

“Why should I pay for cigarettes, when I can get all of your smoke for free?” I looked down at his collar 

and noticed that he had gained a rank. “Wait, when did you get promoted?”

“Pinned it on yesterday,” his smile stretched the acne on his face, “where were you?”

“Medical appointment”

“The old heart giving out on you?”

I half-masted one eyebrow, “I still have a better run time than you as I recall. Must be the cigarettes.”

Roswell was a 19 year old compact bundle of energy and dedication. I had taken an early interest in him when he arrived at the shop. I saw in him the dedication and desire to learn and lead, and I didn’t want the cynicism and dysfunction in our shop slowly rust those qualities from him. He consumed technical manuals for lunch, and quickly raced past his peers in qualifications - and I was only to happy to feed his fire. I needed Marines like him. Marines I could point to and show the beaten, dejected lethargic masses in our shop what they could do if they would just try once more. But Roswell too had stumbled six months ago. He had been ditched by the girl he’d been seeing, and started to spiral out of control. A drink here and there started turning into a few more. I saw the subtle changes in him, and picked up bits and pieces from the smoke pit rumor mill. One night, I sat in the smoke pit after our shift had ended and a hand full of late stays were just wrapping up. One of Roswell’s shop mates sat down and told me that he’d gone with Roswell to a bar. That Roswell had managed to drive on base drunk without getting caught. 

My blood boiled over. I drove to the barracks, went straight up to his room and pounded on his door. Roswell answered the door in nothing but underwear, still swaying with sleep. 

“Get dressed and meet me at the bottom of the steps in five minutes,” I barked. 

“Wha-what’s wrong Sergeant?”

“Just do it!” I stepped off before he could respond and went down stairs to wait.

Three minutes later, Roswell descended the steps and stood at attention in front of me. I had him turn to face the steps he had just come down. Long ago, some Marine who had screwed up was punished by someone like me, and was made to paint the Marine Corps’ 14 leadership traits on the face of each step. They were faded now, but still legible, much like the real traits existed in the Marine Corps. I instructed him to face the steps and ascend them while reading each of the traits aloud. He looked confused, but before he could question me, I shouted, “Move!”

At the first step, “Justice”

“Louder!”

The second step, “Judgment”

“I-can’t-hear you!”

Third step, “Dependability!”

Fourth, “Initiative!”

Fifth, “decisiveness!”

“Tact!, Integrity!, Enthusiasm!, Bearing!, Unselfishness!, Courage!, Knowledge!, Loyalty!, Endurance!”

He turned to face me. His eyes were a mix of confusion and nervousness. 

“Now get back down here!”

He stood in front of me at attention again.

“Now, tell me, which one of those traits were you exhibiting when you went out and drank the other night?!!” Before he could answer I chased it with another, “Which one of those traits were you exercising when you drove under the influence?!!!” he stood there like Jesus on the cross. There was no way to duck and he knew it; he was square in my cross hairs.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, as his eyes drifted to the floor.

“It’s not what I am going to do, it’s what you are going to do that you should be concerned with.” 

“You are going to figure out how to make those,” I pointed to the steps, 

“live in here,” I pointed to his chest. “More than that, you are going figure out how to make me believe that they live in you. Because, if I so much as see you twitch in the wrong way, I will personally take that stripe off of your collars.”

I was already five paces to my car when his “yes Sergeant” followed me. 

As I looked now at the new rank on Roswell’s collar, I could see that the traits were brighter in him than they were on those barracks steps. As the cackling at the table went on, my mind drifted back to the barracks steps. I read each one of the traits back to myself. I turned the question I’d posed to Roswell on me. Which of those traits was I exhibiting when I got infected? I had succumbed to becoming a statistic, and I was sickened by it.

I slowly ascended the 14 indictments.  

I had failed Roswell, the shop, and myself. In a few short weeks, I would leave the shop, and they would be on their own.  

I got up and patted Roswell on the shoulder, “Congrats man, keep it up.”

“Thanks Sergeant, you were part of it.”

December 2, 1989 @ 1100 (Marine Corps Recruiting Station El Toro)
GySgt Flynn spoke over the hand clamped phone receiver, “Hey Tim, I’ll be with you in a sec,” before resuming his conversation. I took up the seat next to his desk and listened as he delivered his pitch to another potential recruit. The words were arranged slightly different from when he’d pitched me. His inflection was towards a different matrix of wants; matched to the person on the other end. “Sell the sizzle, not the steak,” is the axiom of treadmill sales.

The vision of you in dress blues

How proud your family and friends will be of you

The chance to prove of your metal by being a Marine

Defender of the freedom

Standard bearer of what is good in our country

Appeals to pride, vanity, patriotism, adrenaline and even promiscuity. GySgt’s pitch to me focused on career, education benefits and the opportunity to clad myself in the spit shined armor and discipline of a Marine. I had already committed myself to my decision, and GySgt Flynn knew it. So he continued his persuasive efforts with the caller. The prospect was getting cold feet and had called for reassurance - a sprout of wheat nearly ready for the harvest. But he was still swaying in conflicting breezes – parents, girlfriend, self-doubt.  The lines on Gunny Flyn’s forehead softened, and I knew he was confident that he’d set his spout up for harvester’s.  He quickly wrapped it up so he could process the harvested sprout sitting next to him.

“Okay Tim, you ready to sign your life away?” 

The last time I’d heard that phrase was at the car dealership when I bought my truck a year ago. But he meant it for real. The confidence in his voice sprang from a chest that jutted with self-assurance, and a square cut jaw that demanded success. He knew himself, but more importantly to me - he had mastered himself. I wanted that. I’d been adrift and trained to accept mediocrity by my father. Sure, my father was well intentioned enough – he just wanted to spare me from failure by setting me to climb small mounds. But I wanted to conquer hills and mountains. When I realized he did not think I was capable of such feats, it cut flesh from my bones.  I’d vanquished my father from my life for that and many other things, and now, by joining the Marine Corps,  I would drive a stake through his training. 

A five year lease on a human being, me, with an option for another three years if the shit it the fan. The firm weight of my decision pressed on my chest as I exhaled, but I’d already made the decision – there were conflicting winds to blow me to and fro. My father was a distant relic in my life, and his disagreement would only have firmed my resolve. My mother had relinquished her influence when she (a    




December 7, 2009 @ 0730 (Balboa Naval Hospital, Building 2)

The elevator doors slid open to the second floor. I held my hand against the door and waited patiently as the elderly woman in front of me dragged her IV bag stand and exited. The hallway to my destination was a long bank of windows that stretched the length of a foot ball field. At the end, with a half turn to the left, you arrived at 2 West. This was the code word for the Infectious Disease Clinic. Since the dawn of HIV, the clinic’s discrete location allowed its visitors to slip in and out with little notice. There were hundreds of thousands of infectious diseases, but the fact that the clinic became so completely identified with HIV spoke volumes about the military’s view of the disease and those who had it. 




Being at the Naval Hospital was a bit like being at Disneyland, in that the place could not run without gay people. The dichotomy of so many gay service members serving so openly in a military setting was glaring, but no commander dared challenge the entrenched gay mafia there. Thus the hospital had come to be known as the Pink Palace.




Petty Officer Rice sat at his station rolling his eyes as he listened to the caller on the other end of the line. I stood patiently and waited for him to finish so he could take my vitals. My life had become a jumble of numbers and percentages – Viral loads, T-Cell Counts, CD-4 to CD-8 percentages, Liver Function, Enzymes, Cholesterol  . . . Tube after tube yielded numbers and figures that documented the battle within. 




Rice hung up the phone and escorted me to the screening room, “Sergeant Holmberg, nice to see you again. I’ve been saving the 18 gauge needle for your blood draw.” I had no doubt he meant it. 

“Very thoughtful of you, but I think I am ready to step up to the 19 gauge now.”

“You Marines are always such size queens,” obvious, but entertaining banter.

“Oh, but I’m a virgin,” I demurred.

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here, now would you Sergeant,” ouch. Bastard. We both started laughing. Rice scribbled the numbers in my fattening medical folder and motioned me to the seats in the waiting room. The walls were covered with various illustrations of viral replication cycles, pill charts, invitations to medical studies and the like. I often observed the awkward reaction of patients who came in for some other infectious disease screening. They would skim over the posters out of boredom until suddenly they realized that the poster was an HIV education poster. Immediately they would step back, as if by being too close to the poster, it might infect them. Of course the truth was much simpler. Their tell tale glances around the room to see if anyone noticed them looking at the poster gave them away. They just didn’t want anyone to think they had IT.




