Movies, Massholes, and Memories

Heh,

I saw this great new movie the other day called The Departed. Great cast, good writing, y'all really need to get out and see this new flick -

What?

*sigh*

I really need to get out more...

A few thoughts on the movie. I really should get this DVD, rather than trying to fight my way through the scratched-all-to-hell Netflix's copy. As you might have gathered, I don't really get out all that much nowadays (I think my last flick was 300, really need to get that one..), but this one made me chuckle - and not just 'cause of the accents... we'll just say the ending was pretty cool, m'kay?

Granted, I chortled every time I heard one character call another a cahksuckah, but what I was really doing was remembering the Massholes.

The Massholes were a small group of Marines that I met quite a few years ago. They were always together, getting into trouble and giving grief to just about... everybody. The first time that they ran into my platoon (with a good number of Texan boys), the conversation went something like this...

Masshole 1 - Hey, Jonsie, we got anothah Texan, heah!

Awesome. Steahs n' Queahs, huh? - Masshole 2 (Jonsie)

Masshole 1 - Wicked Awesome.

*record scratches*

I think the natives are restless, heah. - Jonsie

Mashole 1 - Hey, Murf, what's with all da long faces?

Me - (Affecting a serious drawl) Son, y'alls fixing to git yer ass whupped.

Then is was the Massholes' turn to give the looks.



Fortunately, there was no blood spilled (that time) due to cross cultural differences. Heck, we even managed to learn a little bit about each other, even. For example, we learned that baseball was almost like a religion to 'em, and as far as their team went, any and all disparaging comments, bitches, gripes, and complaints were best left to those who counted themselves among the faithful fans.

From us, they learned that football was religion to Texans, we were devout from Thursdays to Sundays, and when it came time for the rivalry game - best for all if they just stayed out of it.

Perhaps the best proof of cultural acceptance was one of them trying Copenhagen (short experiment as that one was), and some of us (on occasion) taking on a bit of the Bahston accent. I remember the first time that one of them tried to say, "fuck y'all." It took awhile, but they got it, eventually. Of course, too, the fact that many years later I chuckle over just hearing someone say the word, cahksuckah is a pretty good sign, too.



Here's to the Massholes (raising my 'beah'), y'all are some wonderful bahstids.

A Gunny, Indoctrination, and a Joke

Ah, the Gunnery Sergeant. Many, many Marines have quite a few fond (and some not so fond) stories of Gunnies that they have served with. This is one of those stories that just happens to be both, depending on who you hear the story from...


Gunny 'Kill' was a former Drill Instructor, lifelong grunt, and general sour-puss, currently standing in for the First Sergeant until the new one reported in. As a former DI, he had a rather unique sense of humor. It was an important note to make that we always tried to make sure what kind of humor the Gunny was in before we tried just about anything outside of the norm. To do otherwise would be kind of... stupid.

Formations were usually held in front of one of our main buildings, in the parking lot area (the main building was where all of the companies offices were). One of those office rooms was reserved for the Navy Corpsmen and some of their Navy chain. Well, the Sailors had a bell from an old decommissioned ship that hung right in front of one of their offices. If the formation was being held in the general time window for chow, one of the tricks that we would play on the new guys was assign one of the new Pvts to go and ring the 'chow bell'. The Navy guys did not look too kindly on some jarhead ringing their antique bell and screaming at the top of his lungs, "CHOW, CHOW, CHOW, *DINGDINGDING* CHOW, CHOW, CHOW!!!".

We had it down to an art. Standing in formation one day, waiting on the word, wondering when we would get the go ahead to get some chow, one of the machine gunners turned to a buddy of his in the mortars platoon, and asked, "hey, do we need to send somebody for the chow bell or is it y'alls turn?" All this with a straight face. One of our Corporals told him, "Nah, we got it", turned to a Pvt., and gave him his orders. The Private, being thoroughly indoctrinated in the art of immediate obedience to orders, sounded off with an "Aye, aye Corporal!!!", and ran to the bell. We were dying, but managed to hold it together until the bell started ringing.

The Private ran through the door, make a hard right, assumed the position of attention, and rang the bell like it was going out of style.

*DINGDINGDING-CHOW!!!CHOW!!!CHOW!!!-DINGDINGDING*

We were dying as, according to his instructions, the Private then ran through the building, screaming that it was chow time to all the assorted personnel in the building. His voice fell and rose as he passed by open windows in the hallway. It was one of the most motivated displays of lung power, speed, obedience to orders etc that I have ever seen.

Shortly thereafter, the Chief stormed over to the Gunny's office, to raise hell. Gunny, in full DI mode, came outside to the formation. Those that had known him for a while knew when he was joking around, and I personally knew that he loved to piss off the Chief. If it took a hapless Pvt. to accomplish the mission well, so be it. Mission accomplishment, and all...

Gunny stomps out to the front of the formation and screams, "WHO WAS THE SOON TO BE DEAD ASSHOLE THAT RANG THAT FUCKING BELL?!?!?" A quiet "me gunny" was the pitiful reply.

"GET YOUR MISERABLE ASS UP HERE SHIT-FOR-BRAINS, GET ON YOUR FACE!!! PUSH!!! PUSH UNTIL I PUKE!!! FASTER, THING, FASTER!!!"

So the Pvt. is on his face, pumping out the push ups like he is stuck on fast forward. Gunny is in full blown DI flashback, rattling off cuss words that are rapidly wilting the nearby foliage and causing birds to drop dead from the sky. Chief at first has a satisfied look on his face, but as the minutes pass and the Gunny is still rattling off the continuous, minute-long tirade in the way that only former DIs can, he got a weird look on his face, suggestive of the mental stability of Marines, and went inside. Joke still on going, but now only on the Pvt., Gunny screams at him to get up.

