Posthumous Letter To Bill
12 January 2022
It’s been 43 years since I first met you. Talking about you with my wife, she suggested I write you this letter, and I’m already crying.
It was immediately after initial commando training that I transferred to Hurlburt and you took me under your wing. We trained in the forest around Hurlburt, in the swamps, on the beach, in the water, in the rivers… intensely and non-stop. Soon we were going with the gunships on their record breaking air refueling flight to Guam, and then to the Philippines for more training.
In the Philippines you ran me ragged evading captures, teaching infiltration, and reaction, and “subduction of life”. You drilled into my head not to panic, even when fear of the act attempted to overwhelm me, even when the odds seemed impossible to overcome. You made me repeat and live, “If you panic, you die”. You taught me how to survive and turn odds in my favor under circumstances of capture. You looked into my eyes trying to convey that you understood what I was getting into, while I still wasn’t aware of what I was getting into. You showed care, concern, and support, but remained aloof because I believe you thought I would probably die with the way this program was to operate.
When, still in the Philippines, I became too edgy, you took me to Marines you trusted and told them to take me to a “good” whorehouse. Then we trained even harder. You knew my first mission before I even had a clue. We trained for Eagle Claw in the desert at White Sands. We practiced low level skid drops and FRS pickups. You taught me to read terrain maps with different eyes. You trained me to look at every possible angle of what may happen. Though you didn’t talk a lot, you used to attempt drilling what you did say into my head with your eyes. You trained me to react quickly, to not let hesitation or fear prevent necessary action… to accept the moment and act, otherwise, I would die. Though you always said the mission was important, and human life was important, you stressed that my life was important.
Immediately before my first mission, you opened up a little about your own experience in Vietnam, but you remained personally closed. You told me how you had been demoted for punching an officer (it’s always those asshole lieutenants). It seemed you were still dealing with your own demons. When we finally went to Egypt and Saudi Arabia for Eagle Claw’s final preparations, you assured me I was ready and capable, and still continued giving me advice. When I returned from placing the lights and setting initial charges and sabotage markers, you actually smiled and seemed happy to see me.
When the insertion was made for Eagle Claw, you warned me not to trust the skills of Delta Force, that Army Rangers couldn’t think outside their training and that SEALS tended to fall apart when on their own. Things which I found to be true under fire and which I related back to you. When we returned from Desert 1 you actually embraced me.
You rarely let yourself loose. The only exception I remember distinctly was a doosy…
Upon departure for my first Central American mission you grabbed my face and intently stared into me with your dark burning eyes insisting that I remember that the nighttime was shorter than I would think, and you embraced me tightly. “Don’t overthink and don’t waste time” you would say. “Get in, act, get out”, and “don’t get involved in anything not associated with the mission”. I often wonder what you would say concerning my last mission. Just like telling you all the details of the other missions, I would have told you if you hadn’t died. I would have told you there was no way for me to ignore it… that it would have taken a heart of stone and a moral lobotomy like CIA agents and politicians have.
You attended all my debriefings except the last three. You always supported me and defended my right to my anger with Lt Weasel. You kept me from threatening his life more than once. When he kept haranguing me over not reporting in (when I tried to keep radio silence), and he got in my face, you saw me put my hand on my knife and you held it down against my side without saying a word. You calmly told him once that he had no right to second guess my actions when he had no training or field experience in these matters. You told him once when he was getting out of his chair again (to yell at me), “With respect Sir, if you don’t sit down and stay there I’m going to knock you into the chair!” More than once you told him to back away or he’d get hurt. You always trusted what I did and trusted I would make the right decisions, something I had never experienced before. The sergeant you arranged to fill in for you when you took leave did exactly as you did. You must have filled him in very well. Thank you.
You took a long overdue vacation leave in June. I didn’t learn you were dead until October. No announcement was made, and I was only informed after several inquiries. You died hauling a trailer full of firewood with your Jeep, and it flipped over on the highway and you broke your neck. All the things you went through, all the times you survived, only to die taking care of a simple chore! No one knew anything about you. No one knew when or where of a funeral or service. Lt Weasel wouldn’t give me the time of day concerning you. It was simply… you were gone! I cried non-stop for 2-3 days, and then on and off for another week or more; and I still feel your loss 40 years later. You were somewhat of a father figure, but you were a strong, supportive, caring figure who actually cared whether I lived or died on those missions. You taught me so many important things and gave me such strength of purpose. The skills and behavior you taught me kept me alive through hell, saved me when I was caught, and even helped me at other times to keep my head. Thank you.