Today, I was scheduled to see the social worker for an assessment of my mental state. We had spoken several times, and though I rarely ever sought counseling for anything, I couldn’t deny the importance of our visits. As if on cue, I looked up to see him poke his head out of his office and wave for me to come in.




“So, how are you doing today?” he initiated.

“Better I guess. I still don’t have any of the answers I have been looking for as far as my career. I met with the new CO.”

“And?” 

“Well, it’s hard to say. He just sat there silently most of the time and listened while my old CO talked. Had his arms folded, just kind of glaring at me. Since I’m a reservist, no one really seems to know anything. I have read the instruction five times myself and can’t make much sense of it. I finally got a hold of base legal, and they said yes, sure I can keep on active duty as long as there is a billet for me.” 

“That sounds promising.”

“Sure, but at this point the window has gone by to extend. So now I have to go through the whole process of applying for orders again. I just have a bad feeling that somehow, it’s not going to work out,” I paused to let the feeling of a lightened load set in.

“So you’re facing a pretty big adjustment coming up?”

“Ya, I can definitely feel the broom at my back, sweeping me on my way. Not at all what I’d planned on.”

“But you are planning?”

I nodded, “I went by my civilian job yesterday,” I shifted my weight and grabbed a chocolate from the candy bowl, “It felt strange going back. I wasn’t talking to my old supervisor for five minutes when one of the guys came in and said, ‘hey, why you so serious? You look like u just got diagnosed with The hiv.’ I had to grab a hold of myself and just laugh it off.”

“Wow, how did you manage.”

“I honestly don’t know. I just reached for the switch that said laugh.”

“hmmh, ya . . . I don’t know that most people would have maintained their composure that well . . (long pause) . So, we’ve talked about your professional life, but not what is going on in your personal life. How do you feel you’re adjusting there? Any relationships or other developments that have been on your mind?”

In our first meeting, he had made it clear that in spite of the military setting, our conversations were completely confidential, and that included issues of sexuality. As if to emphasize the point, he had taped a gay rights sticker to his computer monitor. His professional mission relied on full and candid discussion. Candidness that was completely incongruent with the military’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. As a doctor, he chose his professional mission over the military policy, and he was not afraid to press that point with anyone who questioned him.

“I met someone the other night, and I don’t quite know how to say this, but, for the first time in my life, I had sex, and HIV was not in the room.”

“Hmmh, how do you mean?”

“As a gay man, every time I have ever had sex, there was the fear of HIV; the worry about if I could get it orally; or would the condom break; or had something somehow gone wrong and I had gotten infected; or would that ‘slip-up’ when I was drunk be the one that finally got me.” I set the chocolate back in the candy bowl, “Last night, for the first time ever, I could just be in the moment, just experience the act for what it is, without fear, or guilt or angst. I realized, I have never had that until now.” I could see the question forming before he asked it, “We were both positive – I know, I know, we should still use them.“

He nodded as I continued, “in a sense, it was like I had sex for the first time. I have spent so much time beating myself up for this, and this was the first time since I was diagnosed that I actually felt like I was starting to live again.”

“Wow,” he paused for reflection, “that’s important too, because at some point, you do have to start living again. Functioning and carrying on with life. It sounds like you are on your way to putting things back together for yourself. Good.”

I looked up and saw that our time was nearly finished. He rattled off a few obligatory questions – was I depressed; had I had any thoughts of hurting myself; what was my outlook, etc.  When he finished, we both stood up and shook hands. I retrieved the chocolate from the candy bowl and popped it in my mouth as I walked out.




Next up was group session, so I went to stretch my legs before we convened . . .




(2 West conference room)

David shut the door to the conference room, and I could see the change immediately on all our faces. I let my eyes drift around the room; we were the faces of HIV in the military. In this room was the newest crop of the growing ranks of silent converts. A viral Knights Templar, obliged never to unfurl our red cross lest we offend the masses. 

David sat next to me and began, “So, you’ve heard a lot from us about what HIV is, how it works, how we can stop it, what you need to do to manage it and keep it from spreading. But now, it’s your turn. Now you get to tell each other what it has been like to live with HIV, what has been on your mind. Nobody has all the answers, but usually, in sharing these experiences, we find some answers, and some comfort in knowing that we are not alone in our experiences. Everything that is said in this room, stays in this room.” David waited for all of us to make eye contact and consent,” Ok then, I am going to start it off to my right and we will work our way around.”

(I would share these conversations here, but I to looked David in the eyes and consented, and I am not the kind to break such an oath. But I will share what I felt, and thought, and what I took away from that meeting.)

Our group was composed of some members who had been diagnosed for years. The new among us looked to them for assurance that we had futures, careers, and healthy years ahead of us. They were our canaries in the coal mine. But no covenant of secrecy could coax our Knights to lower their shields fully. So all the Marines remained straight. Their infections came from the more righteous fling with a hooker or drunk night at the tattoo parlor. I could criticize them for draping camouflage around their infections, but I hadn’t done much better. At least I spared myself the indignity feigning a marriage. Half way around the table, one of us finally lowered his shield a bit – he showed the wounds of his flagellation. I had the same wounds. But seeing him across from me, listening as he lifted crusted-over bandages of shame and regret, something in me shifted. Deep within me, a spark caught something on fire . . .




So much effort to be better, just to wind up falling on my fuckn sword. Just another contagion in their Marine Corps – 

Bull shit! Get real Tim, you’re just upset because you can’t be that perfect gay Marine that shows the bigots how wrong they are. You’re upset cause they can use you as another number in their statistics . . . well guess what - we are all a number in some statistic, and not one of them makes any of those fuckn bigots right! There is no perfect Marine, not the Commandant, not the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps . . . what the fuck, you think those drunks that started this Corps in Tunn’s Tavern were perfect? Right, the hell they were. They’re all as imperfect as you - just humans with a calling to serve their ideals; to do more; to be more than the sum of their weaknesses. – 

You don’t get it, do you? They don’t want me, I’m damaged goods now – 

You know what’s going to fuck with your mind Tim? At some point here, you’re going to wake up and realize that you are exactly the same Marine you were the day before you got diagnosed. Ya. And if they don’t see that, then they are the ones that have failed your squadron and the Marines in your shop. Not you! That jet crashed because of them, not you.  You spent the last ten months salvaging their mess. 

Ten months of sprinting across five flight lines to keep their bloated flight schedule rollin; ten months of plowin through every syllabus and qualification you could get; of covering for a bunch of derelict retirees-in-waiting. But go ahead, whip the flesh till it peels off your back; do the bigots work for them man. Why make them break a sweat?

But if you’ve had enough of this self pity bullshit, than let’s stop commiserating with the bigots and get back to leading Marines, huh, how bout some of that?

Don’t you see the failure here? It’s The hiv, not just the flu or a cold.

The hiv – you hate that term. You know why you use it? Because you believe like they do. You believe that the virus inside you is something more than just a strip of genetic code seeking to perpetuate itself. And if you don’t stop believing that, you will be as senseless as that virus - perpetuating bullshit – until the world around you stinks with bigot’s dung. 

So you tripped on the steps, everyone trips on the steps sometimes, but they don’t stop climbing because of it. Here’s a couple leadership traits that were not on those steps: compassion, understanding, brotherhood, decency, humanity . . . Why don’t you see how well that new CO of yours climbs those steps. Because if he is the kind of leader that you deserve, then he will fly up them . . .

“Sgt Holmberg, it’s your turn.” The look on David’s face confirmed that he’d already repeated himself once unsuccessfully. 




Gathering myself, I ventured a much more modest step than I’d just taken in my head, “I think it’s sad that it’s necessary for discussions like this to be kept in these walls. Because the people outside this room really need to understand what we know.”




That was as close as I got to rocking anyone’s apple cart. I avoided any real discussions - like the one in the counselor’s office only an hour ago. Though I’d won my own battle over shame, I’d yet to vanquish fear.




The conversation I had was pedantic . . . to us. 