"OKAY YOU POST-OPERATIVE BRAIN DONOR, I KNOW YOU DIDN'T COME UP WITH THAT ONE BY YOURSELF, WHO TOLD YOU TO DO IT?!?!?!" he politely (for a Gunny) inquired.

"Uh, it was Cpl Donn-"

"GET THE FUCK BACK DOWN, YOU LITTLE SHIT STAIN!!! NO LOYALTY TO YOUR CORPORALS?!?!?!? PUSH!!! ALWAYS PROTECT THE MAN ABOVE AND BELOW YOU!!!"

After that, no one could keep it together anymore, including the Gunny. The Private started to suspect that something was up, from the definitely un-manly giggles throughout the Marines. Gunny ordered the Marine to his feet and told him, "welcome to the company, kid."

The Private was now definitely part of the family.

Lucky Sons of...

The Hummer slowed down and paused on the shoulder of the road. Marines jumped out of the back of the truck and started visual sweeps of the road to ensure that there was nothing there that shouldn't be. The detainees remained in the bed, hands zip-tied behind them, blacked out goggles over their faces, with one Marine, m9 in hand, standing guard. Vehicle commanders started their final head count and weapons checks.

All vehicles rogered up and the call came over the radio to stand by to move out. The raid had been a resounding success.


Starting out early that morning, the CO had called all parties together to run through the plan one more time. There would be a squad designated for the raid itself, another tied to the hip with them that would be security and detainee transport. Another (mine) would be on patrol in the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary and as a mobile quick reaction force. Maps were distributed, we loaded up and set out for the target house. They never knew what hit them.

One thing that we always did at some point before completely leaving the area was a head and weapons count. This was done to make abso-friggin-lutely that there would be no one left behind. Of only slightly lesser concern was that we had all gear, weapons, detainees, and intel.


On the side of the road that day, the vehicle was stopped on the bare shoulder of the road. The pick up style Hummer was the tail end of the convoy returning to the Forward Operating Base. As such, two Marines sitting in the bed of the truck had their weapons facing to the rear, at all times. When the vehicle came to a stop, it was they that opened the saloon type steel doors, hopped out, and cleared the shoulder around the vehicle. They did not look under the vehicle.

Our visual sweeps started at just at the vehicle and in a circle. If nothing suspicious was in the immediate area, the Marines knew that they were to gradually increase their circles, pushing out to a pre-set distance. Once the ground was confirmed clean and if they were still stopped, they would usually take a knee or find some sort of cover and wait for the call to move.

The call came over the radio; all victors (vehicles) were present, all personnel present, stand by to return to base. The dismounted Marines returned to the truck, climbed aboard, and secured the doors. They returned to their position, rifles pointed to the rear, resting on the lip of the doors. The vehicle crawled forward, in anticipation of the convoy getting started.

When the Hummer had pulled forward about two feet, the slight discoloration of the ground caused the Marines glanced down at the ground.


The buried IED that blew at that moment had to have been expertly camouflaged. It must have been level with the ground and hidden well enough that the Marine driver had completely missed it as he brought the vehicle to a stop directly over it. It blew as the two rear guard Marines were both looking down at it, from a distance of about 5 feet.


The call that you never want to hear came over the radio, 'stand by for medivac, two friendlies, urgent surgical.' Urgent surgical is the phrase used for the most serious wounds, demanding immediate removal and evacuation to the rear. An explosion going off in ones face from a distance of about 5 feet would normally be a safe bet to call for urgent surgical. Only minutes later the birds were launched and en route to the hastily formed security perimeter around the damaged but amazingly still technically drivable vehicle.

It would seem upon later reflection, that the IED had been buried too deep. The concealment of the device was almost perfect however, as a result the force of the blast was not anywhere near as powerful as it could have been. Another factor might have been a degradation of force due to the type of round used. It was almost certainly a 60mm mortar round or smaller, and probably an old one at that. There are only a few other factors that I can think of to explain why they were not killed outright.

They both survived.

The force of the blast had knocked them both out, shredded their flacks and kevlar helmets, and shattered their protective goggles. One Marine had eye damage to his eyes as a result of the shattered lens and some dust & metal fragments. Had he not been wearing his goggles, loss of vision would have been almost guaranteed, but the least of his problems. Both Marines had some shrapnel wounds to the face and to a lesser degree, their hands and forearms.

A short time later we got the word that one of the Marines had made it back through the hospital ladder, from Iraq to Germany back to the States. He was going to be okay, save for some slight damage to one of his eyes. The other Marine returned to duty. He looked like hell, like he had gone ten rounds with a pro boxer.

He was a beautiful, lucky bastard.

SgtMaj, Swim Qual, & Hand to Hand

Back in the pool for yet another swim qual, and I was motivated. I was stoked because this was finally the time when I would have the opportunity to go for the WSQ level of the swim qual. It made for a long day, but I was happy to see if I could do it. The way it worked was that all the guys got in the pool for the lowest level of qualification, the minimum required for the Marines. After everyone passed that level, anyone who wanted to try out for the next higher level stayed in the pool, and so on and so on. The higher level you got, the longer you could go before having to qualify again. I didn't mind whether or not I had to get in the pool in two, three, four, or never again number of years, it was always a good time. I suppose that I should say 'usually a good time'...

We were moving right along through the various portions and levels when it came time to demonstrate the drowning victim rescue. The way that this event worked was that one Marine would play the drowning victim (repeated requests for the local civilian (female) lifeguard squad were mysteriously ignored). The other Marine would demonstrate the proper way to rescue a combative and/or drowning victim. Being Marines, this is where it got interesting...

