Fullbore Friday

Of course.

Check out who's next to the First Lady

...tonight for the SOTU (President Bush's last). Our Shipmate will be there.

Dr. Bill Krissoff was commissioned Lieutenant Commander in the Navy Medical Corps on November 17, 2007, at the age of 61. His decision to apply to the Navy Medical Corps to care for Marines came in response to the death of his oldest son. In December 2006, his son First Lieutenant Nathan Krissoff, USMC, who was serving as a Counterintelligence Officer with the 3rd Recon Battalion in Iraq, was killed in combat. Inspired by his son’s commitment and dedication to serving his country, Dr. Krissoff decided to apply himself. Initially told by his recruiter that it was very unlikely that he would qualify because of the age limit, Dr. Krissoff did not give up. During a private meeting with President Bush in Reno, Nevada, Dr. Krissoff asked for assistance on an age waiver for the Navy Medical Corps. The wavier was soon granted so that he could begin the application process. Now commissioned, he is preparing for deployment as an Orthopedist in a Forward Resuscitative Surgical System (FRSS), a Level II combat surgical team treating injured Marines in the field. Dr. Krissoff has closed his private practice, and he and his wife, Christine, have relocated to the San Diego, California area, where he is assigned to the 4th Medical Battalion, 4th Marine Logistics Group. In addition, the Krissoff’s youngest son, Second Lieutenant Austin Krissoff, USMC, is stationed at Camp Pendleton, California.

Hat tip The Corner.

America's future is safe

The kids are alright. ....and at least in the USA we are making babies.

A 14-year-old boy came face to face with a burglar ransacking his Mesa home on Tuesday and used a baseball bat to level the playing field.

Michael Six hid in his bedroom closet and called 911 after seeing a man using a screwdriver to break into a sliding-glass door.

The Kino Junior High ninth-grader talked in a low voice as he described the burglar's whereabouts.

hen, Michael, clutching an aluminum baseball bat, heard his locked bedroom door rattle as the man used the screwdriver to bust in.

"You need to get out of the window," the 911 operator told Michael.

"I can't," he answered with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

"I didn't know what to do," Michael said Wednesday. "I didn't think I could pop (the window) open. My adrenaline was running. I was scared."

The man was still clutching the screwdriver as he rummaged through the boy's backpack. Then, Michael, a 5-foot-10-inch, 150-pound former baseball player, stepped out and swung.

The burglar cursed as Michael nailed him on the lower back and on the left shoulder.

"Sorry, man!" Michael yelled amid the chaos.

BTW, in the UK and most of Europe, that kid would be arrested; fact - here he is a hero. Ain't it great to be an American? Steyn is right in America Alone: The End of the World as We Know It.

Planet's testosterone level just fell

A great man, a mensch. If a young man wanted to know as a man how to reach greatness, and how to act after, Sir Edmond Hillary would be a great start.

Sir Edmund Hillary, the first person to stand atop the world's highest mountain, was remembered Friday as a deeply driven but unassuming man who strived to help the people of Nepal in the decades after his ascent of Mount Everest.
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Hillary, who died Friday of a heart attack at 88, will have a state funeral in New Zealand, where he began the mountaineering career that took him and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay to the tallest point on earth, a spokesman for his family said.

A giant has left us.

Andrew Olmstead's Last Post

A blogger, Andrew Olmsted, was recently killed in Iraq. In case that happened, he had a post in draft.

...while you're free to think whatever you like about my life and death, if you think I wasted my life, I'll tell you you're wrong. We're all going to die of something. I died doing a job I loved. When your time comes, I hope you are as fortunate as I was.

A very good use of a few minutes of your time. Please read it all. Chap has some more.

Hat tip Michael Ledeen at The Corner.

On Christmas Day

Walking the walk.

On Sept. 6, 2003, halfway through his 13-month deployment, Southworth and his military police unit paid a visit to the orphanage. They played and chatted with the children; Southworth was talking with one little girl when Ala'a dragged his body to the soldier's side.

Black haired and brown eyed, Ala'a spoke to the 31-year-old American in the limited English he had learned from the sisters. He recalled the bombs that struck government buildings across the Tigris River.

"Bomb-Bing! Bomb-Bing!" Ala'a said, raising and lowering his fist.

