The Hard Lessons That Stick: “Blood Wings, Hard Stripes, and the Grit Behind the Grapes”
When most people think of winemaking, they imagine lush vineyards, romantic sunsets, and a vintner casually sipping a glass of wine while futuristic robots harvest the grapes—kind of like Jean-Luc Picard in Star Trek: The Next Generation.
But let me tell you, that’s absolute bullshit.
Winemaking isn’t glamorous. It’s hard work. It’s long hours, dirt under your nails, and aching muscles. It’s a fight. And that’s why I can’t help but compare it to my time in the United States Army—where lessons weren’t just learned; they were pounded into you.
Especially when it came to my blood wings.
The Day I Earned My Blood Wings – And a Trip to the Hospital
I enlisted in the U.S. Army as an 11 Bravo Infantryman, Airborne, and Ranger. I was young, hungry, and ready to jump out of planes.
After completing Basic Training at Fort Benning (now Fort Moore—the Home of the Infantry), I went straight to U.S. Army Airborne School, where I was all about earning my silver wings.
Jumping out of a C-130 Hercules for the first time was exhilarating. It was also terrifying as hell. And here’s something you probably wouldn’t expect:
I’m afraid of heights.
That’s right—a combat Apache Pilot, a paratrooper, a veteran with over 65 jumps—afraid of heights. But fear is just an obstacle, and in the Airborne community, obstacles are meant to be jumped over.
To graduate from Airborne School, you must complete five jumps—earning you the legendary title of “Five-Jump Chump.” Each jump was an adrenaline rush, but that fifth and final jump? It nearly broke me.
As I descended, some idiot sky-sharked me—meaning he drifted right under me and stole my air. I dropped 200 feet straight down, slamming shoulder-first into the ground. My arm was dead. My head was spinning. But I was alive, and more importantly, I was about to get my Airborne Wings.
The Black Hats (our Airborne instructors) were screaming at everyone to “Get off the drop zone!” But I couldn’t move my arm, let alone gather my parachute. That’s when a Black Hat ran over yelling, “Airborne! Pick up your chute and MOVE!”
I gritted my teeth. “I need a little help here, Sergeant.”
As I tried to move, my shoulder popped back into place—just in time for the Black Hat to realize something was wrong. He dragged me toward the medics, but before I got into the ambulance, I turned to my instructor and said:
“Sergeant, I need my blood wings.”
He sighed, probably thinking I was a crazy hard-ass, but he nodded. He pinned my silver Parachutist Badge onto my chest, gave them a light tap with his fist, and off I went—grinning like an idiot as they drove me to the hospital.
As I tried to move, my shoulder popped back into place—just in time for the Black Hat to realize something was wrong. He dragged me toward the medics, but before I got into the ambulance, I turned to my instructor and said:
“Sergeant, I need my blood wings.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Private.”
“No, Sergeant. You said no matter what—we get our wings after our fifth jump.”
He sighed, probably thinking I was a crazy hard-ass, but he nodded. He pinned my silver wings onto my chest, gave them a light tap with his fist, and off I went—grinning like an idiot as they drove me to the hospital.
Now here’s the funny part:
When the medics cut off my BDUs, they saw blood on my chest and panicked.
“Oh shit, he’s bleeding!”
“No, no, that’s from something else.”
“What the hell do you mean ‘something else’?”
“Oh, just my blood wings.”
They rolled their eyes. But I didn’t care. I had earned my wings—and that’s all that mattered.
More Blood, More Wings, More Hard Stripes
That was just the beginning. Over the years, I earned more insignia, more bruises, and more stripes:
• Air Assault Wings – Pounded into my chest at Fort Campbell, Kentucky after weeks of running, rucking, and rappelling from helicopters.
• Expert Infantryman Badge (EIB) – Slapped into my chest at Fort Polk, Louisiana after proving myself in weapons proficiency, land navigation, and combat drills.
• Hard Stripes (E-5 Sergeant) – Earned in the 82nd Airborne Division, celebrated in true airborne fashion—with my stripes being punched into my collarbone.
• Aviator Wings (White Wings) – Given to me at Fort Rucker, Alabama by a crusty old Apache pilot who made damn sure I felt them.
• Lieutenant Bars – Tapped into my shoulders at Fort Benning by a retired General, who told me, “Now you can lead like the rest of them.”
From Blood Wings to Red Wine
The Army is tough as hell. So is winemaking.
People think winemaking is a peaceful, romantic craft—but in reality, it’s a battle. It’s early mornings, long days, bruised hands, and aching backs. It’s fighting against weather, pests, and even bureaucratic bullshit—because if you’re trying to run a vineyard in Kansas, the bureaucracy stinks worse than the manure on the farms around you.
There’s no medal for farming. No badges for winemaking. But there is a reward—when someone takes a sip of your wine and says:
“Damn. That’s good.”
Maybe that’s the farmer’s version of silver wings—a small acknowledgment that all the blood, sweat, and bullshit were worth it.
Because whether you’re earning blood wings or pouring red wine, one thing is true:
If it doesn’t hurt a little, it’s probably not worth doing.
Follow Our Journey – From Warrior to Wine
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