I’m sorry I didn’t know you better or more. I’m sorry I didn’t push harder for more of your information, life story, history… I do remember that you were drafted for Vietnam. I do recall that you said you had divorced shortly after Vietnam ended because she had aborted your baby without telling you and had been going out with another man while you were gone; and instead of getting out, as you had planned, you stayed in to deal with the pain. I’m sorry you had to deal with that pain. You were a good man and didn’t deserve that.
You were very supportive of Kit and I, but after I returned from the mission killing the nuns, I found a letter from her in my box telling me it was over, and it contained the ring you helped me find. I threw that ring in the tide pool across the highway from Hurlburt. I know, a waste of money, but, you feel like taking it out on something and the ring was all there was. Her parents (especially her father) and her sister (who you remember disliked me) convinced her that since I wasn’t an officer, and because I was in such dangerous work, that a relationship with me was a “dead” end, in more ways than one. They were probably right. What chance has a volunteer killer have to obtain love outside of a war? How much longer could my luck hold out, regardless of skills and training?
You were there when they awarded those medals to me, and you genuinely seemed proud of me, and you took my pictures when the Wing photographer seemed to snub my presence. I often wonder now what you did with those pictures. Before each presentation you would remind me that they really only like giving awards to officers in the AF, based upon the primary air combat role; but you would assure me that I deserved those awards and not to let the presence of all the officers affect my bearing as one who “out performed them every step of the way”.
When I last saw you at the beginning of June, you knew I was starting to have trouble justifying the killings of non-combatants, killings to stop food shipments to starving villages (not just rebels). You knew I was starting to question the policies. You didn’t know about the last three missions. The objectives were obfuscated to allow misconduct and force political killings… killing of nuns, pregnant woman and husband, rapist Salvadoran army guards. These things hit me slowly, then with the force of a hurricane. My god how I wanted you at those debriefings and just to talk with about the details! My god how I needed you when I told them I couldn’t do it anymore, killing for a corporatist political agenda (fascist)! I felt like I had become what I hated most in all the world, a Nazi fucking stooge! They made me meet with every fucking commander on the base. I met with the squadron commanders. I met with the Group commander. I met with the Wing commander. I met with the former Wing chaplain whose advice was “Don’t let the bastards screw ya”! EVERYONE in the CSG had an opinion on what a low-life commie simp I was! Scared! Unpatriotic! Treasonous! Yellow! Pussy! etc... Lo and behold, Major Fleming showed up himself to berate me, and tell me how worthless I was except for killing; with his little Lt Toto barking by his side. Yet after all that, even at the last minute, after having stripped me of my medals, awards, etc… they told me they “could make all this go away if you’d simply go back in the field”… but I couldn’t. It seemed like in a manner of two months, my entire world shattered in my hands… my entire belief system of who I thought I was or wanted to be blew up in my face, leaving me permanently wounded and scarred.
Last year I learned that the Major (who retired as a Colonel) had written a book taking credit for going into Iran. He said he took in a collapsible motorcycle to run around in that canyon. He seemed to have forgotten the village to the north and the Iranian army unit stationed in that village, or the radio tower, or the communication lines, etc... After I stopped laughing (he forgot a pack shovel to bury the lights), I was enraged, and I’ve been that way ever since when I think about him and his useless foppishness. Lt Weasel still makes me burn with rage.
But that’s a tangent. You were very important to me… for me. If not for you, I never would have survived, never married, never had children. I regret yelling at you in the Philippines that you were a sadistic fuck. You knew what I was heading into, and you tried telling me, but I didn’t listen well enough. But nevertheless, you did prepare me, and I remembered the things you taught me, because you were an excellent teacher. Talking about you with my wife yesterday, I could once again see your eyes burning into me, willing me to learn, stay alive, and stay human. I could see your face clearly again for the first time in years.
I’ve missed you since 1981. I wish I could talk to you now. I loved you then. I love you now.
Rubicon
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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, another combat veteran. You can find him mostly on SubStack. He can be reached at O.Griobhtha+XRubicon@gmail.com.