"I'm here now. You're fine," the captain said.

Over the next 10 months, the unit returned to the orphanage again and again. The soldiers would race kids in their wheelchairs, sit them in Humvees and help the sisters feed them.

To Southworth, Ala'a was like a little brother. But Ala'a — who had longed for a soldier to rescue him — secretly began referring to Southworth as "Baba," Arabic for "Daddy."

Then, around Christmas, a sister told Southworth that Ala'a was getting too big. He would have to move to a government-run facility within a year.

"Best case scenario was that he would stare at a blank wall for the rest of his life," Southworth said.

To this day, he recalls the moment when he resolved that that would not happen.

"I'll adopt him," he said.

Read it all.

Southworth's decision was cemented in spring 2004, while he and his comrades watched Mel Gibson's film, "The Passion of the Christ." Jesus Christ's sacrifice moved him. He imagined meeting Christ and Ala'a in heaven, where Ala'a asked: "Baba, why didn't you ever come back to get me?"

"Everything that I came up with as a response I felt ashamed. I wouldn't want to stand in the presence of Jesus and Ala'a and say those things to him."

Hat tip PowerLine.

A Christmas Eve thought

Interesting how the mind works. During and unfortunately down tempo Christmas service yesterday, something caught me during this part of We Three Kings.

Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume
Breathes of life of gathering gloom
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Sealed in the stone-cold tomb

O Star of wonder, star of night
Star with royal beauty bright
Westward leading, still proceeding
Guide us to Thy perfect light

I thought of the sacrifice of Jesus, and all that His sacrifice has brought me and man in general. I looked down at my family and realized how blessed I am to have the honor of the responsibility of being their father, husband, brother and son. Then, in a flash, my mind when to what I read about the Lee family last weekend.

A military working dog wounded in Iraq during a rocket attack that killed its Marine handler was adopted Friday by the slain Marine's family.

Cpl. Dustin Lee's family planned to take home the bomb-sniffing dog — named Lex — on Saturday after the 8-year-old German shepherd was granted early retirement. It was the first time a working dog was granted retirement to live with the handler's family, officials said.

"Nobody can do anything to replace the void in this family," said Col. Christian Haliday, commander of the Marine Corps Logistics Base in Albany, where Lee and Lex were assigned.

"We hope Lex can bring a small piece of his spirit and help maintain his memory," he said.

On hand for a ceremony at the base were the Marine's parents, Jerome and Rachel Lee, his sister, Madison, 16, and brother, Camryn, 12, of Quitman, Miss.

"It's not going to bring back my brother, but it's something close to it," said Madison Lee as she played with Lex after the ceremony.

Military officials initially told the family that Lex had another two years of service before he could be adopted. But the family lobbied for months — even enlisting the aid of a North Carolina congressman — and the adoption came exactly nine months after the 20-year-old Marine was killed and his dog wounded on March 21 in Iraq's Anbar Province.

2nd Lt. Caleb Eames, spokesman for the Albany base, said Lee and Lex were sitting outside at a forward operating base in Karmah when they were hit by shrapnel from a 73mm rocket explosion.

"A part of Dustin is in Lex," said the fallen Marine's father. "To have Lex at home is a part of having Dustin at home."

Rachel Lee said she believes her son's spirit will live on through the dog because of their close bond and because they were together during the final moments of her son's life.

"It was blood on blood," she said. "We can't get Dustin back, but we have Lex."

As a dog person, what more can I say?

Lawfare and the unsung hero

Sounds like the seed of a story that any good screen writer could turn into a movie, right?

On a clear night last spring in Afghanistan's eastern mountains, a U.S. infantry platoon went looking for an al-Qaida operative named Habib Jan, and they found him. Outside an abandoned village clinging to a rocky hillside, the platoon was ambushed in a rain of deadly rifle and machine gun fire. Twenty-seven Americans and five Afghan Army fighters together fought 90 or 100 of Habib Jan's Islamist extremists.

For 17 hours, the American platoon was pinned down. Bullets snapped and hissed as the enemy slowly closed in. Ammunition ran low. Water ran out. Sniper rounds plucked at the soldiers' helmets and sleeves and drilled through boots as they shifted and returned fire. Night stretched into day and on into night again and the fighting intensified.

