The Burrito Mile

An Unrewarded Act of Valor

[Note to readers: This piece was originally published in Issue 12 of Man’s World Magazine, check it out here.]

I recently saw a meme shared by a boomer mutual that compared Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, winner of World War II, to the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Mark Milley, loser of two wars (and high school football teammate of Admiral “Rachel” Levine). The meme made fun of Milley for having multitudes of awards on his chest, in contrast with Eisenhower’s paltry three medals despite his impressive battlefield record. 

Seeing this made me reflect on the topic of medal inflation, and my own lacklustrious military career. 

When I was an officer in another life, one of my least favorite duties was submitting my Marines for awards, which required an extensive multi-page write-up, then jamming that information succinctly into a short citation that some mildly literate staff noncommissioned officer would stumblingly read at the ceremony. 

I worked with some really great people, but there was always just this lame, goofy feeling writing an award citation for someone along the lines of “so and so captured over 150 photos of 233rd Supply Induction Maintenance Platoon (SIMP) operations, directly contributing to theater-level strategic messaging and reassuring partners and allies and the twelve followers of the unit Facebook page of the strength of the U.S. - Japan alliance” or some other such military buzzword claptrap. I was a public affairs officer, so military buzzword claptrap was unfortunately my specialty, but boy, the Kool-Aid is even more unappealing when you’re the one mixing the stuff. I wrote the awards and made sure the right Marines got recognized, but oftentimes it just felt damn silly, and nowadays they really do have awards for everything, with many service members receiving medals for simply existing during the covid-19 pandemic. 

The late great David Hackworth, a U.S. Army colonel fired and exiled for speaking out against the Vietnam War, wrote in his memoir About Face that he gave extra scrutiny to valor awards given to officers, who he routinely witnessed submitting themselves for Bronze or Silver Stars for things that junior enlisted infantrymen encountered everyday during the Korean War. Heck, the Air Force even gave a guy a Distinguished Flying Cross for flying a bombing mission during Iraq War II that missed it’s target completely, killing 16 civilians. 

Anyway, all this thinking on the subject got me reflecting on my own career, and I realized that my proudest and most impressive accomplishment was something I never received an award for.

U.S. Army Rangers that fought in the Battle of Mogadishu in 1993 have the legendary “Mogadishu Mile” of “Black Hawk Down” lore, where they madly dashed through the streets of Mogadishu to safety, dodging AK-wielding Somalis hopped up on amphetamines. But I alone have the distinct honor of completing what will be remembered (at least by loyal Man’s World readers!) as “The Burrito Mile”, which in some ways was just as harrowing. 

So there I was, on a stiflingly hot evening in [REDACTED]. I anxiously glanced around the open-air flea market, shifting in my cheap plastic seat that felt like it may snap under my weight at any moment. Where is that damn burrito? My pal Mick, and a more senior officer meanwhile eagerly dug into their large plates heaped with bland goyslop.

“You should just head back bro, otherwise you’re not going to make it in time. You don’t want to be late for this meeting,” Mick said. 

The issue was that I, First World Refugee, a lowly second lieutenant, was the public affairs officer for this large exercise, and I had a brief with the commanding officer, a colonel, and his staff at 6 p.m., and it was now a quarter til’. It was critical that I make it back in time to brief the big cheese on how well our propaga — I mean strategic communications — was supporting the operation. 

But there was no way I was leaving just yet. I paid nearly $3 for this burrito, and I was committed to seeing this through. Sunk cost fallacy be damned!

5:49

Finally, there she was, the petite waitress buckling under the weight of my enormous burrito as she staggered toward me like Sisyphus struggling up the hill, with my long-awaited meal. The platter was lowered onto the wobbly table, and I swear I felt its spindly legs sink an inch into the mud.

My compatriots looked at me, and then at their watches. 

5:50

“You should really go man, there’s no way you’re going to have time to eat all of that and make it back in time for the brief. As it is, I don’t know if you’ll make it, that’s a mile walk!” said Mick, half-laughingly. 

“Not an issue, that gives me 3 minutes to eat this and then 7 minutes to run a mile. I can run a 7-minute mile in my sleep,” I told him brazenly. 

Mick and the taciturn older officer shook their heads in a mixture of amusement and disbelief, or at least, that’s what I assume they did. I was no longer looking at them. I already had my head buried in burrito, tucking into this massive mediocre monstrosity that looked like it had been assembled by someone holding onto the back of a moped speeding through Bangkok. 

My approach was similar to that of your local SWAT team when they conduct a raid on the neighborhood right wing extremist guilt of harassing innocent teachers for connecting their kindergarteners with gender-affirming care clinics behind their parents’ backs: rapid and ruthless. Multiple times I nearly choked on a mouthful of machaca before getting it down my gullet through nothing more than sheer force of will. Similar to a SWAT raid, the carnage was over in 3 minutes or less, to the amazement of all those unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity of the operation. 

With that done I thanked my friends for their company, wiped some salsa shrapnel from my mouth, and then dismissed myself for the meeting. I immediately took off at a dead sprint, narrowly missing several other diners as I exfiltrated the battlefield. 

At first, I felt great. My legs and arms pumped effortlessly, and the rush of the wind on my face felt invigorating. It was a mile straight-shot back to the command post, I could see the lights in the distance and knew I simply had to keep my eyes on the prize. I could run a mile in my sleep. 

By about the half-mile mark, I began to realize the folly of what I had done. Even just one less spoonful of burrito could have saved me both precious time and the bellyache I was now feeling rumbling up from below. I don’t know if I can do this…

But then, in that moment, right when I wanted to quit, I thought about that Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell. If he had quit…I’m just kidding I didn’t think about that fraud, I just thought about how if I showed up late to this meeting, I would get ripped a new one in front of everyone. So I put some pep in my step and soldiered — er, Marine’d — on valiantly. 

Somehow, I finished the run. Stopping just outside the command post to adjust my uniform and wipe the sweat from my brow, I glanced at my watch and noticed I had made it with 30 seconds to spare. I walked in and took my seat among the other officers, sweat immediately forming a minor putrid lagoon on my spot at the table, garnering bewildered glances from these men who had no idea the vicious combat I had just been through. I cracked a stupid joke to the disgusted major sitting next to me, “What’s the matter Sir, Marines are amphibious right? Ha..” He sort of half smiled and turned back to his notes disapprovingly. He has no idea. None of them do. Damn POGs.

None of them would ever know. I would never receive a shiny award or even a pat on the back, but this was truly my proudest Marine Corps accomplishment.