General Order #4 and Spontaneous Hand and Arm Signals

4. To repeat all calls from posts more distant to the guard house than my own.

from the General Orders for Sentries.


The General Orders are something that all learn (and well), in boot camp. The way that this one was explained to me was that, back in the 'Old Corps' (which you might remember is the time period of everything up to one day earlier than you entered), before company squad or personal radios, GPS, satellites, and all that happy trash, Marines had to call out to the sentry on either side of them. Leaving one's post is not always possible, due to little things like rules & regs, sneaky bad guys, and worst of all - cranky NCOs. This would ensure that vital word got passed down, you know, stuff like changes in orders, where the enemy was currently attacking, or what, uh, 'entertainer' the guys were going to go visit that night.


This order was reflected, in a way, throughout my time in the Corps, on the 81mm mortar gun line.


Mortar firing ranges are a bit larger than some others, due to a number of factors. Gun positioning mandated that we were at least 40 meters apart, taking into account the killing range of an 81mm round, terrain, our comm abilities, cover and concealment, etc. We were also usually placed into a more or less 'W' shape, to further spread ourselves out, avoid making an easy target by being on line with each other, and the like.


Kinda got to the point where we had to have good comm to function, at all. 'Good' comm(unications, i.e. radios) was not always easy to be had. Heh, on some occasions we were reduced to screaming the commands to guns farther down on the gun line, noise discipline be damned. At least the sounds of the Platoon Sergeant getting about neck deep in the radioman's ass warmed our hearts, 'cause if he was yelling at him, he wasn't chewing us out... as much... usually.


It kind of evolved into a SOP that if the Platoon Sergeant started sounding off at the top of his lungs, you took for granted that either all radios were down, or that perhaps just one line was out. It was then 'OK' to sound off yourself, at least to pass the word. That first word was to make sure that the radio of the gun in question was actually bad, or the gun team leader had his head outta his ass.


One day we were at the range, just about 20 minutes from going hot, all the guns laid in, just waiting for the word. The call came over the radio, "Gun line, gun line, this is FDC... comm check, roger up when you're good to go, over." Following our own procedures, the gun team leaders got on the radio and transmitted their gun and status. "Gun 1, up", followed by "Gun 2, up", and so on and so forth.


I believe I was the Gun 4 gun team leader, at the time.


The gun line radio transmissions came and went down the line... until it got to the last gun, Gun 8. Gun 8 seemed to be our problem child for a while, not 'cause that's where we stored all our shitbirds, but just that it was their bad luck to always be on the ass-end of pretty much everything - the armory draw, PFC allocation, radio issue, last to get the word, and the like.


The Platoon Sergeant had left the FDC (Fire Direction Control, or the 'brains' of the mortar platoon) to check out his gun teams. He had moved more or less straight ahead to the position that Gun 4 occupied. After ensuring that everything was progressing more or less on schedule, he performed a right flank and proceeded down the gun line to Gun 1. One would assume that after completing his checks of 1st section (Guns 1-4), he would then frolic on over to eyeball 2nd section (Guns 5-8). It was when he was at Gun 1's position when Gun 8 failed to come up on the radio to confirm that everything was good to go.


As the radioman was hustling down to the Gun 8 position, the Platoon Sergeant decided to inquire WTF was the hold up. Rather than hop on a radio to ask Gun7, he bellowed out from faaaar right, 'PULL YOUR HEAD OUTTA YER FUCKIN" ASS, YOU!!!'


Remember what I said about passing of word?


Yeah, well, true to form, the entirety of Gun 2 promptly turned to the Gun 3 crew and unanimously passed the word along, at top volume, prompting them to continue the favor down the gun line.


I think hand and arm signals were initiated somewhere between Gun 3 and Gun 4. Really, there was no reason for silent signals as we were screaming at the top of our lungs, but the fact was that by the time Gun 8 got the word, all of Gun 7's crew was doing the same thing - PULL YOUR HEAD OUT (open hands, on either shoulder, moving up as if pulling one's head out) OF YOUR FUCKIN' (violent standing hip thrusts) ASS (*slap*), YOU (pointing).


The Gun8 response detailing how their radio had 'shit the bed' (was out of action) was passed back down with equal speed and humor. Don't think the hand and arm signals (squat w/grunt and folded hands under the head) were passed along to the Platoon Sergeant, though. Just guessing, on that...

'Mam-ries'

Best thing about this pic.... is wondering about the poor bastard is who got issued this guy's 'secondary' mask next...

I was reminded about the gas chamber, of all things, while I was at the reception this weekend.

Work with me here, this is just the way my noggin' works...

The very first thing you do when you get your mask is test it. Sure, it's been inspected... right-o, that's nice n' all, but I like to make sure. You do this by pulling it out from the mask carrier and place the mask up to your face. That's test no 1. No use going further if you have a size XXL mug and a XXS mask. Helps if you can actually see through the eye lenses, as well. Uh... if it's new (to you), might want to check for lingering CS fumes and/or puke (bonus).

Then you go about the process of pulling the restraining straps over to the back of your head (test no. b). Imagine the suckage if you were to get to the chamber with the requisite NBC instructor crazy-as-hell (from years of fumes), only to find that the straps rip as soon as you start messing around with 'em. Not Cool.

Next thing you do is what we call don and clear (test 'ee'). This is the part where you you check to make sure that you can empty the mask's interior should any fumes get on the inside. This is also very important because there's not even a question about it, in the chamber you will get gas on the inside of the mask.

One of the last things you do is, while the mask is on and apparently working properly, to bend over at the waist and shake yer head around like the big green weenie of doom was fast approaching and all you could do was to shake your head in anticipation. This is to simulate vigorous activity. Kind of depends on the instructor, but you usually get some sort of level of vigorous activity (PT, mosh pit, beat down, etc) in the chamber, so making sure that your mask is adjusted well is also one of life's Important Things.


Now, what does this have to do with wedding receptions, you ask?

It's a pretty good example of advanced preparation for a known future event.

*Ahem*

Ladies, when it comes time to plan for a wedding and more importantly (duh) your outfit, it might be a wise course of action to, you know, throw on that dress once before wearing it (out in public). Mebbe even move around a bit, in the comfort of your own place, or something. Ill fitting dresses just might result in frequent adjustments that look alot like you're feeling yourself up on the dance floor / buffet table / dinner table / outer hall / bar / etc. It's always a nice 'touch' if your girlfriend is aware enough to cover your assets when they unexpectedly try to come out to say 'hi' just as ole Murphy's walking through the door.

Howdy!

I didn't know whether to look for a beer or a lap dance...

Not that I mind, of course, and I'm pretty sure that it didn't bother Gramps one bit, but we deserve some sort of warning for that kinda of thing, you know? Heck, we have significant others that are just waiting to kick everybodys ass when the inevitable happens. Take a wild guess on whos ass is gonna be first in line for the ass-kickin'... Sheesh!


Oh, and to the classy lady that decided to do the limbo... in what looked like a wide belt of all things.... facing the tables...






Thanks.

Humps, Tender Tootsies, and Comfort Is King

I've tried to explain my love/hate/hate relationships with humps to some friends and family, with varying success.

'What's the big deal?', some think, 'it's just walking around with a pack... kinda like hiking, or something'.

Or something...

