photogrammatical

My ‘Marine Families‘ project has been going well. I’ve been logging a lot of miles recently, traveling all over California to photograph the families of my Marines in Afghanistan.  It’s been a labor of love for me, and as rewarding as any project I can imagine.

I received a phone call on Christmas Day, and several emails back from the boys whose families I’ve photographed so far.  They’ve all been short and straightforward, much like the emails I’ve sent to them.  There is a lot that goes unsaid between us, but it will suffice to say that we understand each other perfectly.

I have been touched and deeply honored by the graciousness of these Marines’ wives and girlfriends.  Allowed to share in news from the front, to know the men’s hearts and mindsets in words that Marines never say to one another, only whispered in crowded phone tents with the clock ticking and other men waiting behind.

I see now the full measure of what these women shoulder at home.  A Marine deployed is surrounded by men in his same situation.  Everyone is lonesome. Everyone is homesick.  There is not much reason to talk about it unless the hurt is too great.  When men wait to read their mail alone, you let them.  Other than those few private moments at night, the men are in it together.  That’s how they get through things when being overwhelmed is not an option.

That’s not how it is back home.  The women don’t wake up together to share cigarettes and black coffee.  Their web of support is spread out and disjointed.  They are surrounded by people who don’t understand because they simply cannot.  Still they must go to work and take care of the children and run a household as though their men were on a camping trip together.  Knowing full well that the next Marine they see could be wearing Dress Blues and standing on the front porch.

Make no mistake, I’m not saying that one side of a deployment is easier than the other.  They are very different, and should not be viewed in competition.  What I am saying is that these women, these families, bear a burden that they have not been trained for, and that they bear it with a kind of poise and steadfastness that you’d expect from a Marine, but that isn’t something you learn in Boot Camp, and it isn’t something that requires a uniform.  I believe it’s that thing at the core of words like Honor and Patriotism.  Not all the partisan bullshit that has been attached to them, but the actual definitions, that even cynics know exist.

Can I show something in a photograph that I can barely explain in words?  Perhaps not.  But I can try.

The My Heart is Across the Ocean project now has a Facebook page, making it even easier to follow.  I’ll be posting project updates here on the blog, but the Facebook page offers a bit more personal/casual look into the logistics of the work and that’s where I’ll be posting things like behind-the-scenes snaps and engaging in public discussions and commentary.  I hope you’ll follow along as we inch closer to the day my boys come home and this project comes to fruition.

If you’ve watched my video message to the boys you know it’s been an emotional holiday season at my house.  My old Marine unit is in Afghanistan on their first deployment without me. Now I’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to be on the other side of separation, and it turns out that neither side is easy. I have so many Google Alerts set that every time they hit the news wire I know about it. Anytime casualties are reported, I hold my breath until I know it wasn’t one of mine. Even then there is a measure of loss involved, but between two tragedies you have to hope for the one you can bear.

When I joined the Marine Corps I knew what I was getting into when I signed my name on the dotted line. I was as mentally prepared as I could be and I figured out the rest along the way. What I didn’t realize at the time, and perhaps am only appreciating now, is that I’d signed my family up behind me for everything but the fighting and dying. Maybe a little of that too, sometimes.

While I have no regrets about having been a Marine, I’ve started to understand what it takes to care about one (or many). And that is no small thing when normal life continues on around you.

I’ve been seeing a lot of that quiet strength recently, as I’ve been driving all over Southern California photographing the wives, girlfriends, and families of my Marines overseas. It started as a Christmas present for them, but it is fast becoming an intensely personal, personal project for me. One that I plan on continuing until their return.

Traveling from home to home photographing the boys’ families has allowed me to continue to feel connected to them while they are away. I’ve been allowed a peek behind the curtain, into the personal lives of men who seem to be as gentle and caring at home as they are stoic and steadfast in uniform. Reconciling these versions of them for myself has only made them more dear to me.

I’ve decided to name the project after a song my father recorded for me when I was in Iraq, at a time when he was grappling with some of the same feelings I have now, plus some I may never know.

My Heart Across the Ocean (Click to Listen)
©2003 Bob Bennett

You can read more about the song here.  Stay tuned for more on the project.

Happy New Year!

A Christmas video message to my Marines in Afghanistan.

Sunday was Family Day for Alpha Company.  I rode down to Camp Pendleton with the man who was once my Platoon Commander.  Neither of us are in the unit anymore, but we still have strong ties to the men, and couldn’t let them go without seeing them off.  My father sent along a bottle of Ireland’s finest to be stowed for the journey.

Family Days precede every deployment.  This one had all the usual sights.  A bounce house for the little ones, parents seated at picnic tables in the sun, a hot dog station that was certain to run out of food.  A couple of LAVs were in the parking lot swarmed by kids, their mothers watching nervously, knowing full well that experienced crewman fall off of them all the time.

I was introduced to a whole squad of new wives and fiances, another familiar pre-deployment ritual.  Marines generally use last names when referring to each other, but when meeting a significant other, introductions are always made with first names.  If asked, any Marine would tell you it is to make themselves seem friendly and approachable, but I have a personal theory that it is also to disassociate one’s self from any indelicate stories that may have been told.  “Oh, you’re THAT Bennett.”

