Army

We idled through Al Dujahl’s midnight arteries, numb and hollow, while men in the shadows watched us like witnesses at the thin border between heaven and hell.

Fred B. McGee wasn’t chasing glory on that Korean hillside—he was just stubbornly, relentlessly doing his job, one impossible step at a time, until every man he could save was off that mountain alive.

A 22-year-old tank crewman with a top-secret clearance allegedly tried to trade America’s most guarded armor secrets for a Russian passport, proving the deadliest threats can come from within.

With some time to kill, the German offered me a seat in the hotel cafe where a dozen Bundeswehr soldiers were hanging out. They even gave me an espresso.

It wasn’t enemy fire that dropped five soldiers to the ground—it was a supply sergeant with a sidearm and a grudge no one saw coming.

We were fighting a war without a front line, where cruelty was as much a weapon as any rifle, and the enemy’s strength lay in finding the weakest point to strike.

David Bellavia didn’t come back from Fallujah with swagger or speeches—he came back with ghosts, blood on his boots, and a vow that he’d never freeze again when the devil kicked in the door.

The VA isn’t treating veterans — it’s sedating them into silence, one cocktail of mind-frying meds at a time.

Gen Z’s fragility isn’t a generational quirk—it’s a national security liability, cultivated by overprotective parenting, coddling institutions, and a culture that elevates feelings over facts.

Refreshed by a fleeting journey of the soul across time and space, I found strength in the shared silence between stars, and returned to the desert ready to march again.

In a dusty courtyard outside Taji, surrounded by curious children and cautious sheiks, we built fragile bridges with bottled water, schoolbooks, and the stubborn hope that kindness could hold back the war.

William Carney didn’t just carry the flag at Fort Wagner—he hauled the soul of a nation on his back through a storm of lead, and never let it fall.