When it came time to pair up, I got left out like the fat kid on the kickball field. As I would turn one way, that Marine had a swim buddy. Turning the other direction, that guy just got snagged. Eventually I decided to wait to see who else got shafted. The other shaftee turned out to be Sergeant Major Chuckles (Hey, it's my story, I'll call him what I want). The good SgtMaj did not resemble his name.

It might have been just my experience, but it did seem to me that for the most part, whenever anybody with less than 20 years in the Corps got around a Sergeant Major, they started grumbling like you were trying to steal their oxygen or something.


ME: Guess it's you and me, Sergeant Major!

SGT MAJ: Shaddup, thing.

ME: Aye aye, Sergeant Major!

SGT MAJ: *Scowl*

Crap...


We got the order from the instructors, and all of the 'victims' got into the water. They told us not to give the Marines any breaks, or we would have to tread water for twice as long as needed for the test. With our hands out of the water. Holding bricks. They reminded us that if we made it too hard, well, we were up next to play the part of rescuer.

Chuckles slowly swam towards me. By this time of the test, he was swimming a lot slower than the rest of the Marines, due to the fact that he had enlisted back when the Roman Legions were still kicking ass and taking names. He swam on pure hate and disgust. I thought he was going to drown before he even got to me. Poor guy (this would be my one-time error of underestimating a senior staff NCO).

I, playing my part, reached over to grab ahold of him in a somewhat not-so-aggresive manner. He glared at me and growled, "what in the Hell do you think you are trying to do, give me a hug? You see any tits on me, son? I will make you hate life if you try that shit with me again! Grab me like you got a pair!" Hilarity ensued.


Roger. It's on like donkey kong, ya old fart.


I proceed to do my very best at literally sitting on his head, in the middle of the pool's deep end.

Do you remember the L.I.N.E. training? It's the fighting system wherein every technique, whether its a defense against a punch or a kick, a take down, or whatever can be summed up in grab, twist, pull, sweep, & stomp.

I knew that I was doing a pretty good job at introducing him to the pool floor, by his muttered curses floating up on the bubbles rising to the surface.

What I didn't know (until then) is that the beauty of the L.I.N.E. system as practiced by the Corps (and especially crafty old Sergeants Major) is that it can be done underwater. Yup, in the middle of that pool. Against a combative, motivated, kinda pissed, in shape, younger Marine. It works especially well when applied to the younger Marine's giggle berries. Takes all the fight out of him, chop chop.

I crawled out of the pool, laid on the deck, and prayed for death. Right until the instructors sounded off that it was now my turn to play the part of rescuer.

Great...

Update on Teaching Mom...

This has been an interesting experience, for a number of reasons. Lots of interesting advice, both on-line and in person have probably saved me quite a bit of time. Thanks.

One poster, Anony, recommended a couple of books in the subject of women and shooting. While I have not managed to pick them up yet, the subject of books brought up a thought or two.

I am a voracious reader. One of the gifts that my mother gave to me was a love of reading and many, many, many trips to the neighborhood library. Didn't cost hardly anything, and kept us kids busy for hours at a time, a genius idea really. Nowadays, if you go into the spare bedroom of the house, I have an extra bed, the computer set up, and a bookshelf lining an entire wall with all kinds of books. There are many different subject lines, ranging from reference, classic, military history, fiction, martial arts, poetry, art, the list goes on and on. Kind of nice to read another blogger reference a certain book in a post, go into the room and find the book they were talking about. Often, I will find myself re-reading that book, just for kicks.

One subject that I find myself needing to build is that on the subject of firearms. I have a few books, but they are mainly what I would consider reference types; firearms of the 20th century, military rifles of the past 100 years, and anything related to any weapon I had even remote contact with in the Corps. *sigh* I guess enlarging my weapons literature is another thing that I will have to look into. It's a rough life, I know. (Hmm, question: can a 60mm or 81mm mortar and/or ammo be used in home defense? Probably about as well as claymores and other booby traps, that is to say exceedingly well, but strongly frowned upon by neighborhood friendly law enforcement, and with large gains for local construction companies.)

I intentionally haven't picked out a specific weapon for my mother, for a couple of reasons. I would like to start with showing her what I have (which isn't much), and perhaps the collection of a few of my buddies. This would be just to cover the basics, and help us get a better idea on what types we might recommend. Then it would be off to the candy store, and help her pick out her gun, if I haven't been banned for excessive drooling on the windows.

That's another thing. I am really lucky in stores in the area. With very few exceptions, the gun stores around here have good collections with certifiable gun nuts running the show. Very knowledgeable, not pushy, heck, not afraid to admit when they might not be 100% positive on something. S'ok, they just look 10 ft away and there is a good chance that the resident 'revolver nut' is right there biting his tongue to not ambush into the conversation. One thing that I am most impressed with was a conversation with an employee, about a week ago.

I had gone into the store to get some night sights and to browse the holster collection. After a minor purchase, the employee ringing up the sale asked me if there was anything else that he could help me with. Out of curiosity, I asked him about mom. Before I even stopped with the descriptions, he was nodding his head. His recommendation, as well as that of the other two guys that were hanging out, was a revolver, more likely in the .357 variety. Ammo was a little more debated, but all agreed that the whole thing really kind of depended on the shooter. As the other two guys drifted on through out the store, the employee continued by actually recommending that I take mom to one of his competitors who had an indoor range and a ladies night with instructors for the newer shooters.


