Mumblegrumble

Bah.

Started a number of posts recently, with all attempts coming to the same conclusion. Most times the stories will be moving along nicely, with me chuckling at my memories of thinking at the time, "I rule!", only to have the inevitable entry from left field to crush me, yet again. Unfortunately, what seems to be frequent recently is the inability to tell the story without running into some self-imposed 'no bloggie' rules. Other times, I'll be merrily writing, tippitytappity, when I'll get the sense that the story is flowing almost... like... I've written it before. Checking a few locations web and pc - wise will confirm it, already written, copied, pasted, edited, and posted.

Combine that with long hours and busy off days, and... bah.

Oh yeah, that reminds me,

BAH HUMBUG!

Hmm, wonder if the ads in question are for Christmas 2007 or 2008?

A Rude Awakening

Anyone who has spent more than a little time outside can tell you that a little forethought goes a long way. As much time as we spent telling old sea stories of wine and women, when it came to the field, alot of those conversations turned to bathroom & sleeping topics.

This is a short story about sleeping tips.

First of all, just as in real estate, it's all about the location, location, location. Flat ground is nice, but sometimes you can make do with a slight incline. Grass is great, tufts are not. Dirt is doable, rocks, not so much. Wide open spaces are nice, wide open vehicles driving around sans ground guides are most definitely not.

Sometimes you don't really have a choice.

Sometimes you are out to the field for extended periods of time, and you bed down when and where you can. Sometimes you're in the vehicle for 17 hours out of an even longer day. Sometimes the Platoon Sergeant beds you down in a very slight valley, right before the rain. Sometimes, at the top of a rocky hill & in the middle of nowhere, a F-150 still runs right over your tender lil' tootsies.

One conversation that I had as a young Lance Corporal had run the gamut of locationary tips. We has spoken of wind breaks, rain water troughs, and the like. The talk came to comfort and heat.

Some guys lived the theory that, as sleeping bags were designed to trap and retain heat, the best way to get that bag full o' the warm and sleepy was to disrobe. Completely. As in bare-assed nekkid. Most of those guys went butt-naked, anyways, any chance they got.

Me, I always hated the fact that there wasn't enough time in the mornings. Heck, there wasn't any time in most mornings. I'm the kind of guy that likes to at least yawn, stretch, scratch anything that needs scratching, and contemplate the day. I especially disliked having about 30 seconds to get all of my crap together, stuffed into my pack, and be on the move to the next training evolution. Naturally, I never felt that there was enough time in the mornings.

What I usually did right before nap time was to lay out my insulating mat on a somewhat level piece of ground. Those things did wonders to keep some of the cold from coming up from the deck. I would then lay it down to find some of the hidden rocks. Then, usually with a gloved hand, I would reach underneath the mat to scrape away some of those stones, usually catching a few thorns in the process (hence the glove). I would arrange my re-closed pack at my right side, blocking some of the wind. I would arrange my flack, kevlar helmet, and load-bearing vest on my left (hopefully blocking some of the wind from that side). This also helped because it put all of my gear really close by, in case I needed to get to it in the dark. I would lay out my sleeping bag, (and after one particularly freezing night with no bag I always had the full bag), and get ready to commence rack ops.

In training, I always took off my boots and placed them in a water proof bag that I had acquired from... somewhere. No creepy crawlies were going to make their home in my boots, my pack, or anything else for that matter, while I snoozed. It was a bad way to wake up, for the both of us, should I interrupt his little rack ops with my nasty feet. This is also why, even after taking the boots from the bag, I shook them upside down, just in case. If I was taking off the cammies, I would generally shake them out, fold 'em up, and place them inside the layers of the bag. This would keep them from getting too wrinkled, keep them somewhat warm, and most importantly, keep any unwanted visitors from making a home in my trouser's crotch (muy importante). I would then crawl into the bag, snuggle up to my rifle, and rack out.

One cool morning, at the beginning of another long day of range fire, I awoke not particularly happy. The fire watch had woken me up three times during the night, looking for their relief. Sometimes all those sleeping bags lined up in platoon formation can look kind of similar, I guess. I was also woken up a couple of times by sleepy Marines, stumbling their way in the dark to the head call area (the area designated by the platoon's doc as where you would go take a leak). I wondered if they couldn't make it outside of the platoon without stepping on anyone, would it be too much to ask that they stumble while doing the deed and piddle down their legs, just once?

