The Tragedy of Drug Abuse

Being a cop means getting used to all of the worst parts of people’s lives. We resolve problems for the good guys, put the bad guys in jail, and comfort people who have suffered the inevitable tragedies of life.

As a patrol officer, street crimes cop, and detective, I have seen the results of murder, suicide, accidental death, and natural death. When it is someone you don’t have a connection with, it’s sad enough. Sometimes, though, the person is someone you have known before, however briefly.

I grew up in Central Florida, so I am always running into someone I haven’t seen for thirty or more years. When that happens, we are polite to each other, even though we don’t look anything like we did when we were in high school. Okay, we’re old, for crying out loud.

It is a much more sobering experience to have known someone as a youngster only to have them die from a drug overdose in the city where I am a cop. Such an incident happened to me recently when a man died alone in his apartment. One of his brothers was my age.

I wasn't the primary officer on this call, so I learned his name as I helped the medical examiner load his body into a van. Although we weren’t close friends in our youth, it was still difficult to realize that his life was over and that it ended in such a wasted manner. It was sad for him, tragic for his family and friends, and eye-opening for those who knew him over the many decades of his life. It isn’t easy to see someone throw their lives away when they had so much opportunity.

I once stopped a beat-up old car filled with personal belongings. When the man handed me his driver’s license, I saw a disheveled individual with a scraggly beard. Here was a guy who was barely surviving. Then I looked at the name on the license. I was flabbergasted.

It was a professional I had known a few years before. We had even done some business together. He had his own successful company, and his name appeared frequently in the society columns. Now he looked like he was one step above living under an overpass.

When I asked him what had happened, he sighed and said, “Crack.” I couldn’t believe that this intelligent college graduate had actually fallen prey to crack cocaine.

“My God, man,” I asked him. “How could you even touch that stuff?”

He looked at me through eyes that were old before their time. “It was always there,” he said softly. “The cocktail parties, the high society functions. I thought I could handle it just like I thought I could handle everything. It took over my life the first time I used it.”

This wealthy, successful man had lost his wife, his children, his home, his business, and everything he owned was in the back of this car.

I tried to encourage him to seek help. He said, “Thanks, but I’ll take care of it.” It was a polite way to tell me to mind my own business.

I let him go without a ticket, but I got a phone call from him a couple of months later. He had a new job, and he wanted to meet me for lunch. After we met at a McDonald’s, he took me to see his new office where he had a sales job. He was dressed nicely in a shirt and tie, and his attitude was positive.

I told him to stay in touch and let me know how things went for him. He said he would call me and tell me how many sales he was making.

I never heard from him again.

Charles M. Grist
www.TheCobraTeam.com
www.AmericanRanger.blogspot.com

Marine Vietnam Vet Awarded Silver Star After 40 Years

It’s always nice to see a fellow Vietnam veteran (and fellow cop) honored, even if it’s long past due:

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Orlando-area man receives Silver Star for Vietnam heroics 40 years later

Gary Taylor
Staff Writer
Orlando Sentinel
November 28, 2008

For decades, Frank Ambrose never questioned why he didn't receive a medal for a firefight in Vietnam that killed or wounded everyone in his 15-man patrol.

After all, a medal wouldn't bring back the friends he lost that day outside Da Nang when his group of Marines stumbled upon two battalions of the North Vietnamese Army.

"We didn't care about medals back then," Ambrose said. "That was the last thing on our minds."

The enemy soldiers were just as surprised as the outnumbered Americans that day -- Feb. 7, 1968 -- which might be the reason Ambrose lived to talk about the ordeal and to hold the Silver Star he was recently awarded 40 years late.

About half his patrol was killed that day, including the Marines on either side of Ambrose when a rocket-propelled grenade hit as they took cover in a roadside ditch. "It blew all three of us out of the ditch."

He was hit above the eye by shrapnel that is still there. "My face was covered with blood," he said.

"I was the only one left conscious in the front group," he said, recalling how he stood his ground with a machine gun until another group of Marines arrived, alerted by a call from the patrol's radio man just as the attack began.

Although Da Nang was attacked by the North Vietnamese Army, it was the only major city in South Vietnam that didn't suffer a major attack, and Ambrose thinks it was because his patrol interrupted the enemy as they were preparing to launch it.

"If they had known we were coming, they would have set up a better ambush for us," he said.

But neither side was ready for the battle. "My flak vest was open," Ambrose said.

"I just opened up," he said, firing "every place I saw a muzzle flash."

At one point, so many bullets were hitting the ground in front of Ambrose that it felt as though his face was being sandblasted.

Gathering ammo from fallen Marines, Ambrose fired for 30 to 40 minutes before the first medevac helicopter arrived. "I was told to get on it," he recalled.

Instead, he got more ammunition and continued firing. He watched as more than 20 enemy soldiers ran across a dike in a rice paddy, and he shot as many of them as he could.

A somber expression crossed Ambrose's face as he talked about that.

"Every one of them had mothers, dads, sisters, brothers. That's something to think about."

When a second helicopter arrived, Ambrose climbed aboard. He could see enemy soldiers running, so he got ammunition from the helicopter's gunner and continued shooting.