A couple of the old Black Sheep showed up, families in tow.  It was awfully good to see them.  Together, we inspected the new up-armor modifications that our vehicles have received since we last lived in them.  This led to criticisms like “Now where will the cooler go?”, and “That new turret shielding will make it kind of difficult to swing a Nerf Bat at the kids trying to steal your pack.”  Indeed, we are untapped resources when it comes to assault vehicle design.

On Monday morning I picked up the newly minted Staff Sergeant Vanderpol from his father’s machine shop in Newport Beach.  I’d offered to take him back down after he’d ditched his truck and the civilian gear he’d been keeping on base.  He was waiting for me out front, his two sea bags, pack, and carry-on stacked behind him. This is to be his fourth deployment, and his experience shows.  There were no last minute errands to run, everything was packed and ready.

When we arrived at the Battalion Area, word came down that their flight was to be a delayed until Wednesday, and that the Marines were to be released until then.  Wives and parents were there, happy of course to have their men for a few more days, but I’d seen those looks on my own family’s faces before.  It had taken a lot of emotional wind up just to get into the car that morning.  They’d only steeled themselves through mid-afternoon.

Vandy and I headed south to Sgt. Paul Acosta’s house in San Diego.  We hung out all afternoon, the three of us drinking beer and relaxing.  We ended the night with a sushi dinner and an old John Wayne favorite.

I woke up early Tuesday morning on Acosta’s couch, my jacket wrapped around my chest.  I lay there without moving for a long time.  The morning was very gray and very still.

Vandy was sleeping in the loft above me.  I didn’t even raise my voice.

“Are you awake?”, I said.

“Yeah, I’m up.”

I could tell by his voice he’d been awake for a while.  It occurred to me that whatever he’d been thinking about up there in silence was probably more than I’d had to worry about lately.

“Join me for a beer then?” , I said.

He answered back, “While I still can.”

When Acosta woke up, we three went out for coffee and some proper breakfast burritos.  When the meal was over, and everything that would be said was said, I shook the boys’ hands, got in my truck, and started driving north.  Back towards the decisions I’ve made.

Half the boys took off on Wednesday, the other half left just this afternoon.  Next stop Afghanistan.

There is more than a small part of me that wants terribly to catch up with them somewhere out there in the desert.  Unexpected, and good for morale.  Like a brother showing up to the big away game, camera in hand.

There are a few small logistical issues I’d have to figure out, but in the meantime;

Godspeed to you my fine Marines.  You make me so humble, so grateful, and so immeasurably proud.

Black Sheep Platoon, 2004

I got the call from one of my Marines. My old unit is going to Afghanistan, sooner rather than later. They’ll be there before Christmas, possibly before Thanksgiving. My first thought was how fast can I lose 20 pounds and get through the re-enlistment process? I’d been considering this for a while now. While I have no interest in being a stateside Marine anymore, lately the thought of my boys deploying without me has been keeping me up at night. I wondered it aloud and my buddy said,

“It’d take too long. Our slots are all full anyway, you’d just get left behind. Don’t sweat it, man, we got this one.”

WE got this one. It stung, but I needed to hear it put that way.

The truth is, the WE that I was a part of doesn’t exist in the way I want it to anymore. Shortly after I left, my platoon, Black Sheep Platoon, was disbanded and dispersed. Most of the old crew got out, but a few stayed in and climbed the ladder. The Marines whom I’d been responsible for, the young ones whom have never been to war, now have Marines of their own to worry about. Some of them would even outrank me. That’s how the military has always worked, I suppose.

Deep down in my heart I’d give anything to have that old gang back together, the Black Sheep who went to war together. Even the assholes. It sounds cliche when I say it out loud, but we were young and seemingly invincible together. We trusted one another. The same guy that would get drunk and punch you in the face one night would be your closest confidant the next. I have the scars to prove it. Some on my face, some on my knuckles.

Most of the Black Sheep are out now. They’re spread out over the western states, living their own lives, doing whatever it is warfighters do after they’ve taken themselves out of the fight. A few of us have talked about the grand reunions we’ll have, but reality isn’t like the end of White Christmas. Kids get sick, jobs come up, cash gets tight, water mains break. We’ll probably never all be in the same room together again.

Then comes this news of the unit headed to Afghanistan. I’ve never worried for any Marine before. The Black Sheep had me, I had them, other Marines had other Marines. We were all covered. As illogical as it sounds, the thought that some of my old boys will be over there without me feels like I’m letting them down somehow, leaving a hole in their ranks that my own chest was supposed to fill. I know that’s not true, I know I was replaced by a younger, faster, better Marine the day I left, but that doesn’t change anything. These next 8-10 months I’ll lay awake at night and worry about them. It’s a feeling I dread down in my guts. It’s a feeling I know I put my own family through more than once.

I guess this is what vulnerability feels like, and I don’t care for it one bit.