As Habib Jan's men volleyed machine gun fire and rockets down on the platoon, an Afghan soldier under McQuade's command was struck in the thigh. Medic Jose Rivas, a sergeant from New York City, dragged the wounded man inside a low adobe building and began working to save him as enemy sniper rounds ricocheted around the room.

Rivas quickly realized that the man would die without surgery, and McQuade, assessing his various predicaments, agreed. McQuade kept 20 men to hold off al-Qaida and dispatched 12 others to carry and protect the wounded Afghan.

For three hours, Habib Jan's men tried to kill them as the team struggled downhill, dashing from rock to rock and shooting back as best as they could.

At one point Rivas halted to run IVs into the dying man to boost his falling blood pressure. While bullets thudded around them, Rivas sheltered the Afghan soldier with his body, and soldiers held the IV bags.

Then they picked him up and zigzagged on through the sleet of fire. When another man went down injured, Rivas crawled back to give aid - as bullets struck the sand, gravel and rock around him.

McQuade's men were taking fire from a high ridgeline. Staff Sgt. Christian Bryant wormed his way uphill under intense fire, leading a team toward the enemy guns. As the men found positions, he inched from soldier to soldier, steadying them with his presence and encouraging them to fire carefully to conserve ammunition.

With the American ammo supply running critically low, a Blackhawk helicopter suddenly thundered up over a ridgeline and through the smoke and storm of bullets, tilted sideways, and dumped crates of bullets and bottled water at the troopers' feet. Then it spiraled on down the mountain, where its crew picked up the wounded Afghan soldier.

Rivas, the medic, watched them go. Then he headed back uphill into the fight.

As dusk fell, fire from the slopes above the American position grew hotter and rounds began striking into corners previously thought safe. Fresh al-Qaida fighters were pouring over the border from Pakistan to join Habib Jan's fighters.

McQuade's men could see the enemy's muzzle flashes as they fired, and they spotted a sniper in a cave across the narrow valley. They brought up a couple of Viper anti-tank missiles and destroyed the position in a ball of fire, bringing cheers.

But the fight wore on. "We're just getting hammered," McQuade radioed. Reinforcements are on their way, he was told, but it would take hours.

Hold on.

As McQuade's men fought for their lives, the Army sprang to help. From fire bases down the valley and miles away, 105 mm and 155 mm howitzers and 120 mm mortars opened up, detonating heavy shells on enemy positions identified by McQuade's spotters. Air Force A-10 Warthogs and three Apache helicopter gunships joined the fight, vectored onto their targets by Bryant, working his radio under heavy fire.

"I've got all the assets in our half of the country," crowed McQuade.

A B-1 bomber swooped in, dropping a bomb, as directed, so close that the concussion blew several cheering troopers off their feet.

But it wasn't until well after dark that an AC-130 gunship arrived to pour deadly fire on the enemy. One by one, the enemy guns went quiet.

"And that's pretty much all she wrote," McQuade said. The battle "was a bit of bad decision-making by the enemy."

And Habib Jan?

Directed by McQuade's exhausted but jubilant men that night in Afghanistan, the AC-130 gunship followed a trail down the valley and came upon a group of six men fleeing the battlefield. After ensuring that no friendlies were nearby, the gunship opened up. The next day McQuade and his men had a look at the bodies.

Habib Jan was dead.

You would think the Army would be telling this story to about everyone. You would be wrong.

The account of the battle against Habib Jan was compiled from interviews with soldiers who were there, and from narratives made available unofficially by McQuade.

Before we in uniform yell too much at Hollywierd, perhaps we should clean house a little on our own. We are not helping the next Blackhawk Down author find his story.

Three American soldiers were awarded Silver Stars for valor in that battle. Their actions are detailed in official Army accounts drawn from eyewitness reports, radio transmissions and other corroborating evidence used as a basis for awarding the medals.
...
The Army denied a March 2006 Freedom of Information Act request for the narratives, first on the grounds that it couldn't find all of them.

Next, Army lawyers argued that releasing the narratives "could subject the soldier and family to increased personal risk." But the Army and the Defense Department already publicize the names, photos and hometowns of medal recipients.