I try to explain it by suggesting they find someone roughly 1/2 of their own body weight. Have that person hop on your back, or boost them up so they can kneel on your shoulders. They are now your pack. Have them hang so that they inflict maximum pain and discontent on your lower back, upper back, baby got back, neck, everywhere else, and generally make life as miserable as possible. Go out and find some hills - now 'hike' for say, 10 miles. For added fun, break out into a run every once in a while. Bonus points for having your friend talk trash about how fat and nasty you are throughout the hump- er, sorry - 'hike'.

That's more-or-less the level of fun in boot camp. In your unit, it gets even more fun, due to the added weight from ammo (rifle and mortar), crew-served weapons components, bodily dragging the snivelers, etc.

Early on in my Corps life, humps weren't too bad. As I both aged and gained a bit of rank, I found that they sucked more, but I still didn't have any issues keeping up (physically, that is. Mentally, sometimes I felt like a whiny little turd). Even when I was away from the guys so as to attend a school/class (and therefore missing some of the shorter humps in the interim), when I would rejoin the unit, well, it sucked quite a bit but I still got through it. Getting notice that one memorable welcome back to the platoon involved SAPI plates and full combat load in addition to the regular gear was a bit of a gut check, I admit...

One thing that always helped me out was foot care.

This is a pretty big deal in training, and even more so deployed. As a Pfc, I would take note of boot brands that worked, and those that didn't. Foot powder always. I would always pack additional pairs of clean socks and change socks every time that an opportunity presented itself. I would roll the tops of my boot socks, as to avoid them slipping down and bunching up in the boots (don't care how it looks, if it's comfy and works, I'll do it).

Might want to make a note of that last sentence...

Another thing about picking up rank, is the fact that it's just a given that you take care of your Marines. Like I've mentioned before, while mission accomplishment is always first, troop welfare is always a close second. During breaks (both for rest and of bodies), the Corpsmen, many of the Staff NCOs, and Officers are all constantly on their feet, checking on their Marines. This pretty much mandated to me that as a Sergeant, I would also be on my feet, from start to finish of the hump. Every hump. There was always canteens to fill, feet to inspect, and stragglers to be threatened (with the infamous 'silver-bullet') during the breaks, so there was progressively less and less time to take care of my own footsies. Take a wild guess as to what started next...

I started getting some nasty foot issues.

Never really had any problems with blisters before I picked up Corporal, but afterwards -man!- I started getting some doozies. We're talking blisters that leaked (not dripped) when I couldn't take it anymore and popped 'em, blood-filled blisters that covered a fist-sized space on the bottoms of (both) my feet, and boots that eventually conformed to the shape of my blistered feet to the point where I couldn't even wear flip-flops to the shower, I had to put back on those stanky-assed boots.

Good training, huh.

After one particularly hellacious hump, I had some extra time to spend with Lovely. Upon seeing me hobble through the front door, she suggested some treatment for my tender tootsies. I gingerly took off my boots, peeled off my what-was-shortly-before-new, clean-socks, and whistled. My feet were... grody.

A brief word, re: my Lovely.

Lovely Love has a foot fetish like you wouldn't believe.

Hold on, that didn't sound right...

My Love looooves her some foot massages. Loves 'em. If you offered her a choice between a foot rub and chocolate-covered strawberries dipped in wine, sprinkled with crack and served on a tight-bodied cabana boy named Raul (¡Ole!), -let's be honest, here- she might think about it, but she'd choose the foot rub, every time.

If 'Raul' ever figured out how to do foot rubs, I'm totally screwed...

Lovely has all kinds of foot-oriented stuff. Lotions, oils, comfy footwear, foot-care tools, nail paints, the list o' crap goes on about as long as everything else does re: the ladies. Allow me a moment to grab some sack and thank every deity known and imagined for making me a dude... Ok, good.

One look at what passed for my feet convinced her that this was a moment for her portable Orgasmo-Ped 3000. This contraption was a sort of small tub that you filled with water, plugged in and apparently were immediately whisked off to the heights of... somewhere. The fact that she allowed me to use her nearly-most prized possession should indicate either that she really loved me or that she still had her uses for me - possibly even both.

So I sat down on the couch and stuck my feet in the thing. She filled it with hot water, flipped the switch, and I watched as the water started... buzzing(?) bubbling (?). The ridges on the bottom felt ok, I guess. It was relaxing, but I couldn't help but feel kind of guilty at the fact that apparently it didn't do nearly as much for me as it did for her.

Eventually, she got up and went to go grab some towels for when my feet were done. When she placed the towels on the armrests, she asked if perhaps I wanted a sandwich or something.

I love this woman.

We continued our conversation while she made herself busy in the kitchen and I dried and inspected my feet. Looked kinda shriveled, felt a bit better than before, probably just needed some additional airing out and they'd be fine. I shuffled over to the kitchen to wash my hands and for some strange reason she started to laugh at me!

See, as I was sitting on the couch, just after I finished drying off my feet, I noticed a pair of old slippers.

They were comfy. I wore them. The thought process was completely natural to me.

The fact that they were a pretty yellow color and had little duckies on them had no significance to me.

They were comfy.

Adapt, Improvise, Overcome

"All right knuckleheads, bring it around" I said as my section moseyed around before the platoon formation. Ignoring the two jokers that were demonstrating their close working relationship developed on the recent float by holding hands, I gave the plan for the mornings festivities. "Unless something else comes up, and it probably will, all of us are scheduled to get our hearing-test done this morning".

"What?" was the unanimous response.


Everyone's a comedian.


Surprisingly enough, other than a few guys that needed to go to dental, the overwhelming majority of my guys were able to attend the testing at the same time. My jokers all together in one place might've been good for scheduling and checklists, but it was potentially bad for... everything else. Aside from the sticky-fingers ('Ain't no thievery in the Corps, everyone's just trying to get their own shit back...'), the Mystery Science Theater / Three Stooges nature of my squad ensured that with the guys all in one place, there would be some interesting commentary and goings on.

Re: hearing tests in general, did I mention that we were for the most part all school-trained mortarmen? Let's put it this way; while some of the guys weren't sweating this test like they would a day in the pool or at the range, there were some guys that had their doubts about passing the test.

The test itself was much like a test in the civilian world, with the head-sets, soft tones in either ear, and the little clicky thingy to indicate left ear or right, but this one was done in the back off a van about the size of a small school bus. You would board the van, eight to a group, and walk down the isle to an empty booth. You'd scrunch up your legs to fit into the booth, put the headset on, and begin to flunk-er, take the test.

The festivities started when we found out who the proctor for the test was. Said Marine was a guy that wasn't very popular amongst the Marines, probably because of his tendency to squirm out or anything that might put him at risk of breaking a sweat and also his habit of talking up his past exploits in 'combat'.

We'll call him Staff Sergeant Squidgy.

Ole Squidgy started off by talking down to the Marines, like they were in a newly invented fourth phase of recruit training. I could tell that they were not taking it terribly well, but to their credit (and my freely wielded evil-eye), they didn't do anything more than a few muttered comments.

Revenge is sweet... or stinky, whatever.