At the call of 'Reveille', and the nearly obligatory 'Wakey, wakey, hand off snakey', I sat up, still wrapped up in my bag, to give the chilly morning the evil (if not eye-booger filled) eye. I looked around to my immediate left, to glare at some Marines that were doing their best to hit the snooze button on life. I hated them for the extra 20 seconds of sleep that they got over me. I turned my head to the right, wondering when my brain would actually wake up and kick into gear, when I saw...

There are few things in life that will wake you up faster than a good, hot, tasty cup of coffee.

Realizing that; libo expires in 30 minutes, you are 10 miles from the base, drunk as a skunk, and due for a PFT (physical fitness test), is one.

Incoming mortar and rocket fire in Iraq (or anywhere else, really) is another.

... that the Marine two feet from my right had risen from his rack to contemplate the wonders of the day. He woke and stood right up, exposing himself in all his glory to the platoon and mother nature. Did I mention that he was one of those that always got nekkid whenever and wherever possible? Yup, me sitting down still wrapped up and cursing the day, him standing up and doing trunk twists, placed his crotch... well, let's just say that we were seeing eye to eye, and not in the good way.

Apparently, getting an unexpected eye-full of early morning Marine crotch is the holy grail of rapid and rude awakenings.

No Pressure...

Mark has recently asked me to come onto his show. Apparently, he doesn't really like it anymore, and wants me to come on so that BTR will magically crash and burn into oblivion.

Kidding of course, but... Murphy's Law, anyone?

Listening to posts is something that I only recently have gotten into, heck Blogging is something that I am still relatively new to, but I have to say there has been some interesting stuff on his show. I particularly enjoyed putting a voice to some of the bloggers that I enjoy reading. I still think that there are some much more interesting folks out there [my eyes wandering to screen left - oh hey, look at that, there's still some folks I've left out, dangit...], but if he wants to work some bugs out of the system with me, then I suppose I'm cool with that.

Schedule wise it kind of appears (pending his okay of course) that more often than not Wednesdays or Thursdays are probably going to be the evenings that I will be available for public amusement and/or ridicule in posterior...er-ity. That time of the year is fast approaching when schedules get filled up with all sorts of work, family, and other obligations, combine that with any schedule that he already has, and it might be a little while before we actually get me the green light. Further e-mails will be forthcoming, and I am sure that he'll probably put something up when it's time for me to go on his show. I might even have something on here, as well.

Why I Don't Complain...

... As Much... -er-, As I Used To... -um- .... Anymore... Mostly.


Long title, I know, but it kind of works.

So, after awhile in most tend to realize that there are somethings that are going to happen that are not... good. Marines are going to piss and moan, of course, that and talking trash is something that is just done. Always has, it seems, always will.

I seem to only vaguely remember some quote something along the lines of 'as long as the men are complaining, everything is as it should be', or somesuch...

I guess that I complain about as much as the next guy, but I'm very careful to not carry on too long, or even begin to approach the arena of whining, because 1) Whining is disgusting, and 2) Excessive complaining dares the gods to do their worst.


Couple of years back. Late in the evening, out in the field & freezing my ass off...

[I slip, fall, and crack my crack on a rock]

ME: Boy howdy, this sucks the big one.

['wind a-blowin']

ME: Can it get any worse?

[drippity-drip]

ME: Kidding! Just kidding! No rain, go away!

[pouring rain]

ME: Crap.

Naturally, this comes after a week of chilly but not cold weather. Winter was finally winding down, and warm weather was around the corner. I still had all my cold-weather gear, because well... read the blog title, I'm sure that it's pretty evident. So winter decided to give one last huzzah, before giving up the ghost. What had been only chilly weather in the mornings back on the block and perhaps somewhat overly enthusiastic short-sleeve weather in the afternoons turned into friggin' Arctic weather training once out in the field.

On the other hand I was pretty excited due to the fact that for the first time in a long while, I didn't have to stand watch that night. Anytime the Marines were bedded down out in the field, there are Marines up and standing guard on rotation, and tonight, I wasn't one of them. I would be doing my best bug-in-a-rug impression, in my bag. Life was (somewhat) good.

So after the rain started, the suckage increased.

No catastrophic bag failure for me that night, only woke up once when I realized that my nose was frozen solid. See, I'm one of those types that can't have anything covering my face when I sleep. I dunno why, it just is. I'll have the bag zipped, snapped, and draw-stringed up tight, with only my nose or mouth sticking out from a small hole near the top (referring to it as a 'blow hole' might be amusing. Once.). Reaching one arm through the face-hole in the sleeping bag, I reached over and propped my nearby pack at an angle. Sticking my head in the lee of the pack to block most of the wind and rain, I dozed back off to sleep...