The lawyers also argued that disclosure would discourage officers in the future from writing detailed battle accounts.
...
Army Capt. Sean McQuade calls such arguments "absurd." As a lieutenant, McQuade led the platoon that fought Habib Jan. He and two of his soldiers were awarded Silver Stars for heroism in that fight. He is proud of their stories and wants them known.

"Their story needs to be told," he said, "but it's not."
...
"The military's always complaining about how nobody writes about their heroes. Well, how the hell are you supposed to write about heroes if the Defense Department doesn't give up the information?" said Sterner.

He is right. At least one politician is trying to help. Sometimes it takes a Democrat.

"Military honors, to me, should be public information," said Rep. John T. Salazar, a Colorado Democrat and sponsor of the legislation.
...
Salazar's bill in Congress would remedy that by creating a public database of all military valor awards that would include the Silver Star narratives.

Rep. John Salazar (D-CO), Bravo Zulu.

Fullbore Friday

How do you define sacrifice? How do you respond to loss? How do you focus pride, grief, love and honor? Do you try to take positive action in the face of a horror you never expected to face? Can you go beyond the emotional and tap into the intellectual? For today's FbF, I ask you to step back , absorb, and most of all - be humble.

His son, Marine Lt. Nathan Krissoff, 25, had been killed in a December 2006 roadside bomb explosion in Iraq.
...
The younger Krissoff joined the Marines in 2004 with a background that might not have predicted a military career. He wrote poetry as a youngster and was an accomplished pianist.

Before graduating from Williams College in Williamstown, Mass., he was captain of the swim team, in addition to being a whitewater kayaker and alpine skier.

The outdoor activities were a joy shared by Nathan, his father, and his younger brother, Austin, 24, who joined the Marines shortly before Nathan died.

The family kept word of Nathan's death from Austin until after he graduated from the same Marine Corps officer school in Quantico, Va.

"Nate was an extraordinary man in a lot of ways," Bill Krissoff said.

Like many who have lost their loved ones in this war, they had an opportunity to meet with the Commander in Chief, President Bush.

Bill Krissoff never figured to be in a position to look President Bush in the eye and ask a favor.

But there he was, sitting in a room in Reno, Nev., with Bush and several other families who had lost soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan.
...
"I said, 'Yeah, there is one thing. I want to join the Navy medical corps and I gotta get some help here,' " recalled Krissoff, 61, who lives in California, near Reno.

Three days after that meeting, the Navy called.

His waiver had been granted.

What waiver?

Months later, Krissoff came to a carefully considered decision: He would honor his son by leaving a flourishing orthopedic practice, a comfortable life, to join the Navy as a combat surgeon.

But his application for an age waiver was mired in paperwork.

So, on that August day in Reno, when Bush went around the room and asked if there was anything he could do, Krissoff spoke up.

That is how the CINC got involved. You get action that way.

Krissoff was commissioned as a lieutenant commander Nov. 18, and he expects to attend officer development school in January. Attached to the 4th Medical Battalion, he plans to join a combat surgical team and hopes to serve in Iraq.

It is a story of loss and sacrifice being told on national media outlets. But Krissoff considers himself anything but a hero. He reserves words like that for people such as his son.

"The loss of a son puts a certain perspective on things.

"It's my turn to serve. I'm honored and privileged that the Navy will have me in the medical corps," Krissoff said.

This was a family decision.

He and his wife, Christine, plan to sell their house and move to San Diego. They see it as another chapter in their life, perhaps a way to ease the grief they have shared for nearly a year.

"Really, I'm just inspired by the dedication to service of both my sons," Krissoff said.

Christine Krissoff, 56, has made peace with his choice as well. But it doesn't mean she won't miss her husband.

"I am not fine with the amount of time he's gone. But none of the wives of the military people who serve are going to be fine with it.

"That's just part of the deal."

His mother, Sylvia Krissoff, 88, said she was "shocked" when she learned what he planned to do. Then it started to make sense to her.

"I think, for him, it really is great. It's really an extension of his love for Nate and, in some ways, carrying on for what Nate would have done.

"Nate would have been so proud of him."

LCDR Krissoff and Christine - welcome aboard. Your response to your son's death and your other son's ongoing service is, simply, Fullbore. Thank you.

Where is the living honor?

Greyhawk got me thinking again about something that has been bothering me for awhile: why has the Medal of Honor become a posthumous award?