Hanging out at work the other day...uh...'working' and stuff, I was talking to a receptionist about parents. On the subject of fathers and during the course of the conversation, she mentioned that her dad liked to shoot, she was curious, but never really got around to it. I mentioned my current situation, and offered to take her to the range sometime. She seemed very receptive, and even inquired if she might bring her mother along sometime, as her mom was interested as well. The more the merrier, I suppose. How is it I can go from doing my own thing to teaching two or three new shooters in a short period of time? I am definitely not complaining, by any means, s'just kind of funny how it developes.

A Conversation with Mom...

From a conversation a little while back:

MOM: ...so that's why we have to go pick up Sister Catherine from the jail this coming Saturday.

ME: Uh huh. So the US Army doesn't take kindly to over enthusiastic nuns trying to play ninja on their bases, whodathunkit. I'm kinda surprised she didn't get a speed pass to go see the Big Man himself. Now, if she had been on a Marine Corps base...

MOM: Are you being sarcastic? You little...

ME: Nooooo.

MOM: ...Oh, when I think of all the times...


fast forward through guilt trip...


...all the sleepless nights and gray hairs...


keep going...


...wondering if it was anything that I had done...


oops, not quite far enough. resume fast forward...


MOM: ...Well?

ME: Huh?

MOM: *Loud Sigh* I said that being as your father is out of town so often, I was thinking that one of these days you need to teach me about guns and how to shoot. What do you think?

ME: (going ass over teakettle) *thump*


When I came to, I started thinking about all the times that I begged, pleaded, whined, and otherwise generally made a nuisance of myself when it came to anything related to firearms. "You'll shoot your eye out" was the standard response. Bleh. Looking back on it, I probably would have, but I'm sure that it would have made for a heck of a story. Nowadays, you probably would hear about it on the news or something.


So this puts me in an interesting situation. While I would probably be one of the last ones to say that I am an expert when it comes to shooting or teaching pistol craft, I am more than willing to overlook her grievous denial of my childhood happiness to show her a little bit when it comes to pistols. A few things to keep in mind:

Experience. Despite the fact that most of her brothers went into the Army and a few make me look like a dancing fairy man, she has almost zero experience with firearms. She knows which end goes bang, but that is about it. I'm not going to assume too much else either, when it comes time to teach.

Selection & Caliber. My own experience is somewhat limited (refer to childhood injustice noted above). I have only really started to scratch the surface when it comes to the subject and most of my earlier experiences was more along the lines of the plinking with el cheapo-cheapo pistola on a Saturday afternoon. I am working with all due haste to remedy this lack of knowledge and experience on my own part. Hmm, what to get for her, though? Heck, I could probably wait for the next family reunion, go into Uncle Bob's weapons basement (Arg!), and let her try out basically one of every weapon made since the wooden club (model #002). I figure that she's going to need something reliable, easy to operate, and something not completely overwhelming for her.

Practice. Already covered the ease of operation, but that really is going to come with practice and familiarity. Hopefully, I can show her a little bit in that area. As she likes to remind me, I don't make it down to visit as much as I should, but when I do I would like to have a few ranges picked out in her area, to take her to shoot and possibly to see if there are some real classes that we can get her into. If I go with her a few times, it should make it easier for her to go there when I am not around.

Of course, I am going to have to hit the range, force myself to shoot a wide assortment of different handguns, suffer through the cost of ammunition, all in the name of ensuring that I might not make a complete ass of myself when it comes time to recommending a good match for her.

Life's tough, huh.

Hope she doesn't shoot her eye out.

Several years back, I had a boss that liked to wax eloquent on any number of topics while discussing business. He was a bit older that the rest of us, with loads more life experience. He had worked for many years on a ranch and on the road resulting in a sharp, if not a little verbose, view on life. Most of the meetings had a tendency to go off on quite a few tangents, and last quite a bit longer than scheduled, but if you listened right, (or were listening at all), you always came away with a little bit of wisdom. A sort of rodeo-yoda, you could say. During one meeting, while discussing the nature of friendship and loyalty, he mentioned a phrase that has stuck with me.


I won't go to Hell for you, but I'll go to Hell with you.


The idea that he was trying to stress was that friendship was something that was not to be easily given nor retracted, and that a friendship worth having was something to be treasured, worked at, defended etc. from both ends of the equation. I suppose that you could say that I am proud to say I have quite a few friendships that I value quite dearly. I have had friends that stood up for me, and even stood up to me, when the situation called for it. I know that there is quite a bit that I have/am/would be willing to do, for any of them, and always figured that the feeling was mutual.

Recently, during a conversation with a couple of buddies, I mentioned plans for my future, and what measure of preparations it would entail in the present. With not much more information that just general ballpark figures, a couple of them offered up what basically comes up to a several thousand dollar loan with no immediately definite pay-back date. All they knew was that if I had the need and they had the means, it was a done deal as far as they were concerned. It was an offer that I had given out myself on the rare occasion, but until now I have not had the opportunity to reflect on what it meant to be on the receiving end. Powerful stuff, friendship.

No News is Good News

So, looks like Night-Time Bimbo Barbie (my apologies to all actual Barbies, everywhere) is going to get out of the pokey, shortly *yawn*. From the breathless updates and wringing hands from the talking heads, one would think there are few things more important than what the newly religious and dedicated [name removed as to not defile even this humble blog] plans to do with her new found freedom.


I wouldn't even mention the above except for the fact that her situation reminds me of lessons learned from my past.


We had attached to our little FOB (Forward Operating Base) this one Corpsman I'll call Chief. He got word that he had been selected for promotion while we were deployed, so there ya go. As most Navy personnel go, he was kind of an odd duck (Har!). Tall guy, very gangly-looking, and somewhat socially awkward in regular conversations. Once you got past the outer appearance though, he was good to go by my book. He new his stuff like nobodies business, and as it turned out, we actually shared a few interests, somewhat. Lemme 'splain...


