A Young Man Named Jim
"We're Not At War"
Rubicon w/ Sean Griobhtha
I want to tell you about a young man named Jim. His last name is hidden by order of the ODNI, which is reasonable yet still seems unfair to his family as you’ll see later. Jim was born in 1961. Jim died in late 1981 or early 1982 dropping into his first covert op in Central America. He was an Air Force Scout, performing commando destruction and death, the same as me. He was from New York City. I have to tell you, I already feel pain about him after starting this writing.
When I first met Jim in 1979, he was one of the nicest and sweetest persons you could ever meet. We met while both of us were still in training at Hurlburt Field, Florida (Eglin Field #9), home of the 1st Special Operations Wing. We might have met sooner in training, but while I trained beforehand in Texas, he trained in North Carolina. He enjoyed fishing, the beaches and he enjoyed body surfing, and he bought a used white Granada with leather seats that he loved. Kindness infused his being. He had wavy dark brown hair, a skinny regulation mustache, and he exuded joy and fun.
Jim, like me, was economically challenged. Most of the population was economically challenged in the ‘70s. Most areas suffered from double digit inflation and unemployment. Young men coming of age lacked opportunity. If you’d like to get a good feeling for that time, listen to Dire Straits’ Telegraph Road; it’s an excellent evolutionary story of an industrial time, life, and town.
Jim fell for the same tactics that I fell for in being directed into the Scout program:
“In 1979 memos were circulated, including to AFEES (Armed Forces Examining and Entrance Station) induction centers, to search for recruits with certain skills sets. I had no intention of joining the military initially. Like any sane person growing up where I did, I wanted to earn money and move to California. However, the economy at that time was an empty turd. Everything had closed down, offered less, and unemployment went double digits, while inflation picked our pockets…
“The [AFEES] Colonel proceeded to tell me they were very urgently trying to find the ‘right’ people for these positions, and he thought I would be a perfect fit. He said my test scores were exactly what they needed. I realized that this would normally be a dangerous position, but I thought out loud, ‘How much danger could there be, we’re not at war.’ The Colonel chimed in, ‘Exactly’…
“The idea for the Scout program being formed high within AFSOC (why they chose the name Scout, I can only guess someone older watched a lot of Wagon Train), they needed someone with connections to be the “Commander” of this program. Enter Major Ian Fleming (not his real name, but his pretended character). Major Fleming had entered the AF Academy and graduated in the early ‘70’s. He was immediately stationed at a base in Oregon, and was immediately unhappy with that location and his duties. Being a friend of a few generals and Congressmen, he petitioned to open a search & rescue outfit at a base in Texas… petition granted. Then he opened another in North Carolina, and another, etc…” (X Rubicon – Origin of the Scout Program)
Such was Jim’s story with a different AFEES Officer, but with the same Commander, and the same belief that “we’re not at war”. The Scout position required accelerated rank, meaning that you would enter with two stripes immediately; and, relative to the position, acceleration to Sergeant (three stripes and a star) would happen quicker than normal. However, the Air Force wanted to require a six year commitment normally associated with normal accelerated rank. I refused to sign for six years without first knowing the experience, but Jim accepted, because “we’re not at war”. At first he was a little pissed with me because I hadn’t signed for six, but received the rank anyway.
We trained at Hurlburt under different sergeants. We were the only two active Scouts. When we finished training, he went to perform missions in Africa and elsewhere, while I went to Iran for Operation Eagle Claw and then on to Central America. Our work was counter-insurgency (so-called), infiltration and destruction, with the help of AC-130-H Spectre Gunships. This kind of work carried great pain and guilt, great risks, no personal reward, and the work was extremely self-damaging, which, when you’re young, is something you don’t realize until it’s too late.
We were permanently based at Hurlburt, but because of our different schedules and his operational location(s) being overseas, we didn’t get to talk often enough; and he spent more time away because of the great distance. Eventually he rented a house off-base. When he was around, we smoked pot together, went to the beach, and drank beer together. In discussing our respective missions, I was eager to talk, but he would only throw me hints of pain and disappointment, and I found that we would be unable to discuss these things because he was becoming enmeshed in pain. I’ve said before that once you have killed someone, who you were before is completely obliterated, and you must remake yourself in the best way you know how; and this was definitely the case for Jim.
While my trainer/mentor actually cared about life and death for me, Jim’s trainer was a macho fuck. He spent less time showing Jim how to evade and stay alive than he did in instruction for attack, which really didn’t make sense for the work. Jim, through information I received, became more reckless.