Especially in an age where any junior officer who does not get a DWI during his first tour gets a NAM, why now do we not have a single MOH given to a living Soldier, Marine, Sailor, or Airman?

Don't tell me no one has earned it - many have. Why the disconnect? I am baffled.

Some are wondering why there are not more, great question, I want to know why we can't find a reason to give it to someone who has lived. No living person since the Vietnam War.

The system is broken.

You don't need CFC this year to give

It's Valour IT time Shipmate. Dig around for some spare change if you could. If you aren't familiar with Valour IT, Soldier's Angles will brief you in, but here is the Executive Summary,

Project Valour-IT, in memory of SFC William V. Ziegenfuss, helps provide voice-controlled and adaptive laptop computers to wounded Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines recovering from hand wounds and other severe injuries at major military medical centers. Operating laptops by speaking into a microphone or using other adaptive technologies, our wounded heroes are able to send and receive messages from friends and loved ones, surf the 'Net, and communicate with buddies still in the field. The experience of MAJ Charles “Chuck” Ziegenfuss, a partner in the project who suffered serious hand wounds while serving in Iraq, illustrates how important these laptops can be to a wounded service member's recovery.

Read More...

On the reading list

From the Amazon review;

On a clear night in late June 2005, four U.S. Navy SEALs left their base in northern Afghanistan for the mountainous Pakistani border. Their mission was to capture or kill a notorious al Qaeda leader known to be ensconced in a Taliban stronghold surrounded by a small but heavily armed force. Less then twenty-four hours later, only one of those Navy SEALs remained alive.


This is the story of fire team leader Marcus Luttrell, the sole survivor of Operation Redwing, and the desperate battle in the mountains that led, ultimately, to the largest loss of life in Navy SEAL history. But it is also, more than anything, the story of his teammates, who fought ferociously beside him until he was the last one left-blasted unconscious by a rocket grenade, blown over a cliff, but still armed and still breathing. Over the next four days, badly injured and presumed dead, Luttrell fought off six al Qaeda assassins who were sent to finish him, then crawled for seven miles through the mountains before he was taken in by a Pashtun tribe, who risked everything to protect him from the encircling Taliban killers.


A six-foot-five-inch Texan, Leading Petty Officer Luttrell takes us, blow-by-blow, through the brutal training of America's warrior elite and the relentless rites of passage required by the Navy SEALs. He transports us to a monstrous battle fought in the desolate peaks of Afghanistan, where the beleaguered American team plummeted headlong a thousand feet down a mountain as they fought back through flying shale and rocks. In this rich , moving chronicle of courage, honor, and patriotism, Marcus Luttrell delivers one of the most powerful narratives ever written about modern warfare-and a tribute to his teammates, who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

To honor Kevin Granata

Who is Kevin Granata? Well, let's back up a bit. This will probably be one if the the last post I make on the VA Tech slaughter. I find myself more in the John Derbyshire (of Derb Radio fame) and Mark Steyn school vice the J-Pod school. Have been from the start.

I am also on the same train of thought as John of Argghhh!!! - but even more so - I won't even butcher his name. It won't even be hinted at.

The one thing a psychotic, evil, narcissistic person wants more then anything else is to be seen, heard, and talked about. I will do none of it.

There are some heroes from this slaughter. As 5-6 people I work with, we all think active defense, and that is our training. After 20 years of official training and a lifetime of most of our "nature and nurture" it is hard to think any other way. It is just mentally difficult to understand this,

The gunman entered wordlessly and began shooting. Students scattered to get as far away from the door as possible. One bullet hit Partahi "Mora" Lumbantoruan, an Indonesian doctoral student. His body fell on top of fellow graduate student Guillermo Colman. Then the shooter aimed his two guns around the room, picking off people one by one before leaving. Colman, protected by his classmate's prone body, was one of only four in the room to survive.
...
the door opened and a shooter stepped in. He was holding guns in both hands. Bishop was hit first, a bullet slicing into the side of his head. All the students saw it, an unbelievable horror. The gunman had a serious but calm look on his face. Almost no expression. He stood in the front and kept firing, barely moving. People scrambled out of the line of fire. Trey Perkins knocked over a couple of desks and tried to take cover. No way I can survive this, he thought. His mind raced to his mother and what she would go through when she heard he was dead. Shouts, cries, sobs, more shots, maybe 30 in all. Someone threw up. There was blood everywhere. It took about a minute and a half, and then the gunman left the room.
...
The first thing Violand saw was a gun, then the gunman. "I quickly dove under a desk," he recalled. "That was the desk I chose to die under."

