George E. Hand IV

The GIGN guys were just like us—tough, resourceful, and always ready to bring the fight to the enemy, even if their kit wasn’t as shiny as ours.

I’m not here to inspire anyone, least of all myself; I’m just that guy who’s seen the edge and knows it’s still there, waiting, like an old friend who never quite leaves.

USA Today’s bomb comparison chart is like trying to compare a kiddie pool to the Mariana Trench—sure, they both hold water, but one is just embarrassingly out of its league.

As the ear-splitting screams and relentless noise filled the air, I smiled inwardly, knowing my tiny victory—the yellow plugs hidden in my cuffs—was enough to dull the assault and give me a sliver of control.

Learning a language the hard way isn’t just about speaking to impress or survive—it’s about digging through the trenches of discomfort until the words stick to your soul like scars.

When I traded the dish pit for a military uniform, I thought I was leaving behind the chaos of a Chinese kitchen, but the military had a way of making me feel like I never left the wok.

In the dark, suffocating grip of my own mind, I found a spark in the most unexpected place—a simple craving for something as mundane as a meal, a flicker of life that refused to die, no matter how hard the shadows tried.

From the few personal items I was allowed to take from my house, my pistol was removed; riddle me that one Joker.

In retrospect I am amused by the fact that I “combat parked” my truck; that is, backed into the parking spot, which is a typical maneuver for those who wish to get away quickly when it comes time to go.

When the darkness consumes you so completely that even breathing feels like betrayal, the choice to end it isn’t a cry for help—it feels like the only option left when every other lifeline has snapped.

In a world where common sense was as rare as a snowstorm in the Mojave, I found myself dodging bureaucratic bullets and burying the evidence—literally—just to keep the wheels of progress from rusting over in the unforgiving Nevada desert.

Staring down the absurdity of a polygraph test run by a banana-munching monkey, I realized that sometimes the only way to survive the circus is to play along and laugh at the clowns.