Back in school, in a yet another failed mission objective of meeting the chicas, I signed up for a Tai Chi class. To be honest, I was kind of curious in what is pretty much considered the epitome of soft style MAs, but when I saw the nearly 30 to 1 female to male gender ratio, that pretty much sealed the deal for me. Not much can be said about me sealing any other deals, unfortunately.

I actually had a pretty good time, and found that it, like most other things of which I think 'sheeeeit, I could do that', was a lot harder than it looks. Nothing like a little 60 yr old lady throwing a slow motion, head level kick, all the while explaining to the class the theories of her style, to show me that my legs and flexibility were not in as good of shape as I had figured. After finishing one thought, with her foot still in the air, the lady rotated her kick to the side and then to the rear, while somehow not laughing at my feeble attempts to stay balanced (and ogle the lovelies) with my foot only at a mediocre hip-height.

Back to Chief, he was a fanatical Tai Chi practitioner. He did it religiously, and was seen practicing most mornings and occasionally in the evenings. It seemed to me that he did nothing else, at times. I would come back from a long, hot, frustrating patrol, and there he was, doing his forms. I knew that he had plenty of stuff to do, probably finished and re-checked several times over, but I would often grumble to myself about the injustice of it all, me working my ass to the bone while Chief studied the intricacies / subtleties of the flicks-booger-off-of sleeve movement.

Unfortunately, as these things tend to go, due to the increase in operational tempo and the inevitable casualties, the sailors on the FOB were eventually called to the plate, and they were jumping through their asses to get their mission done. They did a fine job, and it drove home the points that; A bored Doc should mean a happy Sergeant. A busy Doc means that I am probably having a Very Bad Day. Exciting can be over-rated and bored is often under-rated.

So, to the constant updates ($1 Million dollars for the first post-jail interview!!! Up next, a changed outlook on life!!!), I remind myself that things can always be worse, be happy with what I have going on right now, it just means that it's another slow news day.

Fallen Brothers

Perhaps it is the mood recently, but I have been doing a lot of thinking about old memories and good friends.


The first, 'Golden Boy' was one of those guys. Equal parts disgustingly smart, athletic, and good looking. One of the few that, to me, fit the phrase 'natural born leader'. It didn't take that much in the way of imagination to know that he would go as far as he wanted, as long as he wanted, in just about anything that he did. I didn't know him through the Corps, but it came to my attention that he was going to go Marine Officer, after college. He always had quite a bit on his plate, but it only seemed to focus his ability to accomplish his goals. Had a smokin' hot sister, to my then seemingly eternal despair.

One of the few actual conversations that we had was about the nature of the Officer/Enlisted relationship. The main advice that I give those contemplating entering the military as Officers is to listen and learn from the SNCOs (Staff Non-Commissioned Officers). Most of them have been in their respective service for many, many years, and actually do know what in the hell they are talking about. Some of the best Officers that I have known were not afraid to ask for input from their enlisted leaders. On the other hand, they knew when to make the hard decisions. That is their call, and when all is said and done, that is what the position exists for. Being a junior Lieutenant is a hard, sometimes tedious, often thankless job, but one that is very important for the welfare of the platoon and professional development of the individual Officer. I was confident that he was going to be a great asset to the Corps.

The second was a Marine that we knew as 'Giggles'. Giggles was always a little boy at heart. Sometimes too motivated, he was eager to please. Smart kid, knew his job inside, outside, and sideways, always willing to help out a Marine that was struggling. A leader in the making. I ran across an old picture I have of him the other day, and it almost made me laugh/tear up out loud. We were in the middle of a brutal work-up, long, difficult days filled with training. In those days, most of us still carried around disposable cameras (and did our best NEVER to leave them unattended), for the odd 'moto' shot, group 'hard dog' mementos, and the like.

We had just gotten done with yet another hump, and I was beat. I was sitting on my pack which was parked on the deck at the end of my rack. I was putting off the inevitable pain of getting back to my feet to store my gear. He was leaning up against the wall, quietly sweating from the nights festivities. I pulled out my camera from a pocket, and noticed that I had two photos remaining. Being the cheap bastard that I am, I didn't want to waste the shots, so I told Giggles to 'strike a pose, you sexy bitch!'. He promptly stuck a couple of the road guard luminescent straps around his forehead and gave me the ever present goofy looking grin.


Both were nice guys, good friends, and great Marines.



They have both been dead for longer than I knew them.



"...you are Marines. You're part of a brotherhood. From now on, until the day you die, wherever you are, every Marine is your brother... remember this: Marines die, that's what were here for! But the Marine Corps lives forever. And that means you live forever!"



-Full Metal Jacket, 'Gunnery Sergeant Harman' R. Lee Ermey

Doc B.

Doc B. was an interesting fellow. He kind of struck me as one who, while he thoroughly enjoyed his position and duties, might have easily been a grunt in another life. Smoked like a chimney, cussed like a sailor, and knew his stuff.

To explain,

The position of Corpsman, what others call 'medic', is one that is not found in the Marine Corps. Corpsmen, like Chaplains, are provided to the Corps via the Navy. In training, they can usually be found in a safety vehicle, back from the firing line, waiting with a good book, in the event some hapless Marine discovers why it is not a good idea to stick ones finger in a bolt that is closing, dangle from a second story balcony before dropping to concrete, or learning why a particular plant in the jungle is named 'Black Palm'. Corpsmen throughout the Corps are usually named 'Doc', to his Marines. Some are there to finish reading the latest adventures of Conan, others are there because as a sailor, they normally don't get to do all the 'fun' stuff that we get to do. Doc. B was one of those.

