Author: George E. Hand IV

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.

As for the Rangerettes getting special treatment during the course—no. As for special treatment prior to the course, I have to say yes.

Matt was more than a Ranger; he was the embodiment of quiet strength and unshakeable courage, the kind of man you’d follow into the darkest corners of hell knowing he’d lead you back out again.

He was a man of quiet strength and unfathomable skill, yet the silence between us in those final years echoed louder than any words we ever spoke.

I was born to carry a rifle, to run ahead of the pack, and return with more than I started with, because that’s what it means to be all grown up in the world of professional soldiers.

And in that moment, as I staggered through the chaotic market with my mismatched attire and a belly full of couscous, I realized that sometimes survival in a foreign land is less about blending in and more about embracing the absurdity of your own existence.

In the midst of my grimy, sun-baked adventure through Fez, squatting by a rank canal to wash my battle-worn towel, I cut a fine figure of a man—a disheveled, bearded mess in ripped sleeves and sandals, puffing on a camel poo cigarette, and navigating the wretched beauty of a country that both fascinated and wrenched my soul.

Stiffing a nine-year-old guide and handing a kid my sweat-soaked “Runs with Scissors” T-shirt in lieu of payment, I found myself seething and shirtless, contemplating the karma of my actions amidst the labyrinthine alleys of Fez.