"I just opened up on them," he said. "I don't know whether I hit anybody or not. I shot till I got out of range."

Soon after Ambrose arrived at a hospital, a one-star general and a gunnery sergeant showed up with a tape recorder to ask him about the firefight and told him he had been recommended for a medal. The award never came, and Ambrose never asked about it. At the time, he was a private first class, but Ambrose left the military a lance corporal.

After his discharge, Ambrose returned to Central Florida and spent more than 20 years in law enforcement, most of it with the Seminole County Sheriff's Office. He and his wife of 28 years, Barbara, live in Longwood. They have two sons, both in the Air Force.

About four years ago, Ambrose attended a military reunion and ran into one of the Marines he helped save during the firefight. The man asked what medal Ambrose received, and Ambrose told him he didn't get one.

"The next thing I know, the colonel was talking to me," Ambrose said.

That was Col. William K. Rockey, his retired battalion commander, who never knew that Ambrose didn't receive the Silver Star for his actions that day.

Earlier this year, Ambrose, 60, received a phone call telling him the president had given him the award.

"They asked me where I wanted to receive it," said Ambrose, who asked if it could just be mailed to him.

Not hardly, he was told. "They told me I could pick any military base in the world."

Ambrose had never been back to Parris Island, S.C., where he reported as a recruit, so that was his choice.

In September, with a 40-member Marine Corps band playing, and with all the pomp and pageantry he likes to avoid, Ambrose received his medal.

A lot had changed in 40 years. The first time Ambrose was at Parris Island, he walked around with a drill sergeant's nose stuck to the back of his head, Ambrose said.

"This time I was the guest of the commanding general for four days."

Gary Taylor can be reached at gtaylor@orlandosentinel.com or 386-851-7910.

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Congratulations to former lance corporal and retired law enforcement officer Frank Ambrose.

Charles M. Grist
www.TheCobraTeam.com
www.AmericanRanger.blogspot.com

The Mission Continues, etc.

I spent the weekend in the “northland” where this Florida boy endured snow flurries mixed with rain and the cold weather was the kind I really don’t care for. (They don’t even have grits up there…)

Now that I’m back in Central Florida, I’ve come down with a bad cold (the Yankees did it to me, mama…) along with a few other unpleasant symptoms. Debbie will have to put up with me for a day or so (yeah, I’ll get the chicken soup routine) and then it will be back to the Army grind.

We were working once again with a unit that will soon head to war. These guys are used to the cold so they’ll need to do some adjusting no matter which war zone they go to. I traveled with one of our officers, a major who is also a cop.

So while I’m sitting around the house today sick, writing my report on our trip, Debbie’s favorite cat, Trixie, “escapes” from the house through a window (unlike the above cat who didn't get away).

Trixie is an indoor cat who ran into a dog outside and fled fifty feet up a tree. We managed to get a very long ladder up about half way, but she spent about six hours up there. Just when we thought we’d get her down, she fell onto a shed and dislocated her hip.

Sad thing, but she will have surgery tomorrow to repair the damage as best as can be done for a kitty-cat. We have several pets, but this one is almost my wife’s “fifth child”.

It kind of reminds me of an unusual convoy in Iraq back in 2004:

* * * *

One very hot and miserable day, we sat in the staging area at Camp Victory waiting for General Davidson to finish his meetings. Lieutenant Cooper came by and said he just received a phone call from one of the unit’s officers. This particular officer was at Baghdad International Airport waiting for a flight to a nearby country for a four-day pass.

Cooper told me we were ordered to go to the airport to pick up a “package”. As we pulled out of Camp Victory’s main gate onto Route Irish and turned right to go to BIAP, I joked with the guys that we were probably going to pick up a new cage for the officer’s cat. This soldier had adopted an Iraqi cat, made sure it was vaccinated and examined by the unit’s veterinarians and arrangements were made to ship it home to the States.

As we drove up to the military terminal at BIAP, this officer and a traveling companion were dressed in their country club casual clothes and they were relaxing in lounge chairs waiting for their flight. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the pet cage next to them. They planned to take the cat to Kuwait and ship it home like a stuffed toy.

Unfortunately for them, the British military, upon whose plane they were booked, said there was no way they were going to carry a cat on their plane. It was unbelievable but true. The “package” we were ordered to pick up was this orange and white Iraqi cat. My mighty warriors were now pet-sitters.

My blood pressure began to rise, but Cooper was in a very awkward position. For the cat’s owner to make me bring my guys out of Camp Victory onto the most dangerous road on earth and go to BIAP to pick up a damned personally-owned feline was an unbelievable abuse of authority.

As I stood outside our Humvee and listened to all of this, I began to get really pissed off. In fact, I was so angry I turned around and went and sat in the vehicle. I knew if I didn’t do so I was about to say something that would get me in trouble.

Higginbotham was sitting in the driver’s seat and he was already getting a laugh out of the whole thing. His window was open and he heard the officer say in a thick southern accent, “Ah don’t know if ah want Sahgent Grist to carry mah cat. He’s an asshole.” I didn’t hear the comment, but I heard Chad begin to chuckle.