One of my Marines just happened to develope a slight counting problem about then, and when the first eight Marines moseyed up the stairs into the bus, he joined the end of the line. Ignoring his buddies who pointed out that there were only eight booths on the bus, he clomped up the stairs and stood, ninth in line and apparently dumbly while Squidgy assigned my Marines to the booths. We heard form the interior of the bus as Squidgy berated my Marine for his inability to count to eight. My Marine was the model of decorum and sounded with the appropriate 'Yes / No / Aye Aye, Staff Sergeant'. He turned in the aisle and paused right at the doorway.

His nefarious plan for revenge was revealed just as the doors closed when everybody in the bus started gagging and retching from a sudden... bad odor.

Giggling, he asked me if he had enough time to run and... get a coke (avoid persecution).

After a short break, the first groups test, and another smokey treat for Squidgy, where we got to hear (again) about his heroic tales as a combat journali-er blood thirsty grunt, it was our turn. Climbing aboard, I turned to my Stinky-one and frowned, due to the lingering... ambiance. He shrugged and muttered something about the bean burritos in the chow hall.

Finally, we were all seated in our booths, sweaty head-phones on our heads and playing with the clackers like a troop of monkeys. Squidgy interrupted us with an in depth description of what we were expected to do on his hearing test. He slammed the door on his own booth, to start off the test.

We waited for the test to begin.



And waited...



And... WTF, over?



Looking around, I realized that all of the other Marines were looking around at each other. One of my guys was mining for gold and staring off into space. The guy behind him was passed out, snoring. One Marine had his headset off, and it appeared that he was trying to find the 'On' switch. Another Marine, well schooled in the mindset of seizing the initiative, had his multi-tool out and looked like he was going to begin disassembly of his head set.

*Wham!*

Squidgy came in, and he was none too pleased.

After an earful or three, we found out that the test had been ongoing for a minute or so, and nobody was clicking the clickies to his clicking satisfaction. He told us to pull our heads outta our asses, and listen up for the tones.


Whoopsie.

Did I mention that we were all mortarmen?

Yeah.


So Squidgy started the test again.

I didn't hear anything for awhile, but shortly after the re-start, I noticed that the Marines to either side of me were clicking away enthusiastically. Looking to one side, I gestured to the Marine clicking away. I pointed to my head set and gave a thumbs up. [hear anything?] He responded with a tap to his head set, leaned back and put both index fingers pointing from his chest, middle finger to Squidgy's booth, and more clickys. [Nope, my headset's tits up, frack that guy, just click, man.]

Ah Just Felt Like Run Ning

"Up in the mornin' with the risin' sun... Gonna run all day 'till the runnin's done!" --- Military cadence.


"Crap" --- Sgt. Murphy



I never really was a huge fan of running, growing up. If it was part of sports like football or soccer, that's cool and all, but running for running's sake? Come on.


Most bewildering of all to me are the televised marathons.


FRANK: Here we go, Bob, M'Bukoo Wa*click*shnmba from some country you never heard of takes the early lead, followed closely by about 2000 other skinny dudes!

BOB: Yup.

FRANK: Pace looks to be about flat-out haulin' ass, and the crowd is gradually thining out. Hey Bob, are those dudes carrying spears?

BOB: Yup.


- one hour later -


FRANK: Still running....

BOB: Yup.


- one hour later -


ME: *snore*


But they're still running...


Now, I was a fairly athletic kid growing up, and running around for long periods of time never really bothered me, too much. The Corps magnified my abilities unbelievably, when it came to running. Still, when running in formation, I'd stave of boredom by running around, herding stragglers, doing the occasional road guard, and whatnot. It's not that I hated running, but I'd much rather do it to some music I liked, or at my own pace, on my own route. When I would run on my own, I'd usually get bored after about 30-45 minutes or so and wind up going to the gym or something.

Those were the days...

The Marine Corps Physical Fitness Test includes, among other things, a run (shocker, I know). My best time, right after boot camp, was 20:00 min. A few years after boot, my time was more into the *cough*, say 22 min range. Not terrible, but not out of this world great, either. It'd've (yeah, that's a word) been better if I had seriously worked at it, but after all's said and done, it's running. *bleugh*

Oh, the distance? Three miles.

Seriously, folks, that's nuthin'. Ask about any Marine out there, and they'll be able to rattle off about half a dozen basta... er... motivators that get pissed (and not Irish-ly) if they come in over 17 minutes.

Over.

Seriously, for three. friggin'. miles.

I remember... Panama, I think it was, going to the gym to catch a work out. Humidity was about 150%, and the temp was a lovely cool 95 degrees. Yeah, I was about motivated. Anyways, I enter the gym to be greeted by the sounds of what sounded like a raging dying-moose orgy, clanging weights, and some sort of noise blaring from the speakers. Glancing around to see who I knew there, I noticed one of the 'rabbits' from my platoon. Motor-scooter was on the treadmill, and he was going at pretty much a dead-sprint. One of those guys who ran, every day, sometimes twice... for fun. Erk.

I roam around the gym, trying to find some weights that don't look like they are too disgusting to work out with and a bench that doesn't squish when you lay on it. Failing at that, I head over to the machines. It's wasn't a particularly memorable work-out, at least on my part. I threw some weight around, tried to ignore the screamers, and just did my thing. What did make it kinda interesting was when the aforementioned rabbit was still on the treadmill, pumping out his run... about 25 minutes later.

Keep in mind, he was moving like his ass was on fire.

I glanced over there in time to see him turn an interesting shade of... something, hit the emergency stop on the treadmill, hustle to the door, and up-chuck the mornings 'food', for distance.

Laughing on the inside, I hippity-hopped over, and inquired if he needed a hand. He raised his own hand in a 'hold on a sec' gesture, finished his impromptu abdominal workout in the trash can, and slowly stood up. He brushed some sweat from his forehead, grinned, and said he was fine. I opined as how usually whenever someone tosses their biscuits... gravy, eggs, bacon and about everything else, they're not all that great. He wheezed and explained that for personal training, he ran his ass off until he felt queasy, but usually he stopped before he actually upchucked.

And the voices in my head call me crazy...

"Corporal... uh, excuse me, Corporal?"

[tap, tap.... tap] *groan*

I cracked open one eye to see who was disturbing my desperately needed beauty sleep. I knew it wasn't a senior NCO, 'cause he would have just kicked me in the butt. Another Corporal probably would have tried to steal something from my pack. That only left someone of the rank of...

...brand spanking new Pfc. Fng Gai was standing there, shuffling his feet in the cool of the morning. "Sorry to wake you up, Corporal, but Corporal of the Guard needs to know who has the keys to the Hummer. Seems like Staff Sergeant Chow needs to go back to the rear for something or the other-"

I cut him off. "What time is it, and who's the Corporal of the Guard?" The name he told me made sense. It was the Corporal who always took lead in screwing with the new guys, hence the search for the non-existent set of keys for the switch-activated Hummer. Poor bastards had been searching for keys, grid squares, batteries for the cat eyes, and all kinds of other trash for the past 3 or 4 days. I played along, reached into my trouser' cargo pocket, rummaged around, and came up empty (surprise). "No Joy, Pfc. Go check with Corporal Grumpy". He responded with a sharp "Aye aye, Corporal." and took off.

It's the simple pleasures in life.

At least I knew that we'd be getting some hot chow that morning.