But to the military outside our room, whose view of HIV was still rooted in the early 90’s, our discussion was vital to the evolution of their views. To them, HIV is a deadly killer and a plague for those who are morally flawed. But to us in the room, we knew a deeper truth – that the fear HIV inspires is rooted somewhere in an unimpeachable realization, though unspoken, that we all are morally flawed.  We also knew that HIV had evolved, or rather the treatment of it had evolved. Sure there was no cure, but there was the ability to shackle and bind it within each of us – to render it if not harmless, at least benign. But this was a toxic realization. One that health care professionals and epidemiologists were unlikely to shout from roof tops. 




They needed HIV to remain alive in people’s minds as it was. Like Osama Bin Laden, a figure head of fear; the boogie man under all our beds. And how could I argue against that? 




It seemed a vicious Mobius loop though. 




For those of us in the military who live with HIV to be accepted by our peers rather than feared and reviled, ignorance had to be slain. But to slay ignorance now could remove one of the few weapons the military was willing to avail itself to prevent HIV - fear. And yet, what if those of us in the room could replace fear with something more potent? 




To adapt a phrase from Act-Up, Silence no longer = Death, but it did = more infections. 




The military in general, and the Marine Corps in specific, had yet to reach the realization that the fear and silence that formed the basis of their prevention was leaving them vulnerable. Fear and policy gagged those of us who could be a useful in their prevention efforts, but for those at risk fear was melting like fog in the morning sun. How long would it be before the military would send forth their Knights? Instead of leaving them locked in silent monasteries in 2 West? 




Or was I being naïve and idealistic? Even if DADT were to fall, and gays could serve openly. Who among us would show our scarlet letter? We didn’t even have that courage in a room of our peers, under an oath of confidentiality. So, in our stead, silence ruled the day - the three monkeys were conducting the military’s prevention. Hear no; See no; Speak no . . .








































December 29, 2009 – @ 1030 (MCAS Miramar, Dental Clinic) 

I sat in the examination chair regarding the dental decay cycle posters. They had a certain insidious similarity to the HIV posters in 2 West.  The multi colored posters made the invader look like some kind of benign cartoon. The disease process was described in such emotionless terms; no mention of human impact of the invader’s quest for reproduction. Just unlock the cell’s receptor key, plant some RNA, a little nipping and tucking of DNA, throw on a nice new protein shell, and off the fresh little virus goes . . . 

“Good morning Sergeant, what are we doing for you today?” The Captain had a perky tone in her voice as she came around the side of the chair. 

“Cavity is threatening to ruin my smile ma’am.”

“We can’t have that, now can we.” 

“No ma’am. Too many hearts would be broken.”

“Nice,” laughs, “everything correct in your record, any allergies?”

No, ma’am,” I braced myself and pushed forth the statement I had been practicing in my head, “I am HIV positive though. Not sure if that is in the records yet.”

Without hesitation, “Yes, I noticed, but thank you for letting me know.” She placed her hand on my shoulder to reaffirm there was no issue as she positioned the light on my mouth. I breathed a sigh of relief. 







@ 2000 (Fiddler’s Cove Marina, Slip E-6)

I unpacked the bag of medications that had been sitting on the dinette table since I got home. Three bottles each of the three meds my doctor and I had agreed on.  I laid my first dose on the cutting board and looked at them for a moment. 

One white pill, 

one light blue, 

and one blue and red gel cap. 




Reyataz, Norvir, Viread – 

“where do they come up with these names?” I thought as I sifted them with my finger,  “Rayataz? Really?” The medications I was fingering were bought with many lives; some I knew. The sacrifices of the cast off, the rejected and the scorned had finally managed to transform a death sentence into an ellipsis. Now, I could turn my very cells into a prison – a vault from which the virus could neither project outward, nor wreak havoc inward. Within weeks of this dose, the carnage of millions of slaughtered virus and white blood cells would subside. The battle field of my blood would once again turn placid and benign. But there was no medication that could imprison other people’s fear or prejudice. Only knowledge could cure ignorance, and that medication is often in short supply. The vision of my new commanding officer came into my mind. His arms folded, his back pressed deeply into the fold of his chair, legs jutting straight out. And the eyes, the glaring eyes perched under flattened brows. Silent, all the while silent, but projecting something deep, some deafeningly silent . . . 

“Christ . . .” cough, “man,” my eyes quickly teared over.

A quick couple gulps of soy milk dispatched the last pill. I looked down at my cat, Friday. I had found her in a box of PVC pipe at the marina’s trash cans, screaming her last desperate cries for help. She was probably only seven weeks old, maybe less. She weighed less than the fluff she liked to pull from the tear in my blanket. It took me only a few moments to name her. We were both castaways, so she was my cat Friday, and I was her Robinson Crusoe. As fate would have it, she was a Russian Blue, the only cat capable of contracting HIV from humans. “Better hope these work Friday, otherwise daddy might give you The hiv,” she cocked her head to the side and then rocketed across the salon and down the steps to the master stateroom. 













































































































Emailed correspondence to VMFAT 101 Maintenance Chief

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Date: January 06, 2010 @ 0926

From: [email protected]

To: MGySgt, Stintsman, VMFAT 101 Maintenance Chief

Subj: Mobilization Justification




Good morning MGySgt,

I am working on submitting for new orders through the Reserve Support Unit (RSU) and the request includes a section for justification. I wrote some language, but wanted to check with you to see if you had any guidance on this. 




The form outlines the criteria for the justification letter as detailing what my role with the unit would be, and how that will further the squadron’s mission to support the Global War On Terror (GWOT). It also suggests describing any deficiencies that I will be expected to fill. 




The following is what I have so far:







<<start>>

VMFAT 101 provides crucial support to the Global War On Terror (GWOT) by providing trained pilots to the Fleet Marine Forces (FMF). This effort requires mission capable aircraft and a crucial need for trained 6217 (jet engine mechanics/flight line mechanics) in support of that effort. The Powerline Division (6217) is currently understaffed for both E5 (Sergeant) and E6 (Staff Sergeant) billets. Mobilized Reserve Marines will be able to provide extensive skills and leadership required by the division to function effectively and meet requirements for mission capable aircraft and aircrew training.

<<end>>

I appreciate your feedback, and am looking forward to returning to the squadron soon.




Respectfully,




Sgt Holmberg




_____________________________________________________________________________________

Date: January 08, 2010 @ 1555

From: MGySgt, Stintsman, VMFAT 101 Maintenance Chief

To: [email protected]

Subj: Mobilization Justification




Below is the amended file. 




Justification for Mobilization Request:




VMFAT 101 provides crucial support to the GWOT by providing trained F/A-18 aircrew to the operating forces. In order to meet the ever growing demands to produce trained aircrew, VMFAT 101 will simultaneously increase the number of assigned aircraft and the number of scheduled flight hours flown to achieve this goal. These increases will require a larger, more competently trained core of 6217 Power Plants and Flight Line mechanics in support of that effort. The VMFAT 101 Powerline Division (6217) is currently understaffed for Sergeant billets by two personnel with no inbound personnel scheduled. These Sergeants are the leaders of Marines on the line and are required to help further train the vast amount of young Lance Corporals and below the Fleet Replacement Squadrons train annually. Mobilized Reserve Marines will be able to provide extensive skills and leadership required by the division to function effectively and meet the ever increasing requirements for mission capable aircraft, aircrew training, and ground crew training.
























































































Email correspondence from the base separations department:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Date: January 14, 2010 @ 1432

From: jennifer.garcia@IPACseparations. usmc.mil

To: [email protected]

Subj: Final Pay Status

Sgt. Holmberg,




I spoke with the separations branch division chief, and he confirmed that we will not be able to process your final pay settlement until we receive a complete copy of your separations physical signed by your doctor. We are not able to accept a letter from your doctor indicating that you are qualified for separation, in lieu of an actual physical.




Please forward the completed physical as soon as possible to IPAC separations so that we can get you paid.




Respectfully,




LCpl Garcia




_____________________________________________________________________________________

Date: January 14, 2010 @ 1530

From: [email protected]

To: jennifer.garcia@IPACseparations. usmc.mil

Subj: Re: Final Pay Status




LCpl Garcia,




My separations physical was handled through Balboa Naval Hospital, and contains confidential medical information that neither they, nor I are authorized to disclose. I have obtained a letter from them that confirms the physical was conducted and that I am qualified to separate from active duty.