He was quite knowledgeable in his area of expertise, and was eager to impart this knowledge to others. He was the one that in training in California that insisted that we should have at least two Marines per squad that knew as much as they could in regards to Doc's job. If he went down in Iraq, he didn't want to have to wait 20 minutes for the bird or for another squad's Corpsman to respond, he wanted someone to know how to do anything and everything to save him. He did let us know that for him personally, the first check to an unresponsive Doc. B. was to check 'the little Admiral'. "If he's gone, might as well zip me up, boys, no use bringing me back then, is there?"

One memorable class that he gave was the period of instruction on IVs and QuickClot. He gathered the platoon around him, got everyone where they could see his demo and proceeded with the class. This got him credit from me, as we had been at the old semi-abandoned Air Force base for about 3 weeks at the time, and wouldn't you know it, there were no showers anywhere. To say we were a little ripe in the hot Cali sun would be an understatement. Back to the class...

While hitting on basic, basic medical info for the Marines, he reached back into his little bag o' goodies, and pulled out this little rubber tube. He mentioned that like shooting a rifle, one had to have some modicum of focus and control when doing an IV. Especially in combat. ESPECIALLY if it was him we were going to be working on. He tied off the tube on his arm and proceeded to insert the needle into his vein. Made it look easy. While his demo was in process, he continued to instruct the Marines on the relevant information that the medical personnel were going to need back in the rear. "Those guys aren't going to have the foggiest as to what happened to put that Marine or Corpsman on their table, but believe it or not, the more information that they have, they better chance that you and I will have when it comes to treatment."

He withdrew his needle and ejected some of his blood on a disposable plate. "Now for the QuickClot. I'm not going to get into the details of this stuff, because honestly, I am not the expert on this. I do know, and you can think of it this way, is that this powder will help stop the bleeding on a traumatic wound. This is issued by the goverment, so you know it is good stuff." A few groans from the class. "For most wounds, a bullet hole, piece of shrapnel, just patch it up and tie it off. If it continued to bleed through, put more bandage on it. Those that are going to be in my First Responder class will get some more detailed training, but for the majority of youz guyz, that is all you will have time to worry about. This stuff", he said, shaking the bag of QuickClot for emphasis, "is to ONLY be used for emergencies like traumatic amputations, is there any other kind? huge wounds that won't stop spurting, etc."

He turned to the plate with his blood in it. "Normally, the blood is moving through your body, we'll just call it 'circulating around' (Har). When it exits the body for whatever reason, it maintains its liquid form for a little bit." He swirled the plate to demonstrate. Most of the guys were pretty into this class, but I noticed Lcpl. Cherry, over in the corner, looking a little green. "The reason that you only want to use this stuff as a last resort is because of this" he said as he poured the QuickClot on the plate of blood. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then wisps of smoke started to curl from the plate. Then the plate started to bubble and curl, itself. To my layperson eyes, the blood 'cooked' and holy shit, dried up real quick. Doc. B. took the plate, turned it over, and all saw that no blood dripped down to the dirt. "This stuff will hurt like hell, but it will stop the bleeding. Besides, if you are looking at your legs across the road, you will already be in a world of hurt, don't ya think?"

"Now, for the practical application of the class." Pointing to an enthusiastic PFC., "No, asshole, you ain't gonna get to use the QuickClot on anybody for training, I was talking about the IVs. Any volunteers?" In true Marine Corps fashion, he locked on to the least motivated Marine of the group and voluntold him to 'get yer ass up here, boy'. Cherry was an interesting shade of pale green at this time. Hee hee.

Doc B. then patiently talked Cherry through the process of inserting an IV for the group of Marines. He rolled up his own sleeve as the test dummy. He explained where he kept the needles in his bag, and how to get to them. He explained the purpose behind using the rubber ties, strips of cloth, or whatever was handy to search for the vein. He noted several alternative veins that one might be able to get to, should the arms not be a good point of access. He stopped several times to explain to Cherry that if he went any further, he would poke the needle through his $%^#@ arm, bone and all, and pin in to his chest. "Stop, son. Breath. Goddamn! Missed it again! Pull that bad boy out and try it again." After Cherry had completed a needle insertion to his satisfaction and without passing out or tossing lunch, I was starting to wonder if Doc was going to need some of that QuickClot stuff, after all.

Chaplains

Chaplains, like corpsman, are naval personnel that serve with Marines. I have had the pleasure of knowing more than a few chaplains and have gotten quite a few stories from them alone.

The first chaplain that really struck a chord was Father 'Joseph'. He had actually served as a Marine sometime in the late '80s, gotten out of the Corps, lived in the civilian world for a while, felt the call of God, became a priest, signed up for the Navy, and found himself right back with the Marines. He figured it was God showing him where he was needed, I kind of suspected that Murphy had his fingers in the process somewhere. Anyways, this guy was cool.

His introductory speech was given by our platoon commander. The Captain gave a brief bio, and explained that we might see Father Joseph wandering around here and there. Captain turned the floor over to the Chaplain, and left to take care of some other business. Father Joe expounded on his bio, and emphasized that he was an enlisted man before he was a priest, so more likely than not any of the trash that we were doing, he could relate to as he had probably been doing the same stuff, if not worse. He mentioned that one did not have to be Catholic to need to talk to him, his office was open to all Marines, religious or not. Proof of his enlisted Marine Corps lineage was evident when he spoke of 'the rule'.

"I could give a rusty @#%! about anything else, but if you take the name of sweet Jesus in front of me, I will kick. your. ass., understand?" Something you don't hear everyday from a) an officer or b) a priest. The man turned out to be a great asset, and actually had one of the best singing voices I have heard in person.