To wake up in the morning covered in snow. In SNOW! Now, anybody who has spent more than one winter in the northern states will undoubtedly scoff and call us a bunch of wussies, but for most of the guys, the 1.5 inches that we had that morning was all but a blizzard.

I sat up, still buried in my sleeping bag, angling my face around to ogle the world with one sleepy & eye-booger filled incredulous eyeball.

ME: Oh. Hell. No. ... Can it possibly get any worse?

That's when the first snow ball hit me, followed closely by a conspicuously un-Marine like titter.

ME: Crap.

[rewind, to the previous evening]

The Forward Observer team exited the vehicle, threw their packs on their backs, and started humping their gear to a designated observation hill aways from & on the flank of the mortar range. Come morning, they would be the Marines that would search for targets on the range and practice calling in fire to the gun line. Until the range went hot mid-morning, their duties were somewhat limited. A short perimeter check, maybe checking out the available targets while the light still held out, and that was about it. They bedded down for the night, all four of them with their sleeping bags tucked up close to a large bush on the top of the hill. They also decided not to set out a fire watch.

[back to me getting an icy morning wake up call]

The range observer finally showed up, interrupting the necessary but somewhat routine classes that we did every time we went to the range. As it turned out, he was a Marine that a number of us had first met on float, so some of the guys gathered around and passed some scoop on who was where & doing what, rumors of future deployments, and to talk some trash. Eventually he left to go check out the forward observers' position.

Taking care to drive up the almost-never snow-covered road leading to the FOs hill, he was moving slow when the F150 topped the hill. He arrived at the top and didn't see any Marines, only snow covered... everything. I imagine that he probably wanted to stop the truck, check some maps, and probably get on the radio to inquire, 'WTF?'. Steering the truck over to the one bush on the top of the hill, there was a suspicious 'thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump'. He found our Forward Observers, all right.

At about this time I was down on the range, still freezing my ass off, miserable. Some industrious Marine had created a 6 inch tall snowman and perched him on the empty sight-case. I was looking forward to a long Fire for Effect mission, because after enough rounds, the barrel would warm up and I would probably be on that bad boy, with no shame at all, to warm up. We were scheduled to begin fire missions shortly.

The call came over the radio, "Gun Line, this is FDC. The range is cold, the range is cold (no shit, I'm freezing here!). All team leaders get your numbers (of Marines, serialized gear, and ordinance) and report to the FDC." As all my Marines were looking at me with a 'WTF?' look on their face, I knew that I had all my bodies. The ammo was likewise out and prepped near the gun, minus the 'WTF?' look. After a quick check of the serialized gear, we started getting word that there had been an 'incident'. Hearing the choppers zoom by shortly after confirmed it. "Sucks to be them", "Hope those guys are warm, at least" and other comments were given while we killed time on the gun-line, still oblivious to who was involved.

To hear the story later from one of the unfortunate 'speed bumps' (and yes, they all survived) he admitted that they were in the wrong with the whole no fire watch thing. About the only 'good' thing was the fact that all of them had slept with their heads underneath the brush and only the foot ends of their sleeping bags sticking out any distance from the foliage. Hearing him relate how he went from dreaming about some little hottie to getting wrapped up underneath the truck, still wrapped up in his sleeping bag was... well, it was a relieved laughter, that's for sure.

Snivel Gear & A Wake Up, Part 1

I remember when we got issued the new sleeping bags.

It's not that the old bags were junk, it's just that they were quite old and decrepit, long overdue for replacement. Well mine was junk, I think at one point I was suffering a 50% bag failure, and that makes for a miserable night! I kind of think that the new stuff was scheduled to come down the pipes and the powers that be didn't want to issue out any more new (actually old) sleeping bags when the new, Goretexified stuff was... soon to be issue- er, hold on... scheduled to arrive soo- um, just a sec... delayed but to be issued sometim- aw hell, gonna get here sometime.

Eventually we got the new bags, to mixed review. Most guys liked the heck out of the fact that they came in a three part configuration, with a thin green sleeping bag for cool weather, a thicker black bag for cold weather, and a goretex outer liner fastened to the green and black bags for the 'oh my poor, frozen, nuts' - freezing. Others complained that the whole assembly was larger and heavier than the old bags, and that the zippers and snaps were like honey to the Murphy-bees.

As long as the thing kept me warm at night, I was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.

The first night that we used the sleeping bags, amazingly enough, was a huge goat-rope. I forget what the exact situation was (probably traumatically repressed, or something), but I distinctly remember the Platoon Sergeant saying, "Fuggit, bed 'em down! Reveille goes in 5 hours, set the fire-watch, post comm-watch, long day tomorrow, stand by, gents!" As we were in for a short night and a long day, all of us not shafted -er- scheduled to stand guard that night were moving with a purpose to test out those new sleeping bags.