See, I don't really remember what Staff Sergeant Chow did, and I probably didn't know back then. Seems he was always off doing his own thing, and one of those things was chow. Hot chow, to be exact. There was only so many days that one could choke down the same old MREs day after day, and it got to the point where even the re-heated chow hall grub was nearly 4 star dining. If he was going back to the rear, that meant I could avoid another morning of potatoes all rotten, crapolaya, or four fingers of death MREs.

As it was about time for reveille, I reached over and swatted the nearest sleeping bag. "Get up, you lazy bastards, it's another beautiful day in... aw hell, get up."

I heard something that sounded suspiciously like, "five more minutes, Mom".

Threats of me emptying my bladder, and not in the area across the road to the rear of the mortar gun line did the trick, as I knew it would.

As my grumpy charges were getting themselves situated, I decided to see if I could get any scoop for the coming days. "After you get yourselves squared away, check the 81mm, and stand by to stand by. Probably have some classes for the boots, maybe some hot chow, I'll see if I can figure out anything else."

That was pretty much it, essentially.

See, that shoot was the 'breaking in' live fire exercise for the new Pvts. and Pfcs. We'd usually get a bunch at a time, distribute them amongst the gun line, and the first trip out to the field would be somewhat slower paced, to get them acclimated to our way of doing things. Slow and easy shooting, a few classes, maybe a little bit of initiatory exercises, and we'd call it a wrap.

And that's how the next couple of hours of the morning went, until the call came out for hot chow.

In the spirit and tradition of troop welfare, the determining factor of when you got to eat was decided by your rank. Lance Corporals and a few Corporals would stay on the guns, and all Privates and then Privates First Class would go get their chow. The first to finish would go relieve the Marines at the guns or trucks, and the Lance Corporals would line up for their grub. Further line placement was determined by who was senior to junior Marines of the same rank, and who had the higher billet. Even amongst the lower ranks, you took care of 'your' Marines, and hoped that they'd take care of you, when the time came.

When I got up to the folding tables, I noted that most of the higher ranking enlisted guys from the platoon were serving up the grub. This was to ensure that all of the lower ranks got their food in somewhat of a decent time & order, and also that there would be food left over for them to eat. The food was in bins suspended over slightly larger bins of hot water, spoon or ladle in the food tray, and additional food bins stacked up behind each table, to replace empties.

I grabbed a tray and stepped in front of the Staff Sergeant. He plopped some food in front of me, and glared. "Was it you that sent that numb-nuts to ask me about the friggin' keys?" I responded that it was most certainly not. He grunted as I side stepped to the next bin. Staff-Sergeant Chow was in a considerably better mood, probably because he had gotten his morning coffee. Nearing the end of the chow line, I noticed that there wasn't any more coffee left (suspicious, eh, Staff Sergeant?) and that there was the new Sergeant, hanging out at the end of the serving line.

He was new to the platoon, but seemed to be getting along pretty good. Good sense of humor, knew his stuff, and most expected him to be a good fit in time. I had only spoken with him a couple of times, an intro, a couple of 'what's ups, and the like. I got my scoop of fruit, stepped in front of him and we exchanged head-nods.

He had a tray, half full of hash browns, in his hands, a spoon sticking up from the high part of the mound.

Looking back, one could see that the hash browns were the second item in the line, and it was in a bin. Looking back to the Sergeant, I shrugged, grabbed hold of the spoon, and got a big scoop.

"Dude, what the fuck, Corporal?!"

Oops.

"Uh, er, sorry, I guess. What's up, Sergeant?"


He told me that he was standing at the end of the line, not to give out food, but to take food, if the Marines were willing to give any up.

As I was not aware of any particular reason we'd be giving any of our food up, I asked him.

He told me he was Muslim.

I was about to respond with 'and...' when I took another look around. His tray had hash browns, mine had hash browns, eggs (with little bacon bits), an assortment of sausage links, and some sort of white rice & green beans / bacon mixture.

*sigh*

"You like hash browns with salt and spicy goop all over 'em, Sergeant?"

"I do if your willing to give 'em up, Corporal."

*sigh*

Class Time Fun Time

A 'Hip Pocket' class was one that an NCO was expected to be able to give on a moment's notice. It was so named for the small, green-cloth covered notebooks that we all had just about at all times. As a mortar NCO, I was one of those expected to be a resident expert on most all areas of the subject, and was voluntold numerous times to give various classes.

Classes like... Call for Fire.

The Call for Fire class was actually more of a radio class than one dealing with the 81mm or 60mm mortar, but it was vital nonetheless.

One day the squad leaders got together and made up a plan for the various classes that we were to give. If I remember correctly, one Sergeant was going to give the actual Call for Fire class, another, the FDC (Fire Direction Control) Chief was going to give the gun-line guys a rough idea of the workings of the platoon's brainiacs, and I, with my FO (Forward Observer) experience, was going to hold hands with the Marines that were having any issues and needed to cover the material a little bit slower and more in depth.

Why? I'm a glutton for punishment, I suppose.

I selected a few Marines that I knew were going to need some help in advance, and told the other NCOs to send any others to me as their eyes started to glaze over.

I didn't have to wait very long.

I started my class the same way that most Marines started their classes. I introduced myself to the FNGs, stated the objectives of the class, and told a bad joke.

I continued with (attempts at) stressing the importance of being able to call for fire.

ME: Why is this an important class?

CRICKETS: *chirp, chirp*

ME: Bueller?.... Bueller?

CRICKETS: *chirp*

ME: Ok, let me try this, what is our main purpose in life, as Marines in combat?

One enthusiastic Devil Dog responded with a motivated, "To Kill Fuckers and Break Stuff!"

ME: Okaaay, I was kinda looking for something along the lines of, "To locate, close with, and destroy the enemy", but you know, 'To kill Fuckers' actually sums it up rather nicely. 'Break Stuff' is more of a side benefit, really. Now, what are we gonna do if we are tasked with regular grunt work, sans 81s, and see some bad guys outside of small arms range, or tucked behind some cover or in some defilade, where we can't get at 'em with direct-fire weapons? Call for Fire.

I did not clue in the boots that its proper name for our radio was not the, 'PRC (prick) E-6 or 7'. They'd learn that lesson better by experience. It was usually funny as hell, too.

Radios are an awesome asset, but you do need to know a little bit about it to use it properly. I told them that like many other situations where they, the (relatively) lowly PFC, might be running the radio (read: Bad Day), they were always free to use plain speak. The important thing was to get the information out to others that can help out. Learning the proper way to Call for Fire would make things run much more smoothly, and if they were doing the talking, that would probably be a Good Thing.

I emphasized that even though they might think they might think they were merely gun-line bubbas, they would be expected to have a good grasp of this class and all that it entailed. That being said, I asked one of the Marines what his issues were with the class. Was it how one got the information to send over the radio, or actually using the radio?

"Just the radio" was the response.

"Great!" I responded, "that's the easy part!" (my standard response). I grabbed two radios. Pointing out a known target on our maps, I told him he was now attached to a rifle platoon, and I was going to play the part of our FDC radio man, in the rear with the gear. I instructed the Marine to give me a call for fire on the pre-selected target.

He started out, "Uh... fire on targe-"

Oh, brother.

"Do you remember anything about radio usage?", I asked quietly.

"Nuh-uh. Kinda fuzzy."

Kind of?

"Call signs, think call signs, bro". I was trying to jog his memory. Upon reflection, it probably would have benefited more from a solid kick-start.