Each time he returned to base he became more sullen, angry, and paranoid. He became very Rambo-like. My mentor would tell me he was becoming reckless, but that mirrored the likes of our Lt Weasel. Hurrying instead of being methodical; but this was something I also went through, and the missions were somewhat like a whirlwind of chaos, so I didn’t give much credence, at the time. If you have any heart at all, killing damages you and changes you permanently. Your DNA is changed, your outlooks are changed, trust is radically changed. Jim, because of his schedule and travel time, never had the chance to become involved in love or having a lover. Because of this he went further into darkness than I did at the time. While I had a lover and fiance, Jim was absolutely alone. He never really spoke about his family, but from my memory at this distance, I thought he had a sister. Lt Weasel refused us leave on a regular basis.
Jim stopped going to the beach or trying to have fun. We wore camouflage bonnet hats in the field. Jim started wearing his fatigues everywhere, and he took to wearing his Aussie bush hat as well in public. His whole persona changed to be identified with the military.
The last time I saw Jim was in summer 1981. He was living in a rental house off-base. I heard he was back and went to see him. We both had 10 inch wide blade knives that we took on missions. These knives were custom made for our use, and because of the way we used them, turning them inside human bodies, they had custom made brass knuckle guards. These guards were made by first taking impressions of our fists while holding the knife. These impressions were then used to make smooth pressure spots in the guard which made turning such a wide blade easier. The only difference between our knives was he was left handed, and I right. The handles were covered in grooved leather bonded and sewn and slid down around the handle post, and clamped down with the guard and a lock nut. This leather would be changed from time to time as the grooves soaked up blood and became loose and permanently stained.
When I entered Jim’s home, I noticed he had mounted an extra sheath on the door, and his knife, with blood stained handle was kept in this sheath. As we drank a beer, I noticed every room had pistols, rifles (M-16’s that he had brought back with him), and shotguns stashed in readily accessible locations. I also noticed he had kept detonators instead of turning them in, which made me wonder where he was keeping explosives. He was no longer the sweet and kind person I had first met two years before. Jim had become very sullen, depressed, angry, and paranoid. I asked him what was up with all the weapons and knife on the door. He said he no longer felt safe, anywhere. He promised me he was not suicidal or planning an assault.
We had identical missions, in different locations. These missions were extremely bloody. These missions were extremely violent. These missions were extremely cold and calculating. There was so much violence and so much blood that it didn’t take long for non-psychopaths to become deeply affected. It didn’t take too much relative time to become sick at heart and throw away realized lies, patriotism and notions of glory for a different kind of psychosis; a psychosis that screamed at you to STOP!
During the fall of 1981, I demanded to be released from my duties. Jim wasn’t around at the time, he was overseas; he didn’t return until after I had left the base. The Commanders must have ordered him into my former mission area. Jim was dropped into Central America, and he died. I can only hope Search & Rescue found his body; the ODNI won’t say. When deaths occur on such missions, there is no Officer knocking on the family’s door to provide explanation or succor. Families receive a form letter that tells them a lie; that their son died in an unfortunate accident while on a training mission.
Jim had been damaged to an extreme extent inside. Seeing someone that turned and twisted is very painful, for them and the observer. If Major Fleming or Lt Weasel or his Sergeant had been paying more attention, they would have seen this and intervened. But Commanders like these, and the military, don’t care whether you survive; they’re only interested in their own objectives – that you are dealing out death consistently in order to make them look good and further American power and hegemony.
We offer our children war...
While calling it opportunity
Atrocities, PTSD, and Responsibilities
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Rubicon spent just under three years as a military Scout. During that time he was awarded the “AF Cross, 2 Silver Stars, 4 Bronze Stars, Defense Superior Service Medal, AF Good Conduct Medal, and the CIA Distinguished Service Medal” (ODNI). When he refused to kill further, he was stripped of these awards and was abandoned with his PTSD by the military and thrown away.
Sean Griobhtha (gree-O-tah) is a combat veteran. His latest book is X Rubicon: Crossing Life, Sex, Love, & Killing in CIA Proxy Wars: An indictment of US Citizens: ignorantia non excusat, which details the life of Rubicon (“2.5 years of Deception & Death; 40+ years of locking away Emotions & Truth”). It’s important that you read the Foreward (Vanguard); written by a highly intelligent woman with a heart of empathetic gold; she’ll bring you in gently, which neither Rubicon nor I would ever do.
Read the Foreward (Vanguard) free at Substack. Learn more about the author and Rubicon at Substack and @seangriobhtha (FB). 40% discount available for book clubs, student groups, humanitarian groups, We Are Not Your Soldiers groups, Veterans for Peace groups, & more: Inquire at O.Griobhtha+XRubicon at gmail.