A description of a bivouac (sleeping area) site for our platoon.

It kind of depended on the Officer, what the plan was for sleeping out in the field. Some wanted us to be tactical at all times out in the field, so we would usually sleep as teams, sleeping bags tucked up alongside or under foliage, or camouflaged with the smaller nets that we took with us in the Hummers. Others were concerned with a vehicle accidentally hitting a speed-bump when driving at night (read: a Marine having a Really Bad Night), so they wanted the platoon to sleep in an admin mode, or that is to say with all Marines lined up on the ground in a rough platoon formation, with chem lights strung around the perimeter of the platoon. Regardless of the plan, there was always a night watch. If there were any Marines around (and I suppose that we would qualify, technically, as 'any Marines'), somebody had to make sure that there was a minimum of mischief going on at night.

That night we were sleeping in an admin mode, so I didn't get to pick my spot to sleep. Of course, along with the cold and the wind, mother nature decided that we really needed a good test run of the new bags and decided to send us some drizzle, as well. Awesome.

I was remarkably warm that night.

I woke up a couple of times just to savor the sensation of being toasty warm and comfy. It was ridiculously nice. It wasn't so nice that I stayed up very long, just enough to note the pleasant change in sleeping status.

I woke the next morning freezing my buns off. I don't remember if I was more ticked off that I had woken up 20 minutes before reveille (wakey-wakey time), or that I had yet another bag failure. Apparently, the cold temps, wind, and now driving rain had combined to ruin my morning. Again. I heard the muttered curses of nearby Marines as most of us woke up to the same situation.

Still secured in my sleeping bag I rolled over only to discover...

When we had bedded down in the darkness of the night, we had done so in a very subtle ground depression. The rain had soaked the ground and puddled on the surface, right where we were sleeping.

...that when you are sleeping in what amounts to a semi-frozen puddle of water, once that icy-cold water floods into the bag, you are in for another long and miserable day.

Know your limits...or else.

Four or five of us were gathered in an Admin back classroom, trying to make up our minds. What we were doing was going through a platoon roster and selecting a super squad (or two). Our 'dream team' was going to be voluntold to go and compete against other 81mm mortar teams from the Battalion, and everyone in our chain of command up to and including the Commanding Officer was keen on a top showing. We had the pick of the litter from the platoon to attend the competition, and some of it was difficult to decide.

We tried to keep gunners and a-gunners together as a general rule.

On the 81mm mortar system, if a platoon went with a 2 man gunning system, the gunner and a-gunner learned to work together very well. The more time spent learning the other's subtleties, the faster they could get. Some pairs could get scary fast. They would have the gun up and ready to go just about as fast as the commands could come down over the radio. The problem was there was more to the competition than just shooting. When we would consider one pair of Marines, one or the other would have some serious potential problems in other areas of the 'Comp'.

Running through the roster sounded somewhat like this. "Ok, Jones and Smith, or Smithe and Jonsey. Thoughts?" "Jones can't go three minutes without losing a vital piece of gear. How in the hell is he going to pass the inspection?", or "Smithe can hardly spell his name, how is he going to pass the written test?". We eventually narrowed the platoon down to about 20 candidates, and then made a list of every Marine's pros and cons, as it related to his ability to compete.

One of the last Marines to make the cut was a guy we'll call 'House'. Lance Corporal House was an outstanding gunner, probably one of the best in the platoon. He was pretty smart, knew his stuff forwards and backwards. On the gun he was the man, no doubt. He was also more than just a little bit out of shape. After much discussion and a little debate, most of us agreed that his contributions to the team on all other aspects of the comp would more than outweigh any potential issues that he would have on the hump. A few of us suspected that we would live to regret this decision...

Humps were considered one of my strong points. It wasn't that they were easy for me, it was just that I had learned early that the best way to never have any problems was to always keep up. When you start slowing down and giving in to the pain, even a little bit, things get real interesting real fast. After a while I fell into working as one of those guys that was constantly running back and forth, hustling the 'weak bodies' from the rear all the way to the front. When you are constantly worrying about getting others to the front and focusing on not letting them fall back or pass out, it tends to keep your mind off of your own pain.


The hump.

We were staged for the hump, our team divided into two lines, all Marines sitting on their packs on either side of the dirt road. All we were waiting on was the call over the radio that the preceding team was far enough on their hump for us to avoid interference. Our packs were full (the gear inspection was the event immediately after the hump), and all of our mortar components were either strapped to the packs or more common, ready to carry by hand.