???

I sighed. "Remember something along the lines of, "You, this is Me, over..."?

His furrowed brow brightened. "You, this is Me, over! Fire on this target!", he enthusiastically called out while pointing at his map.

sigh.

Obedience to Orders

Okey. So, I don' know aboot -

*smack*

[the management would like to take this moment to apologize for the residual Yank accent. Further posts will be conducted in the proper Texan drawl.]

I don't remember exactly when it happened, but apparently one day the Platoon Sergeant woke up and decided that the platoon needed some sort of Big Green Weenie Injection of Motivation. He figgured that a good way of perking us up would come to him on the next hump.

Now, faithful reader(s) of my little blog here will understand the whole love/hate relationship with humps. It's a necessary evil, outstanding exercise, and one heck of a pain in the ass, neck, legs, back, and just about everywhere else. I would have no idea why Marines would get somewhat tuckered out after carrying a full pack, crew-served weapons components, ammo, and miscellaneous gear... in the middle of the night... all night. No idea, really.

One evening/night/morning/whatever, the Platoon Sergeant had a great idea. In between bouts of yelling at the gun team leaders to keep their teams together, harrying the stragglers, and generally providing a wholly unnecessary aura of excess motivation (where's that noise discipline when you really need it?), he got the attention of the platoon. "All right, 81s, when I sound off with, 'MOTIVATION CHECK, 81s!!!', you will respond with a loud and motivated, 'OORAH!!!'.

While this might sound somewhat motivating, the overwhelming consensus in the Platoon was that they would rather suffer through the tail end of the hump in silence rather than proceed with the boot-camp heavy sense of false moto. Rank being what it was, however, we were compelled to sound off with a loud and (somewhat) motivated, 'OORAH!!!'. Several times.

This 'motivation check' unfortunately turned into a somewhat regular event. I dunno if it motivated the hell out of him, or he thought that it motivated the hell out of us, but he kept it up. Fortunately, about this time, the Staff Sergeant bought himself a digital camera. Staff Sergeant being the guy he is, he wanted to take it out for a test run at his earliest opportunity.

A live-fire exercise was the perfect excuse.

On the gun line in between missions, he broke out his camera and started playing around. He gathered jokes, impressions, and commentary on the training. While a bunch of the guys were sitting around doing this, he asked everyones opinion of the regular motivation checks. Firmly informed of the groups feelings on the subject, he got a rather crafty look in his eye, and issued his order.

"From now on, whenever the Platoon Sergeant calls for one of those motivation checks, I want the entire platoon to sound of with a loud and motivated, 'FUCK THAT SHIT!!!', sounds good?"

Oh yeah, game on.

Surprisingly enough, for the rest of the day, the Platoon Sergeant was a little on the quiet side, or as quiet as a Platoon Sergeant can be expected to be.

Then came the hump.

The end of the day was filled with breaking down our mortar positions, accounting for all rounds fired, all charges unexpended, doublechecking our serialized gear, and plans for the movement to the next area. Finally, it was time to load up and step off.

The hump was like most others; heavy gear, moderate pace, and a motivated Platoon Sergeant. The time came, the Staff Sergeant had his video camera ready to go, and the motivation check was called. While the look on his face when we sounded off with the most recently ordered response was priceless, it wasn't the best.

The best part of this story was the Staff Sergeants opening words, "From now on..."

Some of you might see where this is going.

Commanding Officers, Exectutive Officers, and others, live in what is sometimes known as Officer Country. This might be an intimidating area to the younger guys, and while it loses some of that indimidation level as you progress through the ranks, the more senior enlisted guys tend to stay away unless they have some sort of pressing business in the area. Like say, visiting with the First Sergeant or Company Gunny.

It is a rare event when you might have an entire platoon in the realm of the Company Offices, but it happens on occasion. Especially when the platoon needs to be in an area heavily... infested with brass, the NCOs are usually very close by to ensure that order is maintained. For us, in the purposes of this story, it involved the Corporals and Sergeants making sure that the majority of the platoon was centrally located in one of the spare classrooms, not breaking stuff, and whatever squad was on deck to meet with one of the higher ups were lined up in the hallway, keeping the noise to a minimum.

I'm not sure what compelled the Platoon Sergeant to announce a motivation check to the squad lined up in the offices hallway, but they definitely remembered their last given orders. The thunderous, "FUCK THAT SHIT!!!" could be heard outside in the parking lot, some say.

The Staff Sergeant was kind of hard to find that day, but the Platoon Sergeant was right there in the middle of it.

Poor guy.

Texas Torment

Har!

Go here, and read.

And I quote, "Well, in Texas we have lots of Texans, who generally are superior in almost every way."

No argument there, of course, but it did give me a chuckle. Sabra provides us with a hint (just a hint) of the Texan mindset / loyalty / culture / etc. that some Texas expats (yup) are famous for. Seems like every unit I was with in the Corps had at least a coupla guys that we might as well call, 'Tex'. You know the type, great guys, for the most part, lean hombres that talk with a relaxed drawl, partial to boots and large buckles, and seem to have a cowboy hat stashed away where ever they happen to be.

Heck, I knew a few that would take their boonie covers and, with a coat hanger graciously donated to the cause, shape the brim of their covers into cowboy hat shape... at least until the higher ups saw them on a hump with their modified covers.

Where was I... ah yes, Texans.

I remember this one guy, 'Tex'. Tex was a good guy, just a little bit on the stereotypical Texan side. Let me put it this way, if there was a country bar anywhere in the liberty area, he was there. He was always decked out in cowboy hat, boots, and a buckle you could signal aircraft with. His jeans all had that faded ring in the rear right pocket, and they were tight enough you could almost tell - well, you could tell way too much about the man, let's just say that.


When it came to the mortar gun line and elsewhere in the field, he definitely knew his stuff - Good.

He sneered at everything non-Texas related - Not so good.


Not that it wasn't humorous, or even bad, really, it just got kind of old, after a while.

One series of days at the mortar range, Tex was giving some grief to another Marine that was working the gun. Said Marine was from parts North, which to Tex was any lesser area North of, you guessed it, Texas. Tex started to look to me for some support in his tirade. He looked towards me because I told everyone I was from Texas. Guess I should have said that I was most recently from Texas. See, I've moved around a bit in my life, and rather than go into the whole life's story, I just tell 'em the last place I called home.


Yup, confession time, I wasn't born in Texas.

Now that I've been disowned by the truly die hard, I'll continue.


I might have a hint of Texas accent at times, and according to my family up north it's about all the time, but it's not really that thick (I think). I occasionally toss in the random y'all, or howdy, and have been here off and on long enough to pass as a native.

I also have the occasional gift for some accents, hollyweird, regional, or from my memory banks.

Tex's eyes about popped out of his head, when I broke into, "Yeah, Tex, bet 'cha did'n know I spent some time growin' up in Minnesoootah, did'ja now?"

"What the holy he-"

"Oh yeah!, Lotsa time up north, you betcha!"

Me and the other Marine on the gun had a blast from then on with poor, poor Tex.


ME: Okeey, you got dem HE rounds prepped over dere?

MARINE: Oh yeah, you betcha!

TEX: Jesu-

ME: Got 'em prepped super-quick?