The last pay that I received was on December 15, 2009. According to our previous conversations, even if this were resolved this week, I would not be able to get paid until the first week of February. I am really in a difficult situation here, and have bills piling up, and no money to pay them with. I am not sure how we resolve this situation, but one way or another, I need to get paid. I would be happy to come in and discuss this with your division head, but I am not authorized to disclose any information other than what is in the letter I received from my doctor.




Respectfully,




Sgt Holmberg




April 15, 2010 @ 1331 (MCAS Miramar, VMFAT 101 Maintenance Control)

“Can you grab aircraft 201’s data book for me, Chief?” I asked, slipping the pen from my flight suit sleeve.

Chief Petty Officer Ondoko reached down and hoisted the book with a thud onto the counter in front of me, “you doing the turn for the external fuel transfer test?”

“Yep, lucky me,” I said as I flipped to the aircraft’s maintenance history section.

“Airframes needs to do a flight controls check - you mind if they work that in with yours?”

Pausing my review, I looked up, “No problem, I’ll be out there in about a half hour. Once I get her on line and finish my part, they’re welcome to her.” 

One final signature on the Aircraft Turn-Up log, and I handed the book back. From that point on, I was always nothing but business. 




When I last walked out the gate, I wondered if I would ever set hands again on the aircraft I’d worked on for nearly 20 years. Now I was about to jump in the cockpit and start it up. Even after having logged over 100 hours in the cockpit, I never got tired of aircraft turns. Something about the task felt like the culmination of everything else I’d been trained to do. Though the F-18 was in its sunset years of service to the Marine Corps, it still represented one of the most potent weapons in our arsenal. Feeling the aircraft come to life as the engines came on line; feeling the controls jump at your slightest touch was something not even the most cynical mechanic could dismiss. Sure, we all took our digs at the aging aircraft, but not one of us who had been licensed to turn aircraft ever gave up the qualification.




It felt surreal to be back at the squadron, back at my job; even if it was only for two weeks, or maybe because it was only for two weeks. Since I was still in Active Reserve status, I’d made arrangements to complete my annual two week training period while I awaited word on a new set of orders. Something felt different about walking through the squadron’s hallways though. Like a slumbering devil awaited me somewhere in the shadows, or around one of the corners. I shrugged the feeling off, and continued towards the shop.




The shop was nearly deserted when I stepped in. I eyed the stragglers to see who my victim would be. LCpl Dybert looked up from his lunch and offered himself up, “what do you need Sergeant?” 

“Need a ground person for an aircraft turn up,”

“Looks like I’m your man Sergeant.”

Dybert had remade himself in the last six months. I did not realize how much he had grown until he pulled me aside and thanked me. 

Thanked me for not recommending him for promotion. 




None of our shop leadership had the foresight to see the danger of allowing the promotion of individuals who had demonstrated they were not ready to lead. But Sergeant Groover and I could plainly see the poison it would spill in our shop, and so we worked together to intervene. Dybert’s and two other promotions would have been automatic. 




Now Dybert stood once again at the brink of promotion, and I would have been happy to pin the new rank on him myself. I had already seen too much rank pulled from Marine’s collars since I had been at the squadron, and I despised it. Despised it, because I knew it represented not just the failure of that Marine, but a failure of all of us. Now, the Corporal stripes that Dybert would be pinning on would have sticking power, I felt – I hoped. 

Grabbing my com cord and helmet I glanced back at Dybert, “Alright, check out the turn screens and meet me at aircraft 201,” but he was already in motion.

“On it Sergeant,” he volleyed back.




The mid afternoon sunlight forced my eyes squinted as I stepped out from behind the hanger door. I paused for a second to let my eyes adjust, as much as to take in a view I was not sure I’d ever see again. The flight line was abuzz with activity. Helmets weaved and bobbed around aircraft as launch procedures progressed. For nearly six months, I had run the organized chaos of our flight line – 40 plus sorties a day that would have been the weekly total of a regular squadron. By the position of personnel, I could tell where an aircraft was in its launch evolution; if there was a problem; what they were doing to try to fix it. There were few secrets the flight line could keep from me. I looked over to where aircraft 201 was parked. It was obscured in jet wash from an aircraft on the opposing flight line. I would have to navigate past it to reach my aircraft. To anyone unfamiliar with the flight line, this would seem a daunting obstacle, but I knew exactly where I could cross and where I couldn’t. The aircraft opposite was doing its flight control checks, so my safest path was to walk in front of the aircraft and then hook back to mine on the opposite side. On an aircraft carrier, I probably wouldn’t have that luxury, but here on our spread out flight line, there was no need to take risks. As I waited for Dybert to bring the turn screens, I began my pre-turn inspection. 




Every military aircraft had its own colorful moniker; Eagle, Osprey, Wart Hog, Hercules, Phantom . . . for the F-18 it was Hornet. Usually, I found the monikers to have absolutely no semblance to the actual aircraft, but in the Hornet’s case, I could easily see the relation. The body of the insect was sleek and contoured around its musculature; thin wings connected to a flattened oval; abdomen jutting out well behind the wings; counter balanced by a bulky but sleek head. This was the F-18 in almost every sense. An embodiment of deadly elegance. Its lines were fluid and graceful – and yet there was a function to every form. The only departure from its moniker was the extension to the wings that tapered up the forward fuselage. Standing head-on, the feature resembled the flexed hood of a cobra.




Underneath the aircraft, I stood to the side away from the servicing door. Experience had taught me that opening the door almost always meant a brief torrent of fuel and oil. You could always tell a new guy by the gleaming stains on the chest and lap of his coveralls. As I inspected the engine oil sight gauge, I heard the clack of the retainer pins from the turn screens as Dybert hoisted them in position. 

Climbing out from under the aircraft, I interdicted him “Nope, I still need to dive the ducts.”

“Hmmh, guess I should have asked that before I put them on,” he shrugged as he laid them back on the ground.

I nodded as I took my running dive into the intake. 

On emerging from the intake, I helped Dybert reposition the turn screen and finished my inspection.

One last look over – tie down chains in place, doors secured, drip pans removed, “okay, you ready Dybert?”

“Ready if you are Sergeant.”

“I was born ready.”

“Uhm, ya, but that was a looonng time ago Sergeant.”

Looking back at Dybert as I stepped onto the cockpit sill, I zinged back, “Careful Dybert, you aint got those Corporal stripes yet.”

“Below the belt Sergeant, below the belt,” he nodded as he locked the boarding ladder up. 




Safety pins in; ejection seat safe, fire bottle switches unarmed . . com cord plugged in; cockpit switches off, safe, normal; checklist open; battery switch on; batteries good; fire system test . . . 




The immortalized voice of Kim Crow, whom we all had mimicked, began her epistle “Engine-Fire-Left, Engine-Fire-Left, Engine-Fire-Right, Engine-Fire-Right, APU-Fire . . . “ Crow’s voice was one of the first voices ever to be digitized. I could only imagine that would make her the great, great grandmother to The Matrix’ Agent Smith. 




I looked down at Dybert and signaled for start-up.




APU switch to on; wait for green light; light on, signal for engine 2 start; engine crank switch to the right; RPM’s climbing; oil pressure good; RPM at 16%; advance right throttle; fuel flow good; exhaust temp rising; light off; Nozzle cycling; RPM stabilizing




The cockpit quickly came to life as the engine stabilized. A quick review of the engine’s vitals:

RPM 70%

Fuel Flow 590 lbs. per/hr

Exhaust Temp 510

Oil Press. 101 PSI

Nozzle Pos. 80% (give or take)




I quickly went about setting up my displays and clearing unnecessary cautions. Air Frames showed up, and I signaled Dybert to let their tech come up.




Once the second engine was on line, I finished my start up procedures and scanned the cockpit. Every bit of space within the cockpit that was not used for the pilot, was encrusted in toggle switches, gauges and displays. Perched above the main displays, two slanted pieces of glass reflected targeting and altitude information. In spite of having the appearance of a video game on steroids, it was impossible to ignore the reason for its existence with a switch labeled Nuke Enable.




Transferring fuel from the external tanks took a significant amount of pressurization that could only be achieved by revving the engines up. Signaling for the all-clear to run up the engines I settled my left hand on the throttles. One quick glance behind me and Dybert returned my signal. 




Slowly, I inched the throttles forward and watched the RPM climb. Just shy of 80%, I halted (any further and Mrs. Crow would have to remind me the parking brake was set). The rumbling of the engines instigated a certain satisfaction in me. A quick flip of a switch to override, and the external fuel tank began to give up its cargo. Good. Throttles back down, and I prepared for shut down. 