Another notable Chaplain was one in Iraq. My squad had just lost a man and had several laid up in several hospitals in and outside of Iraq. We had enough numbers on the FOB to support another couple of squads taking our place for a day or two. One of them promptly got hit and lost two Marines with several others seriously wounded. Morale (read overwhelming desire to make a serious bump to the enemy body count) was still high, but was showing signs of stress.

We got the word that a sister squad from another FOB way up North was making a trip down to our FOB with a delivery and to possibly help out with the patrol rotation. I made several trips to the command center to see what was going on in the area of operations, and to drink the 'good' coffee. On the patrol rotation or not, if there was some serious shit going down, my Marines would be ready to go at a moments notice. On one trip I noticed that the day had been somehwhat quiet, on another, I heard that the squad was patrolling down to our FOB with an unusually large number of people. The squad wasn't going to stay more than a day or two, but the extra bodies were going to stay and fill in the new boat spaces in our squads.

That evening, I was in the command center as the patrol arrived. I had just gotten the down and dirty update on the upcoming schedule of events for the next couple of days, and was just about to go greet my buddies from up North and to pass the word to my squad. As I was exiting the command center, I almost ran over an officer on his way in from the newly arrived patrol.

A description of hatches in remote Forward Operating Bases in Middle al Nowhereia, Iraq.

Aside from the standard sandbags that are all over the place, a concerted effort is made to have some sort of contraption that blocks the light from the interior of buildings to the outside environment, in certain locations. This is intended to impede the enemies ability to use any light as a nighttime aiming point. Using stuff that was lying around, some of the more mechanically inclined among us constructed this small photo booth-lookin' contraption just outside of the command center hatch.

As we were face to face in the hatch exchanging our 'scuse me Sir/Sgt. I noticed a few things. First of all, he was an unfamiliar Naval Officer, the Chaplain, as it turned out. A few steps outside of the hatch, I realized a few things more. He had on a kevlar helmet and flack jacket just like everyone else out here, and strapped to his thigh was a drop holster. He had no weapon on him. The drop holster? Specially designed for his Bible.



A man goes out on patrol. He straps on his heavy flack jacket with the armor plates, knowing that it can only stop so much. With some of the stuff out there, you might as well be wearing a floral Hawaiian shirt. For what it is designed to do and a little more, it is great, if not a little heavy, gear. You snap on your Kevlar helmet, idly wondering if it really does work as well as advertised (n.b. it does). Water? Check. Eye protection? Check. Blood type and personal information reported to those that need it? Check and check. Where all others reach for their personal weapon that has been no further than arms reach for the past 5 months, you reach...for your Bible. To carry on patrol. In Iraq. To go where Marines have just yesterday been wounded and killed.

Crazy? Brave? CrazyBrave?

Country Bars, Classy Ladies, and Hand to Hand

A number of years ago, I worked part time at a country bar. I wasn't even really a big fan of country music, but I was a big fan of not being broke. Being broke sucks. Perhaps the best part about having experience working at the bar is getting to know all of the characters that hang out there, either for work and/or pleasure.

There was this bartender that worked there when I first started, for the purpose of this story we'll call her Red. Red was a little bit older than the other bartenders, but she had loads of experience in just about any situation that one could find themselves around in the bar scene. I liked her because she didn't put up with anyone's shit, even mine.

About 3 weeks into the new job, and I was feeling pretty good about my grasp of this line of work. Keep the bars stocked, money ready, and trash cans empty, and it was gravy from then on. I remember commenting to one of the other guys there something along the lines of 'sure aren't many fights here'. Sure enough, Mr. Murphy realized that he had not been paying enough attention to me and decided to develop an interest in the local country bar.

A couple of hours later, and I was in my first bar fight.

A few words here. Even though this was a few years back, we were still firmly entrenched in the modern day litigious society. There were a lot of rules regarding when, how, and what we could do to break up the fights. The one that the manager always stressed was 'watch out for each-other'. As an additional measure, he regularly hired Deputies to come to the bar and hang out. They got a little extra cash and usually just by being there the crowd was a little more subdued.

Usually.

Where was I...ah yes, my first bar fight. Clearing an empty table of beer bottles, I noticed a change in the crowd over at the far end of the dance floor. When a few bottles hit the floor myself and a few of the other guys headed over to that area. What we saw was about a dozen guys, all standing around a couple wrasslin' around on the floor. Elbowing my way through the crowd, I noticed that the pair duking it out were women.

Hmmm......

Grabbing the one that was on top, I pulled her off and handed her to one of the other bouncers. When I turned to the 'lady' that was on the ground beside an overturned table, I was able to see that she was very pregnant. Nice. I was only able to see this for about half a second however, because Classy lady #1 had broken free from my buddy and vaulted herself back into the fight.
Damn, was there something in the beer?

In a feeble attempt to stop the festivities, I grabbed Classy #1 from behind, right hand to her right shoulder. My left arm and hand I swung down in front of her to impede here ability to beat the hell out of Classy #2. What the hell was Classy #2 doing in a smoky bar that pregnant anyways? Classy #1's flailing arms made it somewhat difficult to trap, but I did manage to stop her.

Yay, I'm a hero, right?

Wrong. In managing to drag her off of the pregnant lady, I had somehow managed to grab a handful of Classy #1. Trust me, it was not; intended, enjoyed, or even all that remarkable.

It was somewhat remarkable to her, though.

In her stupor, her rage was transferred from the pregnant woman to the new bouncer. I had a seriously angry, drunken, combative woman on my hands.


