Alright, listen up, you holiday-loving civilians, and fellow warfighters…most who’ve seen more action under the strip club mistletoe than on the battlefield.
You know what I’m talking about! HoHo!
It’s that time of year again. The time when the rest of the world is sipping on Starbucks pumpkin spice lattes and arguing about whether “Die Hard” is a Christmas movie (it is, you uncultured nube).
For us, the brave, the few, the guys and gals who volunteered to trade sanity for a uniform, the holidays are less about “silent nights” and more about “oh holy hell, what fresh absurdity is the command pushing on us now?”
Our holiday season is a gauntlet of mandated joy and tactical cheer on base or abroad.
The primary objective is to survive the “Mandatory Fun” PowerPoint briefing without a career-ending under-the-breath comment or party mistake on shore leave.
It’s the one time of year where you’re staring down the barrel of a “Festive Formality” while some well-meaning but utterly lobotomized O-3—who definitely calls his wife “Commanding Officer”—patrols the command with a plastic reindeer hat perched on his bad haircut.
I remember one year, deployed in Afghanistan with SEAL Team 3 ECHO platoon, when Christmas “decorations” consisted of a deflated Santa made out of MRE wrappers and a string of lights powered by a generator that sounded like a rusty E-9 coughing up a lung from burning too many latrine pits.
I still can’t get the smell of that burning brown out of my head.
Our white elephant gift exchange was about as non PC as they come. A PlayGirl magazine for one victim, and another dude got a rock. A literal rock. Because nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a geological sample from a war zone.
Then there’s the food. Oh, the food. While you’re carving up a perfectly roasted turkey, we’re staring down another plate of mystery meat, lovingly dubbed “holiday surprise.” It’s usually gray, smells vaguely of regret, has an unlimited shelf life, and has the consistency of shoe leather soaked in despair.
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And the parties. Good Lord, the parties. You’d think after dodging bullets, we’d be pros at small talk and forced merriment. You’d be wrong. All while trying to secure enough lukewarm beer or pirated spirits to make the whole ordeal tolerable.
But here’s the dirty little secret no one talks about.
Despite the questionable food, the mandatory fun, and the existential dread of another deployment looming, there’s a twisted kind of magic to it all. Because through all the absurdity, the camaraderie shines through. We bust each other’s balls, swap war stories that get progressively more exaggerated with each passing year, and find solace in the shared misery.
We’re a dysfunctional family, sure, but we’re our dysfunctional family, and everyone is fair game, pronouns included.
So, as you’re unwrapping your fancy gadgets and sipping your expensive boxed wine, spare a thought for your brothers and sisters in arms.
They are out here, making memories that would give most therapists a nervous breakdown, and probably enjoying it in their own messed-up way. Just don’t ask them to sing carols unless it’s with an M60 on full auto!
Happy Holidays from me and the team at SOFREP!