TEX: ... jumping on a frigg-

MARINE: Yeah, super quick, don'cha know!

TEX: ... almighty!

I think we started to get out of hand when we started speaking Canadianese to the poor guy. I dunno when exactly it happened, but before I knew it, we were doing a passable impression of these guys.

MARINE: Got any smohkes, eh?

TEX: What the Hell? It gets worse?

ME: Take off. Not while we're firing, eh.

MARINE: Hoser.

TEX: Make it stop!

MARINE: It's kinda cold, think we can get out our tuques, soon?

ME: Sure thing, good day, eh.

MARINE: Oh yeah, good day..... eh.

TEX: Lord, take me now.

ME: Oh Jeez, 's not that bad, hoser.

OCD as an Asset, Pt2

There are basically three different types of gear in the Corps.

1. Serialized gear.
2. Serialized gear.
3. Serialized gear.

Personal gear. This is everything and anything that has nothing to do with the Corps. Yeah, sometimes you hear reference to ones personal gear while out training or on patrol, but that use is for when there is no such thin as personal gear, or better to say, your personal gear is your field gear. Clear as mud? Great.

Field gear. This is everything that is issued to the Marine for use in day to day life, training or combat. Good examples might be your sleeping bag, cold weather gear, unis, boots, pack etc. etc. (and once again, felt especially during the humps) etc. This gear is infinitely more important than ones personal personal gear (at least in the eyes of the Corps), like DVD players, mp3s, or private collection of uh... alternative reading material.

Serialized gear. Anything with a serial number. This is the only real type of gear, in the eyes of Gunnys and higher. Rifle, binos, compasses (compi?) NVGs, k-bars, bayonets, machine guns, mortars, the list goes on and on, and 'be the one' to lose it, you'll find out that the hassle is coming out of you're ass, boyo.

Example:

No one from your chain will give a rat's ass about your new duds guaranteed to attract the ladies, but they will make sure you are properly attired for duty. True story, "Size!" barked the Staff Sergeant, crouched over the box of... disturbingly scented gas masks. "Large!", I responded, trying to simultaneously hold my breath and sound off 'like I had a pair'. "This'll do, get outta my face, Pfc!", he shouted, tossing me a medium sized gas mask.

Nice.

When it came time for weapons issue, you first receive your weapon(s), check and ensure clear, then read off the serial number. You sign (always sign, c.y.a) in triplicate. One copy to the armorer, one to the individual, and one to the scribe (poor schmuck who keeps the paperwork). Any issues with the condition of the weapons should be noted (and signed) and documented right then and there. Not so much a big deal with the stuff you got time and time again like rifles, but for the items like binos and NVGs that might get issued around. If it was broke and you were the last one in line to have been documented as using it, well, stand by...


So one day a couple of the Corporals were hanging out in one of the classrooms, discussing, er... personnel issues...

"Anyay'all remember Lcpl. Feo?", asked one of the senior Corporals. "Nope", Nu-uh"s, and "Huh?"s, were the majority response, with only a few guys commenting in the affirmative. "He the short and chunky Panamanian?", one guy asked, got out about a year back? Senior Corporal responded, "Nah, he's the tall Meskin dude. I heard from a friend of a friend that he's working as some sort of stripper nowadays."

"Gay or straight?", I asked, among the color commentary.

"Why, you interested?" came the response.


I should have seen that one coming...


As we started to discuss the intricacies inherent in modifying the Marine Corps Dress Blues into a suitable stripper costume (velcro top would be easy, the rip away pants might be a little more tricky), and just as one Marine removed his cammie blouse to demonstrate the proper twirl of clothing while thrusting ones hips, one of the Sergeants came into the room. He wasn't amused by one of the jokers calling the room to attention. He passed some word about the upcoming range training, medical, and promotions. That's when we found out that Mikey was going to pick up Corporal.

Back to business.

We decided that along with the rank, Mikey was going to have to pick up some additional responsibilities.

There were essentially two determiners of importance for us, and they were rank and billet. Unfortunately (or fortunately), 'boobies' were not in consideration. Rank is what... your actual rank is, like Corporal, Sergeant, Captain, etc. Billet (maybe better 'position') might be described as what you did, like gun team leader, platoon commander, ammo tech, etc. We had more than enough senior Corporals with established positions in the platoon, no schools were likely for the immediate future for him, so we needed to find something for him in-house.

I suggested we make him the Serialized Gear Corporal for the platoon.

This was initially met with some reservation. Most of the guys knew about Mikey's... unique characteristics, and we spent some time analyzing his prospects for the position. Some were worried about his obsession with the Platoon Sergeant, excessive hygiene, or odd habits. Some were hesitant after discussing his incessant counting of... just about everything. A few argued that the constant counting might actually be considered a Good Thing. We argued that he was so anal-retentive when it came to organization and gear-super-accountability, that it would be darn near impossible for us to lose or 'temporarily misplace' any item of serialized gear, even if we wanted to, with Mikey at the clip board.

He just about had a spontaneous flaming ulcer when he found out he picked up Corporal, and he was now responsible for all the Platoon's serialized gear. Poor bastard.

Usually, after all Marines had been issued personal weapons and serialized gear, and all teams had completed their issue of mortars, we would take a platoon count. This count would be held by the Serialized Gear Corporal, and supervised by the Platoon Sergeant. It would entail the Marines with the gear in question holding the item in the air for the official count. Usually took total, five minutes. Mikey took about 20. He wanted to check every digit of every number personally.

He took to sidling up to me and everyone else in the platoon several times a day, striking up a conversation, "So... how about the weather, huh?" while trying to surreptitiously read our serial numbers. If we went to take a leak, we could usually find him at our mortar positions when we came back, peeking over the shoulder of our Marines, reading the numbers off the mortars.

He started calling platoon-wide serialized gear checks, several times a day. Our Officer initially loved it, because he was big on constant gear accountability, but eventually even he got tired of hustling over for yet another check. He made the call that we would go back to how we did it before Mikey, one check before heading to the range, personal to gun team accountability during the day, and the occasional platoon check at night.

He suggested we move Mikey to some other position in the platoon, not as a demotion, but a transfer of responsibility. We never did misplace anything while Mikey was running the checks, though...

OCD as an Asset, Pt1.

One thing that I learned from the Corps was how to best utilize the individual Marine. I usually had a list somewhere of alternative skills that my guys had. Some guy liked tooling around with low riders back in the day? He'd probably be a better guy to get to look at a Hummer in a pinch than the guy who used to build his own computers. Computer super-nerd boy? He was gold when it came time to bypassing my many deficiencies in that subject.

One morning in the field, just after reveille, I had packed up all my gear and was trying to decide how much of the dreaded Jambalaya MRE to choke down (I was at a meeting when the MREs were handed out, and true to form my guys screwed me, again). We were winding up another live fire, but could still expect to be out for a while - and I was Starvin' Marvin. A Marine we'll just call Mikey was just across from me, going through his morning ritual.

As best as I could figure out, his morning ablutions consisted of removing the extra bags kept in his pack at all times, carefully unpacking the individually waterproofed bags, inspecting the bags to rips or holes, and counting them to ensure that none were misplaced... since the last time he counted them. He would then carefully go through the steps to apply his facial cleanser, acne cream, and skin tightener. While this was setting, curing, or whatever you call it he would brush, floss, and gargle. After the facial necessities were complete, he would reapply deodorant. If needed (and it always seemed needed, to him) he would change all skivvies, placing the dirties into a separately marked, waterproofed bag. He would then go 'talk to a man about a horse', taking with him the bags marked, 'wet wipeys', 'tp', and 'hand sanitizer'.