Now, growing up as a child my parents had cautioned me to not get into any fights. After a few years of this, they noticed that I was regularly coming home with clothes torn and school supplies missing. They started getting notes from teachers and whatnot commenting on how I was getting my ass beat, but I wasn't fighting back for some reason. My folks told me that I had to stick up for myself. I swung 180 degrees the other way and started beating the hell out of bullies that were picking on me and my friends (Sweet revenge). Back to the 'don't get into fights at school, honey' speeches. Back to getting my ass kicked. Apparently, this happened on and off up to junior high. What was a regular lecture was the one about looking out for my baby sister, and not fighting with girls.

This kind of put me in a pickle. I was very reluctant to fight back with this woman but as she was very drunk, very pissed, and very country she actually knew how to throw a few punches. I was reduced to backing up, holding my hand in front of me defensively, and wondering how in the hell I got myself into this situation.

Enter Red, stage right.

With a shouted 'Hey!' she launched herself over a few chairs, and being a country girl herself, landed a textbook forearm right into the mug of Classy Lady #1. Bam! Fight over. As Red was propping up the seriously dazed Classy #1 and assisting her to the door (and the deputy), she looked over her shoulder, winked at me, and said, "Damn, son. Sometimes you have to fight back no matter what, you know?"

Indeed.

Lost in Translation

In Columbia for a training exercise, we had a few hours worth of a tour through a military academy. Little kids were hanging around, practicing their English and trying to see what kind of goodies they could beg, borrow, or steal. As we were showing them the wonder that is the modern MRE (Meal, Ready to Eat), some of them decided to impress Joker with a song. I believe it was some sort of school song, with pride of the school, state, and nation. Joker was listening to the song, and dutifully clapped at the end. One of the kids struck up a conversation with him, but due to the child's poor English and Joker's nearly complete lack of Spanish, they quickly came to a frustrating stand-still.

Catching sight of me eating nearby, Joker got my attention and asked me how did one say the word 'American' in Spanish. For those not in the know, it is a fairly easy translation, just add the letter 'o' to the end. What I told him was similar, but not exactly the same."It's easy, Joker. 'American' is a word nearly the same in Spanish as it is in English." The resulting translational error was unintended, but nonetheless hilarious.

I continued to chow down on a particularly heinous MRE, the dreaded jambalaya, while Joker started to sound out the sentence that he was trying to get across.


"Yo...soy...um...amer...no...can...er..maricon. Hmm, I think that's it! (Turning back to the kiddos) Yo soy maricon!"


At this statement, I snorted a mouthful of MRE about 10 ft, and all of the children began laughing, pointing, and waving their 'Jazz' hands about.



'Maricon' is one way to say 'homosexual'.



'Jazz hands' there is roughly the equivalent of the limp-wrist pose, here in the states.



Joker had roughly, and erroneously, proclaimed his personal proclivity for hot man love.



Joker didn't understand what was so funny at first, I guess he thought that the children were celebrating his beginner attempts at conversing in their language. He also missed the fact that I was attempting to quietly chortle in the background, tears rolling down my face, my food forgotten. I realized that he had figured it out when a half-eaten pound cake slice went flying past my head with the accompanying, "Murphy, you're an ass-hole!"

St. Paddy's Day

My machine gunner in Iraq was an Irishman. Stereo-typical Irish stuff, loved his pints, quick to anger, and quick to resolve differences over a Guinness. Great at impressions, had some hilarious jokes, and had an interesting accent. When you first meet him, you spend most of your time trying to figure out what in the hell he is saying. After a while, you get used to him, and he to you, and you get along well. After he has had a few pints in him, no one knows what the hell he is saying, aside from (perhaps) close family.

This guy had his moments.

In the effort to avoid 'collateral damage', there was quite the effort made to avoid killing of civilians. Unfortunately, the bad guys had at that time stepped up in their efforts to use Suicide Vehicle born Improvised Explosive Devices (SVBIEDs). One attempt that we made at the time to warn civilians away from us was the use of flash bang grenades and flares. Flash bangs are grenades with no shrapnel, but plenty of noise and light.

We would use these tools to get the attention of civilians, and to suggest that they kindly stop immediately what there are doing, so that we might not have to kill them. Usually this was because they were traveling towards our convoy at a high rate of speed and disregarding all of the signs that we displayed that indicated our decided lack of interest at being overly friendly at at that moment. It was decided that, if time allowed, the turret gunner would deploy flares or flash-bangs, along with hand/arms signals and verbal commands to instruct the civilians in what they needed to do to keep their original number of body openings.

'Paddy' was great at this.

He tried to forewarn me when he could, but usually there was only enough time to throw the flares or toss the flash bangs, and let me kind of figure it out for myself. In the heat of the moment, he would also forget the basic Arabic that we had all been taught, and scream out in English and Irish at the poor locals. Someone pointed out that the civilians could probably not understand him (Hell, WE barely could), he replied that it was the thought that counted, and they could probably understand the gist of what he was saying, especially once he grabbed his 240G 'universal translator'.

Traveling along the road, with the wind whipping through the Hummer I would catch phrases of his diatribe - '... the fock outta da bloody...you bloody focken wankah!...flare, Sergeant!!!...if'n me mah could see this shite...move yer arse!!!...'


Poetry, pure poetry.


The only problem that I had with his deployment of flares and flash bangs were the few occasions that they would be used together, for an interesting auditory combination. There were many things that would get a good ping on the old pucker factor, but a combination of 'WHOOOSH!!!!' (flare) and 'BOOOOM!!!!' (flash bang) would ALWAYS register in my mind as a RPG, EVERY TIME. I am sure that it was humorous at times, me screaming like a little school girl, only to realize that is was just Paddy up top, warning the locals away and offering his own unique commentary on the situations that we found ourselves in.

Here's to you, Paddy.