Finally we got the word to gear up. To put on a heavy pack the most common way is to situate the pack on the ground, the side with the straps facing up to the sky. The Marine will then situate himself so that he is standing with his feet closest to the top of the pack. Grasping the frame bars with his hands, he will then squat down a little and lift/heave/grunt the pack overhead, to land on his shoulders and back. From a bent over position the pack mule...er... infantryman will then adjust and tighten the straps of the pack for the best fit. As House was putting on his pack, I noticed that he had opted to strap the base plate to the outside of his pack.

Now, the base plate is the circular looking 30 pound hunk of metal that basically prevents the barrel of the mortar from burying itself into the deck when firing. It has plenty of space to get a good grasp, but it can be kind of awkward to carry, especially over long distances and at speed. This being a competition hump, it would be more of a fast shuffle than a fast walk.

The first mile went great.

Starting at about the 1.5 mile mark, House started to have some issues. I was already in the back, motivating a Marine that had rolled his ankle. It wasn't a bad sprain, he was one of our 'no problems humpers', so I wasn't too worried. I told him to take it easy, and gradually make his way back up to the platoon. Working our way to the front, I yelled ahead for one of my Sergeants to fall back and help out House. He cursed, grabbed another motivator of Corporal persuasion, and fell back to where House looked like he wanted to keel over.

One of the things about competition humps was that the penalty for a Marine failing to complete the hump was so severe that we decided to remove permission to fall out to anybody from our team.

No failures, no exceptions.

It was in this light that the Sergeant and Corporal that fell back with House eventually motivated him enough to almost catch up with the platoon. As the main body had only slowed from the good-paced jog to a medium paced shuffle, it rapidly became apparent that he was going to have a hard time catching up without passing out. No good.

The Sergeant told him to drop his pack.

*zwrip, zwrip... thud*

Straps were loosened, and the pack hit the deck. The Sergeant and the Corporal then 'beer-coolered' the pack and base plate between them, and House was advised that he had better appreciate the significance of two Marines not only carrying their own full packs and gear, but his as well. He was forbidden to pass out, die, or in anyway shape or form cause any more issues. Ever. For the rest of his life.

Shortly thereafter, the Sergeant and the Corporal realized that they were now falling further and further behind.

Running back and forth, I finally got the last straggler up to the group and noticed an odd sight. We were two bodies short, and House wasn't wearing his pack. Hmmm...

I stopped in my tracks and let the platoon pull away from me. I was breathing hard but wasn't especially worn out. I was feeling pretty good, actually. Looking to the rear and just coming around the bend of the road, I noticed that the Sergeant and Corporal were not looking too hot. Walking back to them, I noticed that the constant motion of one Marine on either side had loosened up the straps to the point that the base plate was starting to separate from the pack.

Finally they got tired of fighting the unbalanced weight and dropped it to fully separate the plate from the pack. I offered to take the pack. The Sergeant accepted my offer.

Damn. That's what I get for being motivated.

Now he and the Corporal were switching off the base plate and making much better time. I was actually keeping up pretty good, considering the two full packs I was carrying. House's pack couldn't fit ideally on my back of course, so it was just kind of situated on the very top of my own. The result was that it leaned against the back of my head, forcing my gaze down. This helped, somewhat, in that I couldn't look to see how far ahead the platoon was from the three of us, all I could do was keep looking down and put one foot in front of the other.

We plodded on, nearing the rest of the team. The Sergeant handed off the base plate to the Corporal so that he could run ahead and let the Staff Sergeant know that all hands were accounted for and NOT declared a hump drop (Boo! Hiss!). The Corporal and I were switching off the base plate now. (Boo! Hiss!)

At this time, carrying two packs and a base plate, I wouldn't have said that I was peachy keen frolicking in a field of roses or anything, but I was still doing ok. Ok enough that I was able to talk some trash to a Marine that was starting to suffer under the weight of his mortar barrel.

Not getting an immediate expletive from his direction, I glanced sideways at him; he looked like clammy death, personified.

Not good.

All the other 'hump motivators' were having a hard time and preparing themselves for the final mile or so.

Crap.

Craning my neck around at him I asked him if he was going to survive the hump. No answer, just panting. I told him that there wasn't too much I could do in the way of help, as I was kind of occupied, myself. After about 100 yards he told me 'take the barrel while I puke, dude.' He then tossed the barrel to me.