Finishing up, he would carefully pack everything up into their individual bags, and load the bags back into his main pack. His pack was always huge, compared to just about everyone else. He could hump it all, so that was never a problem. Oh yeah, all the extra crap that I just mentioned, the cleansers, gear, and clothes? This would be for a training op of about 2 or three days. Week long trips? Fuggetaboutit.

He had a thing about socks and his feet.

Don't get me wrong, one's feet is a very important subject to the regular infantryman. To not take care of your feet is just asking for trouble. Foot powder, mole skin for blisters, and extra socks are all stuff that a smart guy might have around, just in case. Bringing roughly 4 pairs of socks per day out in the field is a little extreme.


Good tip: Roll the socks down from the top of the sock to the top of the boot. I don't care if it looks like a high school cheerleader's sock, the roll is inside the trouser leg. This will prevent the sock from sliding around and bunching inside the boot, which will cause some serious blisters after enough miles.


The morning in question, I gradually lost what little interest I had in the Jambalaya as I watched him go through his ritual. He finished up with the socks, inspecting them for rips, holes, or other deficiencies. He then carefully wrapped them back up, and packed them into the waterproof bag. This bag went into his main pack, which was then cinched down by exterior straps, which were then tied off an tucked away, to prevent accidental unravelling and pack opening.

After the pack was closed up to his satisfaction, he placed it on the deck and opened up an MRE to eat. While waiting for the heat packet to warm up, he paused, sighed, and started the process to get back into his pack. He dug through his gear until it came to his package of socks, opened them up, conducted another inspection, repacked them, closed the bag, packed the bag, cinched his pack, set it down, and continued to eat. Five minutes later he did it again, but this time counting aloud as he went through the socks.

Ten minutes later he was at it again.

This time, when it came time for sock inspection and counting, he looked up, noticed me staring at him, and sheepishly asked if I would count his socks, or at least overwatch his inspection.

I told him what I thought of the situation, but kept in mind I would never, ever, not even once, have to worry about him not having his hygiene gear, change of clothes (up to about 4 pair), or missing any of his personal gear.

Mischief

During pre-deployment work-ups, Marine units will go through and get certified on quite a few number of different aspects of their jobs and depending on what the mission of the deployment is. One thing that is a constant is the hurry up and wait, and the ungodly pace of training that results from the higher ups realizing that we have 3 more months of crap to complete in a 1 month time frame before we actually get the hell outta town.

Nice.

One evening, after a particularly grueling hump (again, is there any other kind, really?) I was running around trying double-checking my numbers. It didn't help that I had some really strong Marines in my gun team, and we managed to get distributed all over the friggin Battalion while keeping everybody moving throughout the course of the hump. I finally got positive contact with all but one guy who had rolled his ankle about 4 miles into the hike, and he was safely riding in the med hummer.

Slacker.

Round about then was when we got word that the doc for one of the rifle platoons had done a fairly accurate impression of a human lawn dart from the heat and the strain. That's not generally considered a good thing. While docs aren't carrying the full packs, rifles, crew served weapons components, ammo, and the like, they do tote their med packs, and those things aren't filled with pillows, cotton candy, and sweet dreams for nighttimes. Who was gonna take care of tender tootsies if the doc was out for the count?

A couple of other platoons' docs and a few Marines went over to the downed Corpsman. He wasn't fully out, but he was kinda loopy, so off to the med truck he went, probably to get the infamous silver bullet. As he was... somewhat of a 'sweet' guy, the peanut gallery started up.

"Hey, does that count as a conjugal visit?"
"Doc Low (not the passed out one), make sure you wisper sweet nothings, first!"
"Be gentle!"

As we had just finished a long hump, the peanut gallery was not up to its usual riotous self. Blood blisters on feet, aching shoulders, sore backs, pulled muscles, dehydration, and the evening was just beginning. We still had a late night planned for some urban terrain-type training. In about 5 minutes, most Marines could be found sitting on the ground and up against their packs, with their feet propped up for the foot check. As the docs were busy with one of their own, the duty fell to the NCOs. Ah, joys of leadership. After identifying a couple of other Marines that needed some TLC from the docs, we resumed training for the evening.

After the completion of training, we were all beat. A long day, and then night of training had combined to drain just about everybody. To make it better, we knew that we only had about a month and a half of this pace of training, maybe an afternoon or two off for liberty in that whole time, and then it was out of the country we go. The order was given to bed down for the night, and the Marines returned to their packs, unrolled their sleeping bags, and started to get ready to bed down.

I was going around, setting up a night watch, and checking on the Marines that had gotten hurt either in the hump or from falling off of a building while trying to rappel. I noticed that the guys were pretty quiet, probably exhausted from the long series of days. All of a sudden, off from the world of third platoon, there came a high pitched yell. Someone came running through the darkness, weaving in and out of the platoons, and screaming like a banshee. It was the platoon joker from one of the other companies, and he was making a run to lift the spirits of the tired Marines.

How did he do this? He got butt-nekkid, put back on his combat boots and kevlar helmet, re-applied cammie paint, cracked a few chem lights, and started his run. Ever seen a mostly naked dude with a chem light in his ass running around at 4 in the morning and screaming "I'm a sexy mutha fuckah!!!" when dead tired?


Not exaclty a recipie for good dreams, but it will give you a chuckle.

Gas Chamber Training

Because sometimes, the picture of your buddy, just done with gas chamber training, with his hands on his knees, eyes teared shut, puking his guts up, and hating life... is just not meant to be.

Kinda sorta a wee bit NSFW. No really, just a little bit.

Momentos & Things that Make You Go... WTF?

The Military Academy in Columbia that we went to was an interesting place. The training was great, but it was the first time for most of the Marines to truly see how lucky we were to be in the United States Marine Corps. Yeah, we might piss and moan about training, chow, lack of sleep time, some of the officers, and just about everything else, but there we got to see a whole different world.

The first interesting moment came when our Staff Sergeant came back from the initial tour of the campus and told us to get ready for chow. He explained that we would each take an MRE and 'field strip' it. This was to say, open the bad boy up, take out what you want to eat, trade what you can, and toss the rest.

We were bringing MREs to breakfast. Okay...

He went on to explain that we were not to eat the MREs during breakfast, or make any, ANY comments at all about the food that we got.

One thing about many of the infantry forces in South America. Just like infantry anywhere, a few guys are worthless, some are studs, and most fall in between (hopefully closer to the 'stud' rating). Some could sneak up on an insomniac ninja juiced up on 3 gallons of coffee, and some guys couldn't find their ass with a map. And help. That being said, the overwhelming majority of them are tiny compared to the average U.S. Marine. That's not to say that we are for the most part huge and hulking beasts, neither. I'm talking about 5ft 5in & 140 lbs, in that neighborhood. Friggin' wee li'l tiny guys, they were. It helped out when running through the jungle, those guys could haul ass when needed. But that's another story.

