I Fobbit or Sergeant Fobbit

‘Fobbits suck,’ I read this

every day as I close the

door of the port-a-john.

Nice to know I suck. Although how

this kid would know, I can’t tell.

I joined in ’87 when I was 17.

Being young and stupid I followed

my recruiter’s advise and

trained in the chemical coir.

I quickly learned that war is

            at it’s best when it only

            features blood and bullets.

Nerve agent and mustard gas

            make those old things seem

            quaint and desirable.

My war plan expanded to saving

            my guys from Cold War

            weapons of mass destruction.

I knew that if I was ever called

            to do my job, it would be

            hell for those few that survived.

And hell for me picking up the

pieces. And likely, doing my

job would be the end of me.

I taught and trained with no

            thanks and no help. Commanders

            and first sergeants shut me down.

The Gulf War came and quickly

            went. My brief moment of

            importance died.

And finally my time was up,

            I got out. I swore I

            would never do it again.

Then 9-11 came, and I though

            maybe I was wrong, but the

            time didn’t seem right.

So I stayed out.

Iraq came back, and I looked

            again. But still, even

            with chemical need,

I stayed out.

2006 and a well placed brochure,

            things had changed and

            I was needed back.

Two years later I stood in Afghanistan, with

a promise from my first sergeant:

I would not leave the wire.

So on this fob I sit, and old

            Fobbit. Doing a job I’m not trained

            for, and not needed for.

But young man, when things come

            down, and you find you’re

            not as hot as you think.

I’m the old, wise sergeant that

            is ready to reach down and

            pull you out of the mess...

You made.