Close to the very end of the hump there was a huge boulder right on the shoulder of the road. One of the instructors for the competition had dismounted from his vehicle, climbed on top of the rock, and watched the majority of our unit pass by him on the final stretch. The end was well within sight of the boulder. Lagging somewhat behind the main body he saw a sight that prompted him to exclaim with an apparent abundance of motivating spirit, "OORAH, DEVIL DOGS!!! GET SOME!!! OORAH!!!"

I never did find out what motivated him, whether it was the poor bastard trying to stagger under his pack and puke at the same time or the poor dumb bastard that thought it was somehow possible to carry two full packs, a base plate, a mortar barrel, and various smaller miscellaneous mortar gear. I literally staggered across the finish line and didn't even pause to drop the gear and lower my pack. I just keeled over to my right once the last inch of boot leather passed the line.

So the news stories from parts northern of the Marine Corps run high school reminded me of a few Marines and a parade.

Best part of the reports for me is the few folks out there that get their tighty whites in a wad about the military in schools, and they're just talking about a few recruiters on a medium to large sized university campus. I wish I could see their faces when 'Marine Corps' & 'High School' are used in the same sentence. Now that would be priceless. But maybe that's just me...

I actually knew a few Marines who attended a military type high school. Up to that point, I wasn't even aware that there was anything out there more than the JROTC programs. One of the guys had some pretty good stories from his time there, and while they weren't quite to the caliber (or occasional depravity) of a good sea or war story, some of the tales were pretty funny. He lamented the intrusion of regulation that was creeping into his old school, but unnecessary regulation and discipline can be perceived as very different things when it comes to the kiddos, depending on one's age perspective.

Except for me, of course, I knew everything. (Har!!)

So one year a bunch of us had either not escaped from the Gunny fast enough or had gotten caught doing something relatively minor and had been voluntold for parade duty. Honestly though, parade and funeral details never really bothered me, save for a few times. It was always a pleasure to speak with ye Olde Corps vets, and equally so to render final honors.

Rendering honors for Marines that one knows personally is a duty & honor, but it gets old. Real old, real quick.

Veterans Day parades were interesting for a number of reasons. Firstly, they were usually held in the mornings after an evening of liberty. It was quite funny the number of times that you would see Marines show up to the parade muster location with coffee, dark shades, pounding headaches, and low, quiet tones.

Those mornings when I was feeling the after-effects of a rather vigorous night, not so much.

Older (former) Marines would wander up on occasion with some words of wisdom, or even more appreciated, a few cups of coffee. Once out of the Corps, the former Marines might vary quite a bit in their appearance, with different sizes of guts, length of hair, styles of clothes & whatnot, but they all seemed to have that same gleam in their eye and a few salty stories of their own, once they got warmed up. I'm afraid we got more than one former Marine in trouble with their spousal unit upon their return, because a slip of the tongue is real easy to do when hanging out with Marines.

So this one parade that we did we arrived to notice that our place in the parade just happened to be located right up against a platoon from a Marine high school. It was interesting to note that their dress blues uniform were for the most part, exactly like ours. There were no combat action ribbons on their uniforms but if I remember correctly, not too many of us had ours yet, either. So the ribbons were different, and they had a school-related patch on one shoulder. Enough to make some of us do a double take, especially those that always commented on the state of the 'young punks' that seemed to join the beloved Corps, year after year.

The Commanders of the high school platoons reminded me of Scout Troop leaders. Some were vets themselves, others struck me as filling more of a chaperon kind of billet, meaning that they were probably parents of one of the lads. No uniforms worn nor military experience, but a healthy concern for the kiddos and an interest in most things military. It was one of those gentlemen that came over to our platoon where we were staged, trying not to pass out or toss (too many) cookies, to strike up a conversation with our Staff Sergeant.

GENT: Hey dude, how's it going?

SSGT: [somewhat growling] Good morning, Sir.

Apparently the good man though we were from another school.

GENT: Sun sure is bright this morning, iddn't?

SSGT: *sigh*


The Staff Sergeant was probably regretting his recent promise to clean up his act...


GENT: So, y'all gonna be spinnin' dem rifles 'round, 'n such?

SSGT: F... uh, no Sir, we're not. We might do a little s...omething here and there, but nothing too fancy.

GENT: Say now, what school'r ya from?

Yup, definitely thought we were kiddos. This should be interesting...

SSGT: School? ... ... We're from the School of Hard Knocks.

I would have preferred an answer more along the lines of the University of S&M, California, but the Staff Sergeant's response did the trick. The guy paused, glanced down at the conspicuous lack of school patches on our platoons' shoulders, and shortly thereafter retreated to his own platoon.

Ah, I Get it...