“Keys are in the cockpit, just give her a wash and wax and put her to bed Dybert” I said, stepping onto the tarmac.

“The keys, oh ya, you mean next to the hanging fuzzy dice,”

“No, Dybert, how many times do I have to tell you? Next to the eight-track cassette player.”

“Dating yourself again Sergeant.”

“You should be lucky to live this long Dybert.”




Back in Maintenance Control, I affixed one last oversized scrawl, and closed the Turn Up Log with a thud. Sliding it back into the rack, the contentment permeated my flight suit. “That felt good,” I said, “think I need a cigarette now.”




As I pulled the door to our shop open, the Sgt Maj stepped out, “Sergeant Holmberg, what are you doing here?”

“Annual two week training Sergeant Major”

“Who approved that?”

“I routed the form through my division chief and the maintenance chief”

He stared at me from behind furrowed brows for a moment. I sensed confusion mixed with something else I could not quite put my finger on. A sudden chill made me wonder if I’d encountered my slumbering devil.  




















































June 14, 2010 @ 06:45 –  (MCAS Miramar, Reserve Support Unit (RSU))

I tapped my fingers on the front counter of the RSU’s administrative section, ready to pick up my new orders. The clock was slowly advancing on 0700 as I waited patiently. It was rare that 15 minutes prior actually meant 15 minutes prior, so I was happy to savor the moment.




For the uninitiated, fifteen minutes prior is the Marine Corps standard for every show-time you are ever given. It sounds great in principle, but in practice, you’re usually at the end of a long chain of 15 minute’s prior. The CO says he wants everyone mustered by 0700, which then is adjusted 15 minutes earlier by the Sergeant Major. Then it is further adjusted backwards by the Maintenance officer, the Maintenance Chief, the shop officers, the division chiefs, and finally the Sergeant who has been delegated the task of actually taking the muster - an hour and a half before anyone ever needed them there. The net effect was a steady stream of expletives mumbled under the breath of our shop’s PFC’s and Lance Corporals as they prepare to fall-in at 0530. Often times I’d have to restrain myself from snickering as they stood there in formation drooping like dew laden grass.




The Sergeant who served as the orders clerk emerged from the changing room buttoning the last few buttons on her uniform. I had always marveled at how the admin sections seemed immune to the 15 minutes chain.




“Good morning Sergeant. So you ready to sign for these?” she said waving my orders in her hand.




You kidding missy? Give me them fuckers now - like now-now.

Like stop getting your paws all over that nice clean set of orders I have worked my butt off for the last six months to get, 




“You bet Sergeant!” I smiled, pen at the ready.




 I had always admired John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration of Independence, so I modeled mine after it. If you’re going to sign it, don’t be timid about it. My pen whizzed across the paper as I affixed my giant scrawl to it - far exceeding the restrictive confines of such a modest signature block. She handed me the copy as the last sheet slipped from the copy machine. Mmmm, nice and warm, like fresh baked bread. I tucked them under the sleeve of my service alpha uniform and headed quickly out the door before anyone could take them back.




The RSU’s CO was in the foyer sipping his regulation morning coffee. He waved me over to give my uniform a quick look-over. As was usually the case, he was wearing his desert tan flight suit that displayed the patches from his helicopter heritage. Like many CO’s I’d known, he looked the part. A blending of intelligent eyes and chiseled features with a rooster like poise that tended to age well. He had a southern drawl that he used to maximum effect, but he’d been genuine in his offer to help me get back to work. He brushed a piece of persistent lint from my crisp uniform. No doubt the result of the determined psoriasis sores behind my ears. No amount of lotion seemed to dispatch them.  I stood proudly in front of him to withstand whatever his scrutiny would bare up. “Looks good,” he allowed as his head bobbed lower to check the alignment of my ribbons, “Good luck over there Sergeant.”

“Thank you sir,” I returned.




“Ouch!” I squeaked, as I bumped my head on the edge of my car door frame. The impact sent my cover to the dusty asphalt beside me. Quickly plucking it from ground, I tapped in on my leg to release the dust. Rolling it over onto its side, I breathed a sigh of relief as I examined the emblem – no scratches. The service alpha uniform that all Marines wear upon checking in to a new command was layer upon layer of constraint and discomfort – with more than a dash of stifling insulation for good measure. On a hot day, say like today was forecasted to be, while the outside temperature remained a toasty but bearable 95, the temperature inside the uniform could rise to 120 easily. I often suspected the cover was a pop up turkey timer. I carefully laid my seatbelt over my ribbons to ensure they did not snag. 




A couple short blocks later, I was in the parking lot of my second home, in roughly the same parking space where my ordeal had all began. Pausing for a moment, I regarded the hangar’s buttresses again, hoping the morning light would make them look less corpse like. I drew as deep a breath as my uniform would allow and headed for the gate. 




Click – the sound had undergone a transformation, it was now a welcome back. 




The smoke pit hens cackled with new vigor at my sight. ‘Hey Sergeant’s‘ echoed off the corrugated roof of the pit, eliciting a grin and a wave from me as I strode by. It felt like a victory lap, so I walked leisurely to enjoy the flapping of my checkered flag. In the stair well, I vaulted two steps at a time to the top with hardly an effort. Around the corner to the right, and into the administrative section. I pivoted as if I were on the drill field, bringing my heels together with a pop to get their attention.  My hands released my crisp orders as I let them float down onto the counter top. 

“Here you go Sergeant”, the clerk handed me my fresh new check-in sheet. A few oversized signatures later, and I emerged into the hallway. There it was, finally, after all this. I looked down at my check-in sheet and placed my hand on it to make sure it was real. A few short paces down the corridor and I ducked into the Squadron Gunnery Sergeant’s office. It was not an office so much as a corner in the foyer to the Sgt Maj and CO’s office. The Sgt Maj overheard my voice outside his door, “Sergeant Holmberg, is that you?”

“Yes Sergeant Major”

“Come in here for a minute”

I looked around the corner of his office door.

“Come in and close the door behind you”

I closed the door and proceeded to the couch he was pointing at.

“You’re checking in?”

“Yes Sergeant Major,” I handed him my orders.

He skimmed over them, flipping the pages back and forth a few times as I looked on in puzzlement.




Sergeant Major Florio was in many respects what I considered to be the epitome of a Marine Sergeant Major. His gait was dominated by an almost robotic swagger; movements were deliberate, mechanical,  and precise; spine fused top to bottom and straight as a rifle barrel; face absent of smile induced wrinkles; beefy jowls commensurate to imparting each phrase and word with a rasping growl. The years of ascending through the Marine enlisted ranks had honed his personality to a razor edge. Much like a Marine K-Bar knife, he was effective, utilitarian and lacking adornment or filigree. The intensity of the man was omnipresent. Whatever contrast in surface finish there was between he and Lt. Col. Sears was entirely superficial; they were both pure granite underneath.




“Is everything ok?” I finally ventured.  

“Not really,” he nodded handing me the orders back, “How did you get the squadron’s approval?”

My heart began pressing against my service uniform jacket with each beat, “I followed the same procedure as previously using the form I got from the RSU.”

“No one is saying that you have done anything wrong, it’s just that the CO needs to approve these now, and we did not know you were coming until a couple weeks ago.”

Holding what little breath my uniform would allow, I girded myself for what was next.  I knew I was about to illicit a response that would confirm my worst fears, “Is this something that will present a problem with these orders?”

Hands clasped on his desk, “Yes. You see, the instruction that covers your situation requires SecNav (Secretary of the Navy) to sign off on these orders, and from what I can tell, that has not happened.” 

My eyes drifted over the walls of his office as he called out of his door for the CO’s copy of SecNavInst 5300.30D. 




My ‘situation’? Ah, yes, you mean The hiv. No need for the CO’s copy, I can recite it chapter and verse by now.




I glazed over while the Sgt Maj delivered his best legal analysis of the instruction. He may have well just let off a claymore mine when I first set foot in his office. But that would have sprayed my blood everywhere, and we wouldn’t want that now would we. Never mind that there was no virus floating around in it anymore.   