We got to chow, met up with our counterparts, and entered the building. Chow consisted of one 4 oz cup of coffee and a small piece of toast with half a slice of bologna (no second servings). The Staff Sergeant's advice to pack the extra chow was much appreciated. The worst part about it for me was the coffee. Not only was it woefully undersized, but true to military form, it wasn't even that good. It was Colombian, dammit!

There were only a few mumbles and grumbles when the Staff Sergeant told us that the other meals were going to be quite small-sized (from our perspective) as well. For the most part, the Marines were great about going out of their way to avoid insulting our hosts.

Bathrooms, on the base tested their patience, though.

I got a few funny looks when I told the guys to save the paper from the MREs (they think of everything, don't they?). 'But we're on a military base', they said. 'We'll just find a crapper with paper', others replied.

Amateurs.

I saved all the paper I could find, because 1) I remember the times when almost nobody in the platoon had any sleeves for their t-shirts, and 2) I have been to a South American toilet before.

So, after a long day of traipsing through the jungle, we returned to the base, got assigned some empty junior officers quarters, and turned to on a few hours of free time. The base had some cerveza at the corner store, so that motivated a bunch of the guys. The hat was passed, and Pvts were voluntold to run down to the store and buy as much beer as they could. The rest of us passed the time smoking and joking with a few of the Colombian enlisted guys. This was about the time when Cpl. Grog decided to use the throne. Armed with (some of my extra) paper he went in to do his business.

That was when he found out that the toilets didn't flush.

Easy enough of a situation to resolve, but he had never heard of using a bucket to flush a toilet before. I don't know if it is a water pressure thing, pipe size, or what, but for y'alls future reference, you can fill a bucket of water and 'dump' (Har!), but not pour the bucket into the commode. This will essentially kick start the flush and make the toilet do what it's supposed to do. It does take a little bit of aim (with the bucket, guys... that too, I guess) in the right area, but it can be done.

Before anyone tries it out here in the states, I might mention that I've never had to do this anywhere but in South America. Proceed at your own risk.

Having resolved the 'shitty' situation, we went outside to the courtyard to find that the Privates had returned with the refreshments. We smoked cheap cigarettes, drank some decent beer (the two beer (pack) limit was loosely obeyed, and swapped some war stories with the Colombians.

A few hours and more than a few beers later, and I noticed that one of my Lance Corporals was going around collecting the bags of water. He was enthralled with the clear plastic bags of water, and thought that they were just the coolest thing he had ever seen. I wandered around and into the room that he was staying in to find that he was carefully placing the bags into his pack.

"Uh, what are you doing?" I asked. "You do know that we are going to be here for another week or so, there's plenty of water around, and you are carrying alot of crap in your bag anyways, right?"

He responded, "Thish is sooo cool, I gonna take 'em home, n' ssshow the folks".

Allrighty then. Carry on.

We all had a chuckle the next day when, fighting a massive hangover, he slung his pack onto his back, tightened down the shoulder straps, and tossed his mortar component on his back, bursting all of the bags of water inside. His pack was immediately soaked, and we hadn't even started the day.

Ole.

'Knowledge'

So Skippy writes a post about more nannying, and I get a chuckle. Not at him, heck no (and by the way, if'n you haven't read his list, do it. Do it now.), but at those that think that they will have any input whatsoever about the particular, ah... alternative reading material of the troops. Think about it, late teens and early twenties... at times there wasn't any reading material other than those mags around. Heck, there were times when a Staff Sergeant or Officer would recommend that we study some knowledge and invariably someone would ask him, "you mean knowledgeknowledge, or actual knowledge?"

Surely I jest, you think.

We had one guy that for some reason, had handy access to a laminator. Asking around for a number of days, he collected a whole bunch of actual knowledge; weapons characteristics, first aid, steps to bore sight an 81mm mortar, etc. One evening after formation, he handed out an ass-ton of 'knowledge cards'. Just the right size to drop into a cammies pocket, one side had solid Marine Corps and military knowledge. The other, depraved hedonistic glory. Laminated, for... field worthiness.

Needless to say, they were a huge hit, and eventually became like trading cards. On vehicles, about to get into sleeping bags, or stuck up on a hill, trading would commence. Bidding was fierce. We even had guys from other platoons wander over every once in a while to, er... study.

Musical Chuckle

So Veterans Day is fast approaching, and some enterprising sort handed out flyers the other day ahead of the festivities, to remind people of the fact, give information about the date, and inform us of some of the scheduled activities thorough out the city. It wasn't a professional jobbie, just something that someone with a computer and some time put together and printed out. I definitely don't mean to knock the effort, because it was appreciated.

However,

Some parts of the flyer was kinda... odd. There was a section where they included the words to the various services anthems, and it kind of looked like whoever was typing had someone reading the words to them. Sentences were kind of chopped or mushed together at odd places. Perhaps that was why I was paying particular attention at the time when I read over the words to the Army song. Tying to figure out where the words fit to the music that I remembered, you know.

I have played the Army song at various times, usually at Veterans Days over the years. I've played 'em all, actually, on occasion. I really didn't take too much time to learn all the words to the songs, though, so most of the words were new to me.

When I was reading over what is apparently the 1917 version of the Army song, I just had to chuckle.

Was it high, was it low,

Where the hell did that one go?

As those Caissons go rolling along

Was it left, was it right,

Now we won't get home tonight

And those Caissons go rolling along.

(Refrain)

----- Army song

Ah, memories.

Now, as much as one might like to blame the sun, the wind, the alignment of the stars, or the farting chipmunks off to the side of the range instead of operator error, there are times when it is not the crews fault when the impacts are not where expected. This is usually the ammo's fault, of course.

Seriously, some of the ammo that we used to train with was old and decrepit. I've seen rounds do some pretty funky things, and if I haven't mentioned it before, if you are in the position to see mortar rounds doing their thing, that is generally not a Good Thing (This rule is widely known for incoming, but it also applies to outbound, as well).

Most mortar ammunition these days comes in a box of three, individually contained in its own hard plastic container. Other rounds come, also in three, also individually wrapped, but in cocoons of beeswax. We called it wax because of its tendency to get all kinds of sticky when one attempted to open the round case. There was a handy opening thread on the outside of the case, but what invariably happened was that the thread would always snap, leaving you to hack open the case with something sharp (and ideally borrowed). That sticky crap would get everywhere.

Did I mention that it was more often than not really dusty and generally dirty out in the field? Yeah, it got interesting at times...

The beeswax rounds tended to give us the most issues when on the mortar range.

Generally when rounds are impacting way of course, you can, in addition to screaming at the gun team in question, do several things to correct the error. The team can punch the bore (clean out the barrel, removing any potential obstructions), check the dope (what information is on the sight), recheck the sighting (when targets are outside of visual range we used an aiming stake to give us a reference point) etc.

When you can hear the lazy fwumpfwumpfwump of the round turning in the air a very short and bowel-clearing distance right in front of the gun, or see what is in effect the mortar round conduct a fairly decent left flank marching movement, there really isn't that much to say to the team on the line. Well, there is, but it is very colorful, and spoken while running really fast.

When a totally anonymous, unnamed, random mortar gun team just happens to say, destroy a large portion of a very expensive moving target range to the left of our -er- their own range, it helps if you can describe the craziness that the old ammo did after leaving the tube. It does make for some long nights, though.

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.

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.