Unpublished drafts are posted to the blog from the date they were started, not the day that I finally get offa my lazy bum and post it...


Learning something new every day.

Language, Self Control & Improvement, and a Human Counter

I had a Staff Sergeant back in the day that decided to turn over a new leaf. Attempting to do this while still in the Corps was an admirable effort.

Some might say futile, but admirable nonetheless.

I want to say that the reason for the new outlook on life was that he had 'found Jesus'. Good for him, I say, but the transition from the guy that we all knew and loved to the 'new & improved' Staff Sergeant made for a few interesting moments.

Before going out to the field one day, and as an addendum to the training ops brief, he announced that he was going to stop cursing.

'You gotta be fuckin' kidding me', was the universal response from the platoon.


He was serious, and as a show of his intent, he assigned a PFC the additional duties of counting the number of times that he let the bad words slip by.


You could tell that the man was struggling when it came time for the final head count before leaving garrison. Most of the platoon already had their packs staged and were just hanging out, waiting for the word to load vehicles. The sooner we take off, the sooner we get back, sort of thing. The Staff Sergeant walked up to where we were waiting and asked for the gun team leaders.

"I need all fu-er- all NCOs up here right now!", he bellowed in his customary voice. Once we were assembled he asked if we were up on bodies, gear, and weapons (all numbers of personnel, serialized gear, and weaponry matching what he had on paper). "Ok gents, do we have all our go... ...ll-darned mortars ready yet? No? Well why the fuck - damn - why not?" (One mortar had a problematic sight and we were arguing with the armorer to issue us one that actually worked). "Ok, ok, I can deal with that. Tell all your Marines to get their shit - shit! - stuff together, load the vehicles, and stand by to stand by."

After a short time we had loaded all of the packs and Marines on the vehicles and were... standing by. One Marine had launched into a particularly lurid accounting of the previous weekend with a particularly dirty (and affectionate) stripper of questionable intelligence. As the Marine was getting to the 'climax' (Har!) of his story, the Staff Sergeant came around for some last-minute instruction.

"All right, all right. Shut yer pie holes and listen up! We're gonna be bustin' our balls during this evolution ... better see y'all move with a purpose... not any assholes gaffing off the training... so, when we get to the range I want all Marines to get their crap... shit. Fuck! *sigh*... [pause] Hey, where's my lackey?" "Lackey, Staff Sergeant?" someone asked. "Yeah, you know, my human cuss counter." The PFC responded from down the way.


PFC - Here, Staff Sergeant!!

SSGT - What's my count right now?

PFC - The whole thing, Staff Sergeant, or you want the count for 'fuck', 'cocks', 'shit', 'sweaty balls', 'grab-ass','crap', 'mother fu-

SSGT - The whole thing, damnit!

PFC - Wait one, Staff Sergeant... ... ...

*rustling of paper, pencil scratchings, and... was that a calculator?*

SSGT - Well? I ain't got all fucking day, you know!!

*one last pencil scratch*

PFC - 55, Staff Sergeant!

SSGT - 55?!

PFC - Roger that, Staff Sergeant!

SSGT - [under his breath] Fuck...

PFC - 56, Staff Sergeant!


While most laughed, I thought that it was kind of remarkable that the Staff Sergeant had made quite a significant dent in the average of his colorful commentary in the few hours since making his announcement...

Good Times at the Gun Range

I was pretty well indoctrinated in my early days in the Marines. I'm sure that on some level I knew that they didn't know everything, but I guess you could say that the 'immediate obedience to orders' thing really stuck with me when it came to the Officers. This could set the stage for some interesting situations, at times...

One afternoon we were on the gun range working through some live fire exercises off and on when the Captain came up to my gun. I was a fresh Lance Corporal, trying to refresh the other Lcpls on the finer art of one man gunning.

See, in the Infantry Training Battalion, they teach both the one and two man method of mortar gunning, but what seemed to happen the majority of the time in various units was the two man system. Without periodically refreshing oneself on the one man system, the skills needed would inevitably deteriorate, practically guaranteeing a situation where all hands are temporarily busy thereby demanding one man gunning skills. I happened to keep my one man skills sharp, so I was the defacto coach.

When the Captain came up he had company. He brought with him one Officer and a pair of crusty old Staff NCOs. He informed me that the trio were compadres of his from awhile back & another unit and they wanted to get some gun time. He asked me if they could shoot on my gun.

Not even really a question as really they were the Captain's guns...