A long tunnel was opening up behind me. I could feel rippling turbulence at my back. The Sgt Maj’s face  distorted into a giant swirling smear, framed by an oval of velvety porcelain white. The vertigo of a falling sensation. Scum laden sides smearing muck on my freshly pressed uniform. Darkness enclosing me until at the end, light broke again. Then, a quick splash and blue light turned to brown as I fell into some cesspool outside the squadron’s gates. The echo of my wiser self was ringing in my ears – 

You don’t get it, do you? They don’t want me, I’m damaged goods now. 




I handed the hammer to the Sgt Maj so he could finish nailing my coffin shut, “Is there a chance that the orders might be cancelled?”

“Yes, I would say that it’s likely.”




One picture caught my eyes as the Sgt Maj went to return the instruction to the CO. The picture was apparently from a previous unit Sgt Maj Florio had been stationed with. A bunch of mechanics circled around a squadron logo with a Latin phrase at the bottom – In Omnia Paratus. I looked up the translation on my iPhone as I resumed my seat. 

“So, don’t do any checking in until we get this sorted out, okay Holmberg?” he said as he returned.

“Yes Sgt Maj,” I breathed as I made my way to the door. I paused for a moment, “I guess that Latin phrase is my lesson for the day,” I said pointing to the picture on the wall.

The Sgt Maj looked confused, “How do you mean?”

“In Omnia Paratus . . . ready for all things,” I didn’t try to veil the sharp edge of my comment. There’s no point in camouflage once the ambush has been sprung.




I made my way across the street to the flight line café to drown my sorrows in a bowl of chicken teriyaki. I would never consider eating anything in my service uniform for fear of the inevitable stain, but I didn’t care anymore. What damage could be done in the café that hadn’t already been done in the Sgt Maj’s office? I found an empty table to lay my tray on and sat there staring at my lunch. 

“Hey Sergeant, mind if we join you?” it was Roswell with two other guys from our shop. 

“Sure, have a seat,” I didn’t want anyone’s company.

“So, you’re checking back in? Will be good to have you back.” 

“Ya, looking forward to it.” What else could I say? But I was crumbling inside.

Halfway through the bowl, I made my excuses and got up to leave. Watching the remains of my meal slide into the garbage can, I wondered if it would be that easy for the squadron to dispose of me. I wanted to believe that was up to me; that we could work it out; some simple misunderstanding that reasonable people could resolve to all our benefit – but I knew somewhere in my compressed gut, that was not the case. 




@ 1330 (MCAS Miramar, RSU)

Buuurp! 

I released what my uniform would no longer allow me to retain as I entered the ladder well to the RSU. The sound echoed loudly up the cavernous tower. Gone was the invisible hand that carried me up steps two at a time this morning. My gleaming black corfram dress shoes trudged up the steps as if I were on my way to a death chamber for execution. As I emerged into the foyer upstairs, I saw the RSU CO standing outside his office and proceeded in his direction. He waved me into his office and had me take a seat. I had phoned him before I came over to let him know there was a problem.

“What seems to have happened, Sgt Holmberg?”

“Not really sure sir, the squadron seems to be of the view that my orders were not approved properly.”

His forehead wrinkled, “Come again?”

“They seem to think that the Secretary of the Navy needs to approve orders for people in my ‘situation’,” the molten emotions within me were starting to creep past a thinning berm of restraint.

He let his high back chair recline as he clasped his hands behind his head. I forced my analytic eye to look elsewhere as he rolled the situation over in his head. A few moments passed, and then he leaned forward, “Ok. Well, give me a chance to get in touch with them and find out what the deal is here. You have any admin stuff to keep you occupied until I can sort this out?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, stay by your phone and be ready to come back here when I call.”

“Yes sir,” I got up and paused at the door, “I’m assuming closed sir?”

He nodded.




@ 1530 (Commissary Common Areas)

Phhhck-phc-phhhhhck-phc-phc-hhhhhhhhh, I released the straw from my lips to examine the clear cup as I shook it. Empty. That was the last of my Grande iced mocha. I thought for a moment if I should get another, “amped up on caffeine and pissed off? Not a good combination,” I nodded. Finches were encircling me like an invading guerilla army emerging from the bushes. Since the service alpha uniform was a pale olive green, I reasoned it was time to make a quick escape. Teriyaki stains were one thing, but bird shit was quite another. . .

(faint marimbas)

I reached for my pocket to retrieve my iPhone while making a hasty retreat from the Finch Army.

(marimbas)

“Good afternoon sir”

“Hey Sergeant Holmberg, where you at?”

“On base sir, just finished a coffee. Any good news?”

“Afraid not, but we are still working on it. Go ahead and head home for today, and come back in tomorrow at 1330. Hopefully we should have some idea of what we’re doing by then.”

“Yes sir. I will try to take that as ‘no news is good news’ sir.”

“About the best you can do right now.”

“Afternoon sir”




I replayed the meeting in Sergeant Major Florio’s office. The questions about my orders; how did I get the squadron’s approval  . . . fuzzy edges of an outline began to come into focus.  Even now, they were hastily laying cinder blocks and mortar across the squadron’s entrances. 

A phrase I’d heard before surfaced in my head. 




A decision in search of a reason . . .




























June 22, 2010 @ 1030 – (Shelter Island Boat Yard)

(marimbas)

“Perfect! Just as I’m about to take a picture,” the picture I was trying to take with my iPhone was of damage to my boat. “When else would they call?” I muttered.

I slid the bar, “Good morning Sir.”

“How’s the boat coming Sergeant Holmberg?” it was the RSU’s Executive Officer (XO).

“Still estimating the damage sir.” The boat’s batteries had cracked and dropped battery acid on the hull. Though wood is somewhat resilient to acid, the metal screws that held the planks to the hull were not. I’d gone down into the bilge, just by chance to install a water heater I’d bought three months ago. Once in the bilge, I heard sound of water slapping against the floor boards – bad sound. The bilge pump apparently also had no taste for acid and had stopped working. A half hour later, I plumbed and wired in a new pump. Forty five minutes later, the pump finally clicked off and I sighed with relief. The upshot of all that, was that my boat had to come out of the water for repair. The RSU was kind enough to let me tend to the repairs – since I wasn’t being allowed to fix jets, at least I could get dirty fixing my boat.

“Well, I don’t know what I’d do if I were in your, uhm, boat.” Everyone’s a comedian when you live on a boat that’s sinking.

“Any news sir?”

“Yes, good news I think.”

“That would be welcomed right about now.”

“We spoke to Headquarters Marine Corps, and they said we would need to demobilize you and then get a new set of orders to get you back over there. This time, they would route it through SecNav just to be sure all the “I’s” are dotted. If they expedite it, the process should take as little as ten days, and then you could be back over at 101.”

“That is the best news I will probably hear all day sir”

“I thought you might like that. We will probably need you in here in the next couple days to sign some papers, but it looks good.”

“Well sir, all I can say, is thank you for your help.”

“Just glad we could work something out for you.”











































June 23, 2010 @ 1005 - (Shelter Island Boat Yard)

(marimbas)

“Good morning sir, that was fast. When you do you need me in.”

“Well, there has been a development. The CO needs you in here this afternoon at 1400.”

Translation, something got fucked up. Color me surprised.  

“May I ask what happened sir?”

“Well, it’s not something I can really discuss over the phone.”

Translation, something is really fucked up. 

Shit.

 Just what I need. What will it be, Jesus or Noah? Either martyr me or drown me, but let’s get on with it.

“I see, I will be there at 1400 then sir.”




The decision had found its reason . . .




@ 1400 – (MCAS Miramar, RSU)

The XO intercepted me in the foyer, “The CO will fill you in here in a minute, but I just wanted to give you a heads up that we have hit a snag that we might not be able to get around”

“I figured that’s where this was headed,” I said as I adjusted my uniform.  

The CO’s door swung open in front of us.

“Come on in Sergeant Holmberg.” the CO twanged. The XO and I took our places in the seats across from him. “Well, this has turned into a bit of a mess . . . Well, bigger mess. We had a way forward that would get you back on the job, but it appears that your CO over there is declining your request to mobilize with them now.”

Indeed, “Has he given a reason sir?”

He paused for a moment, “Well, yes. I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise, but it’s to do with your diagnosis.”

“But that is a non-deployable unit sir. I don’t understand. That’s the type of unit the instruction says I’m supposed to be stationed at.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand it either Holmberg. But I have asked him to put it in writing. The instruction says if he’s going to decline you, he has to state in writing why. So we’re going to go by the instruction, and he is going to have to put it in writing if he wants to decline you.”