He listened as the gunman began "methodically and calmly" shooting people. "It sounded rhythmic-like. He took his time between each shot and kept up the pace, moving from person to person." After every shot, Violand thought, "Okay, the next one is me." But shot after shot, and he felt nothing. He played dead.

"The room was silent except for the haunting sound of moans, some quiet crying, and someone muttering: 'It's okay. It's going to be okay. They will be here soon,' " he recalled. The gunman circled again and seemed to be unloading a second round into the wounded. Violand thought he heard the gunman reload three times. He could not hold back odd thoughts: "I wonder what a gun wound feels like. I hope it doesn't hurt. I wonder if I'll die slow or fast." He made eye contact with a girl, also still alive. They stared at each other until the gunman left.
...
Cheng and a female student went to the door and peered out. They saw a man emerge from a room across the hall. He was holding a gun, but it was pointed down. They quickly shut the door. More popping sounds, getting louder, closer. The class was in a panic. One student, Zach Petkowicz, was near the lectern "cowering behind it," he would later say, when he realized that the door was vulnerable. There was a heavy rectangular table in the class, and he and two other students pushed it against the door. No sooner had they fixed it in place than someone pushed hard from the outside. It was the gunman. He forced it open about six inches, but no farther. Petkowicz and his classmates pushed back, not letting up. The gunman fired two shots through the door. One hit the lectern and sent wood scraps and metal flying. Neither hit any of the students. They could hear a clip dropping, the distinct, awful sound of reloading. And, again, the gunman moved on.
...
Webster ducked to the floor and tucked himself into a ball. He shut his eyes and listened as the gunman walked to the back of the classroom. Two other students were huddled by the wall. He shot a girl, and she cried out. Now the shooter was three feet away, pointing his gun right at Webster.

"I felt something hit my head, but I was still conscious," Webster recalled. The bullet had grazed his hairline, then ricocheted through his upper right arm. He played dead. "I lay there and let him think he had done his job. I wasn't moving at all, hoping he wouldn't come back." The gunman left the room as suddenly as he had come in.

When Webster opened his eyes, he saw blood everywhere. Some of it was his, though he didn't realize it until he saw blood pouring out the sleeve of his sweat shirt. The girl nearby was unable to speak, only moaning. Blood seeped from her mouth.

By now, most are familiar with the heroism of Professor Librescu,

Professor Librescu's class, seems to have been the gunman's last stop on the second floor. The teacher and his dozen students had heard too much, though they had not seen anything yet. They had heard a girl's piercing scream in the hallway. They had heard the pops and more pops. By the time the gunman reached the room, many of the students were on the window ledge. There was grass below, not concrete, and even some shrubs. The old professor was at the door, which would not lock, pushing against it, when the gunman pushed from the other side. Some of the students jumped, others prepared to jump until Librescu could hold the door no longer and the gunman forced his way inside.

Matt Webster, a 23-year-old engineering student from Smithfield, Va., was one of four students inside when the gunman appeared. "He was decked out like he was going to war," Webster recalled. "Black vest, extra ammunition clips, everything." Again, his look was blank, just a stare, no expression, as he started shooting. The first shot hit Librescu in the head, killing him.

That brave old man - a Holocaust survivor - was left to hold the door against a 23 yr old man by himself - by himself in a room full of young men. No one helped him as Professor Librescu tried to save others. No one.

Back to Kevin Granata - who we have heard little of. Who was he?

Kevin Granata had heard the commotion in his third-floor office and ran downstairs. He was a military veteran, very protective of his students. He was gunned down trying to confront the shooter.

Multiple places state that Professor Granata served in the military, but I couldn't find what service. It really doesn't matter - we are all trained to head towards the sound of gunfire. Though unsuccessful, I find exceptional honor in his attempt. If he had help, perhaps many could have been saved.

We need more such men - are we raising out boys to be such men? It is an unpopular question - but there it is. Another part of my training I presume - I am supposed to ask unpopular questions.

Bravo Zulu Professor Granata; Shipmate.