Normally whenever a Marine gives a lesson or demonstration to another Marine with little to no experience in the field, he has a set pattern for the class. Briefly, my lesson plan for the 81mm mortar was to cover the responsibilities and duties of the assistant gunner (the guy who drops the rounds), things to watch out for, things to NEVER. EVER. NOT EVEN ONCE. do, and the like. The Officer, leading the way like most good Officers and shooting first, pre-empted my usual spiel by announcing that he was more than adequately prepared for the mortar fire, and, as long as I hadn't screwed up the dope (deflection and elevation numbers dialed on the sight and used for aiming), the mortar would display a magnificent demonstration of accurate fire blahblahblah....

Well.

Thus ended my attempts at the niceties. He was a Officer, right? Officers know their stuff, right? It seems that spending some time as a weapons platoon commander... of machine guns... many years back... doesn't qualify one for expertise on the 81mm mortar. Amazing.

The Fire Direction Control (FDC) team announced an upcoming mission.

FDC: FIRE MISSION!!!

PLATOON SERGEANT: (in the distance) GUN 6, GET THAT KNUCKLHE- er, a-gunner behind the line!

ME: Sir? Sir! He's talking about you, Sir. You need to be behind the muzzle of the barrel from here on out, Sir.

Sheesh!

FDC: DEFLECTION...12..34!!! ELEVATION...07..12!!! ONE ROUND, HE...CHARGE 3!!!

OFFICER: Huh? Oh, thanks. [steps back] What are they saying?

ME: Nothing to you yet, Sir. Just some stuff for the gunners and ammo men.

My gunner was hurriedly entering the information on the gun and, amazingly enough, doing some darn good one man gunning aiming in of the mortar. My ammo man completed his checks of the mortar round and handed it off to the Officer.

AMMO MAN: One round, Sir, HE, 3 charges, safety still in. I'll be prepping the other rounds...

OFFICER: Uh, thanks.

Was it me, or was the man a little bit nervous?

FDC: STANDBY FOR HALF-LOAD!!!

At the command of 'Half-Load', the assistant gunners on the gun line were to insert the mortar round halfway into the barrel and wait for the command to fire. It is usually strongly recommended to NOT drop the round before the command to fire, but if it is done, you never want to try to 'catch' the round. Trying to do so will result in the loss of whatever is in front of the barrel of the tube. Think - Very. Bad. Day.

ME: Uh, Sir? We're gonna fire pretty soon, now would be a pretty good time to remove the safety.

After his look of befuddlement, I reached over and plucked the safety half-moon lookin' metal bar from the nose cone of the round, rendering it live.

The Officer was definitely breathing heavier, now.

FDC: HALF LOAD!!!

Upon a question from one of the Staff NCOs, I turned and told him to standby for a sec, or until we shot off the round. Turning back I heard...

*tinktinktinktinktinktinktinktinktinktinktitnktink*

The Officer was somewhat half-loaded, with his right hand clasped around the very top of the round. In his nervousness, the mortar round was shaking so hard it was rattling against the interior of the barrel.

FDC: STANDBY... 30 SECONDS!!!

More than ready my left - er- yeah. I tried to squeeze in some last minute instruction.

ME: Remember, Sir, when I give the command to fire, just open your hand holding the round, bend over and immediately touch your boot. Drop your hand straight down, or yer gonna lose it. If the mortar does not fire for any reason, it most likely is a misfire. It probably won't kill us all, just keep your head down and I'll take over from there.

FDC: FIRE!!!

ME: FIRE! FIRE, SIR, FIRE!!! DROP THE ROUND, SIR!!!

He opened his hand thereby dropping the round, bent over and grabbed his boot, picture perfect.

The Mortar didn't fire.

From his position bent over, hand clutching his boot, he noticed the suspicious absence of any rounds getting sent down range from the gun.

OFFICER: [muffled & kinda squeaky] Misfire? Misfire!

I definitely heard some subtle chuckles behind me, from the direction of the Staff NCOs. This was because the Officer had failed to properly half load the round into the barrel. The round was trapped at an angle in the muzzle of the barrel and 'caught up', as we say. Just as the FDC and the Platoon Sergeant started to make their comments, I reached over the folded Officer and tapped the round to straighten it out and send it first down the barrel to then travel down range. As I was bending over I had to place a forearm on the Officer, because he was straightening up to see what was going on with the offending round.

More chuckles from the Staff NCOs.

After that volley and the subsequent decline in more gun time from the Officer, I nodded to one of the Staff NCOs to come up to the gun. "Shot any mortars before? That's nice. Welcome to my m252 81mm mortar. When you are on my gun you will listen to my instructions at all times. Today you will be dropping rounds from the a-gunner position..." He didn't seem to mind one bit getting instructed by a relatively FNG Lance Corporal.