I clasped by hands and messaged my temples. I could feel a migraine coming on.

“Well, I guess that’s it then.” I waited for my emotions to stabilize, “I guess that means I better start planning.”




The rest was a blur. I found my way back to my boat, and laid there for hours staring at the headliner above my bed.
















OFFICIAL FILE COPY

From: Commanding Officer, Marine Fighter Attack Training Squadron 101

To: Commanding Officer, Reserve Support Unit, MCAS Miramar




Subj: Mobilization of Sergeant Timothy P. Holmberg XXX-XX-4396/6217 USMC




1. VMFAT-101 declines the request to mobilize Sgt Holmberg for active duty as a 6217 in VMFAT-101. Sgt Holmberg is a quality Marine with multiple MOS qualifications, but his current medical condition prevents VMFAT-101 from utilizing him in his full capacity. Sgt Holmberg is required to be within one day’s travel of a naval hospital. The squadron conducts eight carrier qualification (CQ) detachments a year to various aircraft carriers, which is not considered within one day’s travel. This would preclude his participation in any of the CQ detachments, placing an undue burden on the rest of the squadron powerline department. If mobilized, he would work in a limited duty capacity, taking a billet from another fully-qualified Marine able to work in a full duty capacity. Adding another limited duty individual to a squadron already saturated with pregnant and limited duty personnel is not in the best interest of the unit.




(signed)

J.W. Sears (Lt. Col.)




It was blatant, little was hidden between the lines. His contempt and ignorance saturated the closing sentence. The letter felt like a dare. Written by someone who felt little risk of ever being questioned – by the Marine Corps or me.























































Letter from primary care physician solicited in response to Lt. Col. Sears’ denial letter medical statements.

Naval Medical Center San Diego

Division of Infectious Diseases







December 2, 2010

From: Nancy Crum-Cianflone MD MPH FACP FIDSA

Infectious Disease Staff and HIV Research Physician

Naval Medical Center San Diego

Subj: Sgt Holmberg Medical Evaluation and Duty Status




I have been asked by Sgt Holmberg to provide a letter regarding his current medical status. In addition, I’ve been asked to comment on any medical limitations to his ability to serve on active duty.




Sgt Holmberg was diagnosed with HIV in November of 2009 when he was found positive during HIV screening. He was first seen in our clinic on November 23, 2009 and underwent confirmatory HIV testing. He has been in care with our clinic since this time, and his health status over the course of the year has been excellent and without any HIV related complications. In fact, his CD4 cell count (a measure of his immune system) has always been above 500 cells/mm³. 




In order to optimize his health, he self opted to go on antiretroviral therapy in December of 2009 and has a current CD4 count of 766 with an undetectable viral load. Given advances in HIV care, it is expected that Sgt Holmberg will continue to have a robust immune system and to live a normal life span.




As such, Sgt Holmberg is not currently on a limited duty status and has been found fit for full duty status. In addition, there is nothing in Sgt Holmberg’s treatment requirements or medical condition that would preclude him from serving in a full duty status or from participation in short-term detachments in CONUS. It is recognized that current DoD policy prevents HIV-infected persons from being stationed OCONUS and assignments are to be within one day travel of a MTF per SecNavInst 5300.30D par. 9c/11 (a)(2).




Treatment for HIV-positive patients in today’s world has advanced such that HIV should be viewed as a manageable medical condition, and patients should be encouraged to continue in their current jobs. At this time, and for the foreseeable future, Sgt Holmberg’s treatment requirements are minimal, and his health is outstanding; as such, his recent diagnosis of HIV should not represent an obstacle to his active duty military service. Please feel free to contact me with any questions at XXX-XXX-XXXX




Very respectfully,

Nancy Crum-Cianflone MD MPH FACP FIDSA 




There was no congruity between the two letters, just as there was no congruity to the treatment and opportunities that existed for positive service members. Some I knew had deployed on ships, into combat zones, overseas. Others were emasculated by meaningless assignments, or worse. In a world born of such silence, instructions were less of a guide, and more of a tool that was either used or ignored – depending on the whims of the user. While others debated my relevance, all I could do is watch from the sidelines.  

The best interest of the unit? 

It was a fair question. 

Really, it was the question.

A question I felt I had an answer to, if anyone had asked me.

I’d given the last 18 months of my life in support of the best interests of the unit. While the active duty guys were crawling the walls looking for a way out of the unit, I dug in to help fix it. Just a handful of NCO’s were serving as the division’s Atlas. The CO had just kicked one of them in the nuts. Dozens of times I’d wanted to throw up my hands and walk away - and I was the only one who could. I was a volunteer. But I never gave up. I went out to the smoke pit, took a few deep breaths, and dug back in. I had the one commodity that can’t be trained or punished into people . . . I cared. I had put my neck on the line countless times in support of the “best interest of the unit”. I knew my efforts helped save lives and aircraft, and more importantly, I trained others to do the same. And while others stood on the back of my hard work and got promotions and awards, I got the satisfaction seeing our pilots and aircraft land safely. And that was enough.

 Never, but never, was I a burden to the unit.

 And never, would I come and volunteer if I would be.




 And if you can’t tell the difference between a pregnant woman and someone who is HIV positive, then perhaps it is you, sir, who is a burden to the unit . . .   




Ignoring the fact that there were already HIV positive service members serving on detachments aboard ships; ignoring the fact that there were three personnel transport flights running daily across a scant 20 miles of ocean; ignoring the fact that there was nothing in my treatment that would prevent me from fulfilling my duties - I brought volumes of capability to the table that were readily useful to the dominant part of the squadron’s mission. And I cared enough volunteer to continue. 


































Letter from Congressional Representative Susan Davis




Dear Mr. Holmberg,

Thank you for writing me about problems you are experiencing regarding your mobilization as a reservist with the U.S. Marine Corps




In response, I have contacted the U.S. Marine Corps on your behalf and forwarded your request to them for their consideration. As soon as I receive their response, I will contact you.




My staff and I will do all that we may to assist you. Please understand however that we do not have the authority to direct executive agencies’ actions or decisions. We cannot ask agencies to do anything inconsistent with regulations an governing laws.




If you have any questions or additional information that may be helpful, please call Katherine Fortner of my staff at (619) 280-5353. Again, thank you for contacting me. I look forward to working with you to try to resolve this matter.




Sincerely,




Susan Davis

Member of Congress




While I appreciated Rep. Davis saving me a stamp, even training grenades were more impressive than her response. What happed to me was wrong. I knew that the Marine Corps would seek to justify the actions of Lt. Col. Sears in any way that they could; I didn’t need a messenger service for that. Why try to sweep away a granite block when you can brush away the dust bunny instead. SecNavInst 5300.30D was flawed and outdated, and I wanted Rep. Davis to commit to fixing it. Not just for my case, but for many other service members I had come in contact. HIV positive Marines and Sailors who were being treated like scrap metal. Sure, many had the kind of experience all positive Marines should have. But there were many others who had not. Some who had been pushed out; some who had been chained to some dead end corner of a unit, minding a tool room, or snack shop. It was amazing to see the differences in treatment. And it all boiled down to one factor. As your sole contact, commanding officers had near absolute and unquestioned power over your experience . . . 

understanding, brotherhood, decency, humanity. Some commanding officers ascended those steps daily. Others tripped up on the first step, and decided they were unneeded, “We’re here to fight wars, not cater to the politically correct.”  Everyone seemed to want to wield Gen. Patton’s glove. “If you can’t go to the front lines, I have no use for you,” was the granite block’s battle cry.




I never had the luxury of sweeping aside my shop’s dust bunnies. As a Sergeant leading my crew, I had to make do with what I had. I had to look past my Marine’s weaknesses even as I helped them challenge them. I had the greater task of finding utility in those whose presence, even I sometimes questioned. 




Maybe I’m crazy, but I would take an army of dust bunnies to war before I’d take granite blocks. Dust bunnies are agile, resilient, masters of camouflage and nearly impossible to defeat (ask any recruit). Granite blocks were good for two things, walls and monuments. 