Poor Cooper. With his eyeballs rolling back into his head in disbelief, he took the pet carrier and put it in the back seat of our Humvee. We drove out of the airport, back out onto Route Irish and returned to Camp Victory where we would wait for several more hours for the general.

Now the challenge really began. This poor cat was existing in a pet carrier in one hundred and twenty degree heat. As time wore on, we began to notice that the cat was looking a little “ragged”. Aaron took it out of the carrier and the foreign feline had gone from being a lively little ball of fur to looking as though it was melting. Its ears hung low, its fur drooped and the corners of its eyes began to dip downward. The poor little bastard had heat exhaustion.

A massive life-saving effort began and we turned the Humvee on so the air conditioner would run, using a great deal of U.S. Army gasoline to try and keep this cat alive. We offered it water, but it wouldn’t drink. We held its little jaws open, forced water into it and slowly, over an hour or so, the little guy began to come around. The water made a big difference, but the cool air was the deciding factor to me.

The general was finally ready to leave, so we drove up to the entrance of the Water Palace to pick him up. The little Arabian cat sat in his carrier in the back seat of our Humvee and the general probably never knew he was there. Cooper was a good guy and, even though what this officer did was improper, he protected the soldier’s reputation with the boss. We ended up giving the cat to one of the unit’s soldiers back in the Green Zone until its owner returned.

I made a short video later about the “cat convoy” as a joke for the animal’s owner. I thought about ending it with the cat’s body being sold as food to the Iraqis, but I figured that would be in bad “taste”.

* * * *

See? I really like cats….with a little mustard on whole wheat bread…..just kidding!!!

SFC Chuck Grist
www.AmericanRanger.blogspot.com

Countdown to Army Retirement

It’s hard to believe that I became 58 today. With less than two years before my mandatory Army retirement date, I am anxious to serve one more overseas tour in the war on terror. Unfortunately, I am having a difficult time getting released from my training unit because, like everyone else in the Army, they are short of soldiers, too.

I am trying to convince them that my many years of military service should be put to better use before I hang up the uniform for good. Yes, I know I can accomplish things here by helping to train American soldiers, but there are plenty of combat veterans who don’t want to re-deploy right now. They have many more years in which to serve. I don’t.

The Army has a lot of qualified soldiers who want to return to Iraq or Afghanistan, but who are being held back by their units. Training Iraqi or Afghan soldiers or cops would be a terrific way to close out my career. I would also enjoy participating on one of the Provincial Reconstruction Teams. My contacts in Iraq tell me that their mission on these teams has been rewarding and important. With my law enforcement experience (and my previous business background of self-employment), I believe I have a set of skills that could make a difference.

I first entered the Army over 38 years ago. It was never important to me that I make general or sergeant major. My reward has been to make small differences over the years.

As I enter my last two years of military service, I hope the Army will let me participate in one last overseas mission. I am not asking for special favors; the Army is actively looking for trainers and members of the PRTs. Here I am….

Wish me luck.

SFC Chuck Grist
www.AmericanRanger.blogspot.com

Lieutenant Matt Belfi: Philly Cop & Warrior Pilot

“Without a doubt, of all the cities that I have visited in the East,
Baghdad is the most beautiful and the most important, to my mind.
It is an oasis in the middle of the surrounding desert, a queen born
of the desert peoples that traversed her land, and finally,
the capital of a powerful empire of the future.”
Count Laurent de Sercey (1840)

One of my new Baghdad correspondents is First Lieutenant Matthew J. Belfi, a Pennsylvania National Guardsman and helicopter pilot. From his vantage point in the heart of the Green Zone at the U. S. Embassy, Lt. Belfi can see and feel everything going on in that wartime headquarters building. He works on the travel coordination team for Ambassador Khalilzad, but he also recently co-coordinated the in-country travel for Attorney General Alberto Gonzales.

When I was in Baghdad in 2004, the embassy always reminded me of an old Humphrey Bogart movie. It’s located in Saddam Hussein’s former presidential palace and the place is filled with generals, admirals, civilian mercenaries, Iraqis and the soldiers and civilians from Coalition countries. With all the diplomats and spies lurking around, it seemed to have some of the intrigue of Rick’s Café in Casablanca.

In one of his emails, the lieutenant talked about the increase in rocket and mortar fire into the Green Zone. He said the front of the embassy was hit by an incoming round which failed to explode. The insurgents fire a lot of rockets, but rocket scientists they are not.

Like every pilot I ever knew, Lt. Belfi would rather spend his time flying and he has the warrior spirit that one would expect of a former infantryman. He’s also a cop in Philadelphia, so he possesses the natural instincts of a hunter of men. Guys like this are meant to be at the tip of the spear.

As someone who remembers what it was like to be a highly motivated young officer, I admire this American warrior. I am proud to serve in the war on terror with courageous men and women like Matt Belfi who are willing to step forward at such a critical time in our nation’s history.

Regardless of the political outcome of the conflict in general, these warriors have given every ounce of their dedication, their skill and their courage. They are the best of our nation’s soul and we are blessed to have them standing between us and those who would hurt us.

SFC Chuck Grist
http://www.americanranger.blogspot.com/