Far back in my history with the Marine Corps, I remember the plaque on my first Staff Sergeant’s desk - 




Machines sort, leaders mold. Leaders look within because true value rarely resides at the surface. Leaders tap the metal of a person to listen for the ring of loyalty; they search the dark pools of a person’s eyes for insight and intellect; they turn a person’s hands side to side looking for the callouses and scars of a worker. They do these things in person, face to face as people of honor do – never by proxy or cloistered behind the barricades of office walls encrusted with the successes they would deny others. 




Leaders do these things, not to sort, but to challenge those they lead. So that someday, one among them may rise to take their place.  




  












































































December 3, 2010 @ 1700 – (Hillcrest Starbuck’s)

I stared at my phone. I’d been looking at it for five minutes, my finger floating above the “call” icon. Finally, I let my thumb descend onto the glass. Through deep breaths, I listened to the rings. Where is Lily Tomlin when you need her? “One ringy dingy, Two ringy dingy . . .” “That’s right, we’re back, (snort, snort) We’re AT&T, we don’t care, because we don’t have to.” 

“Hello Timmy, how are you doing?”

“Pretty good Dad”

“Good, and how’s the boat the boat coming along?”

“Been busy working on other people’s boats so I can make some money.  Right now I’m working on a 42’ sail boat from the early 70’s. Will be really nice when it’s finished.” My dad had been abundantly concerned when I bought my boat and moved onto it. Wooden boats seemed to inspire fear in everyone but me. Perhaps I really was nuts, but I could always blame it on my father.

Now was the moment, tell him now . . .

But he started in before my wave of courage could crest, “Well Timmy, your daddy has just been cleaning around the house. The mobile home park . . . “

“Dad, there’s a reason why I called you.”

I could hear him draw a deep breath, “Well, let it out. What’s going on?”

My statement was gripping the end of my tongue, not quite wanting to let go. I never planned on telling him, but the fight with the Marine Corps was getting uglier, and I could see the chance building that he would find out somewhere else. My father and I had always had an adversarial undertone to our relationship. We had lived in a car for an extended period when I was in high school, and that was an indictment that he had always struggled with. For a long time, I was unwilling to show him easy grace. He reacted by sitting in judgment of my every move or misstep. Though I resented it, he was trying to remind me of my own humanity. He wanted to resume his position as venerated father. But I already knew him as the man behind the curtain. The truth he never saw was that I loved the wizard more than I ever could have loved Oz. I braced myself for whatever manifestation of ‘I told you so’ he would muster – “You know I have been having problems with the Marine Corps, but I haven’t really said what was at the root of it.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Well, the reason is . . . the reason is . . that I am HIV positive.” (cringe), I held my breath.

(silence)

“That was pretty much what I thought you were going to say Timmy. I’m sorry to hear that. You know there really isn’t much I can say though. Your daddy has diabetes, and if I weren’t so fat, I wouldn’t be dealing with that either. I know you didn’t want to get it, so I guess it’s just one of those things you have to deal with. It makes me really mad though, that they are giving you problems because of that. Are they taking good care of you?”

What? Huh? Where was Oz? THE-GREAT-AND-TERRIBLE? 

That was it. I now had my proof, alien abduction was real. 

This guy was way too fuckin great  to be my dad.

But he was, and he had far outshined any grace I could ever have expected. My vision distorted as my eyes flooded over. I held my breathing quiet while the tears slipped down my cheeks. 

“I’m getting good care dad. I’m doing well.”

“Good. Ya, you fight them on that. They shouldn’t be messing around with you over that.” 

Ok, c’mon, now you’re trying to go for extra credit here.

“Thanks Dad.”  

  



















































































































December 15, 2010 – (Hillcrest, Postal Annex)

I slid the stubby brass key in and began my ritual jiggling of the lock to my post office box. Though it had never worked well, it had been getting progressively more stubborn. I continued my intercourse with the lock until the errant tumbler in the fourth cylinder of the lock finally acquiesced. I slowly slid my mail from the cramped box and began flipping through it. There it was, Office of Congressional Representative Susan A. Davis. It was a thick envelope, maybe she’d saved me more postage than I thought. Setting my other mail off to the side, I pried the envelop open to see what I’d been preparing myself for:




Dear Sergeant Holmberg, 




I have received a response from the U.S. Marine Corps to the inquiry I made on your behalf, regarding your mobilization as a reservist with the U.S. Marine Corps. A copy of their letter is enclosed. I regret that the Marine Corps’ response is not more favorable to you . . .




If you have any questions or concerns regarding this letter, please contact Katherine Fortner of my staff. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to assist you with this matter.  




Sincerely,




Susan A. Davis

Member of Congress




The sum total of her assistance with my inquiry I had tabulated at roughly $5.40. Grateful there was no bill for reimbursement attached, I set her letter down and began skimming over the Marine Corps’ response . . . 




“. . . he is unable to deploy with a Marine Corps unit.”




“ . . . upon reporting, Sgt Holmberg did not disclose his [illness] . . . Marines are required to disclose if they have had any illness or disease within the past 12 months . . . “




“There is no indication that Sergeant Holmberg was denied an extension of his orders due to his HIV status. His fitness report from his mobilization period was below average . . . Additionally, his military technical qualifications are out of date and he did not serve as a crew lead nor take on a leadership position. In order to reacquire those qualifications, Sergeant Holmberg would need to undergo full retraining . . . “

Susan’s letter was gift wrapping compared to this.  At least the Marine Corps knew what a real grenade was. Now, if only they could find the real enemy and send it to them. Certainly was a nice touch that it came wrapped in Susan’s letter though. Guess she was able to save them postage to. 

In a truly masterful touch, they conveniently selected a date after my qualifications expired and then insisted I had not attained the qualifications expected of a Sergeant - including aircraft turn-up. With their letter, they had virtually torn my Sergeant’s chevrons from my sleeve, and the NCO’s Blood Stipe from my Dress Blue trousers. I slowly pulled their swords from my gut and sat on the deserted mailroom’s floor. 




Gut wounds are the most torturous way of killing your enemy. They work slowly. Releasing blood and bacteria into the abdomen. Days go by as the wound begins to fester. Then sepsis, an infection of the blood, starts painting your skin and iridescent red as you rot from the inside out. Fever sets in as your body tries in vain to control the spreading infection. Delirium follows. At the end, death is a mercy.




Saint Sebastian was a Roman soldier, who was tied to a post, shot through with arrows and left for dead.  His crime was revealing his true faith. The act came at the hands Emperor Diocletian's soldiers during their persecution of Christians - soldiers whom Sebastian had once commanded. He was rescued by Saint Irene and nursed back to health. Upon regaining his health, he once again took up his cause. He railed against the Emperor’s persecution, and was then clubbed to death.




I would like to think we have progressed since then . . .    









































































Today @ now - (here)

I looked up from the letters in my hand as the marine radio cracked an announcement, “all craft in San Diego’s South Bay, be advised. Memorial services being conducted in that vicinity. Chinese lanterns are being released into the water in this area . . .” If my boat were running I would go see them. To see what closure looks like. I needed to release my own lantern. To place in it all the grief, and anger, and disappointment that I’d bottled up inside me. To let it float out past the eel grass, onto the wrinkled seas, pressed by a gentle breeze.




I looked at the Marine Corps Emblem I had planned on mounting to the back of my boat. Holding the emblem and the letters in my hand, I asked Friday “Should I throw them in the trash?” 




That’s what they’d done to me. But no eye could atone for the one they’d torn from me. And there are no victories to be found in trash cans.




Friday rubbed my leg.




No, I finally decided, I would mount the Marine Corps Emblem on my boat. Anything less would be an acknowledgement of their victory, and the fight was not over. Every organization must grow; evolve – even if it is in spite of those who claim to lead. Only the ink in my pen could erase their fear of my blood. My infected blood. The blood I took an oath to offer in defense of my country – and our ideals.




I fingered the Blood Stripe on the side of my dress blue trousers. “Never fuck with a Marine’s Blood Stripe” I said to myself. But that was revenge speaking, and I did not want revenge. Revenge against what? The organization that I loved? I had nothing in common with that goal. 




Even now, with their letter burning my hand, I loved the Marine Corps. 

(I mean that literally, I burned the fuckin letter) (and it felt good)(real good) 










So I offer this book to you without an end, in hopes that you will write a new one for the Knights in 2 West. When you write that end, I will offer but one piece of advice. The same advice I would pass on to Lt. Col. Sears if he would listen to such advice. 




Amicum tuum et non interficeret – Kill not thine friend . . .