Why I hate TV # 325,115,240...

One day several years ago, the room-mate and I were watching the boob tube. Flicking through the channels we stopped on TLC, if I remember correctly. Coming out of commercial break, we were quickly able to see that there was some sort of operation going on. The narrator was doing his thing, the doctor and nurse were crouched over the patient, cutting, spreading, etc. We couldn't make out much of the patient, due to the fact that he had that green-blue sheet over a large portion of his body, with only a small square cut out and centered over the portion being operated on. The camera was currently on close up, with only the patch of cut open skin and the doctor's tools in the picture screen.

This scene brought a few comments from us ranging from 'sucks to be him', 'I remember when...', to 'what in the heck do you suppose are they working on?'.


Thoughtful silence...


Furrowed brows...


Jeopardy theme music running through my head...


Room-mate twists his arm to get a close up comparison of his elbow to the tv...


The doctor breaks in "...right here is where we will go ahead and clip the vas deferens..."

'Yow!', 'WTF!', 'Make it stop!', and 'Oh Hell, No!!!' were the comments from the peanut gallery.

Camera pulls back to reveal the 'clippee', lying on his back and covered with the sheet to about mid-gut. The square is centered at the crotch and it looks like about 4 people are elbow deep in their work (that elbow deep thing might just be a traumatic memory thing). Patient casually reaches up and scratches his nose.

First of all, to say that we were mortified to even be forced to watch this procedure is putting it lightly. Add to that the grudging acknowledgement that yes, there might actually be a rare situation where some guy might actually allow several others to approach his tender bits with multiple sharp implements combined with the apparent proof that before the procedure one was not allowed to get liquored up or at the very least knocked the hell out, was quite disturbing.

Thank you, Marko, for bringing up that traumatic memory. I have to say, you are a braver man than I.

The Gas Chamber

NBC training is always certain for a few memorable stories, the gas chamber especially so. Just about all Marines remember their first time in the chamber, the bad Darth Vader quotes to show the others that I "aint skeered", lining up on the inside of the bulkheads, and holy hell, why is my skin feel like it's melting? Then the masks come off and the fun begins...

I distinctly remember one poor guy wigging out and making a mad dash for the hatch, only about half way through the session. Said guy got neatly clotheslined by one of the instructors mere feet from freedom. The rest of us were none too pleased by the fact that we had to stay in longer while they sorted out freako. I was just happy that I managed to hold in my morning chow until after I exited the chamber...

Really, the first time is the worst (usually), all later training sessions are more like a refresher course, designed to brush the dust off of the mental cobwebs, and to ensure that you are up to date on all gear. A typical gas chamber session might have several different variations, but goes something like this:

The platoon will stage gear and gather for a few classes. The instructor will give a class on the gas mask, types of gases, the body's reaction to gases, and what we will have to do to demonstrate proficiency in the chamber. Platoons will be divided up into squads, and enter the chamber as a squad. Other squads will continue on to take different classes related to the NBC training, while awaiting their turn for the chamber.

I remember one particularly memorable NBC Staff NCO. This Marine was crusty as hell, and had joined the Corps way back when Jesus was just a Pfc. Appeared that he had spent the majority of his time with NBC, too. This guy lived for anything related to Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical warfare. Quite the motivator.

So motivated, in fact, that he had managed to up the concentration of the tear gas that we were using for the day. After initial training, I had gotten used to a greatly reduced sensation of melting skin coming from the backs of my hands and the area of my face outside of the mask. Felt more like an itchy tickling. I knew that this was going to be an interesting day when I saw the fumes fill the chamber a lot more thickly that the past few episodes, and my skin started to melt. I turned to one of my Lance Corporals and said, "No pain, no gain. More pain....more pain".

First came the head shake. The head shake is a simple exercise to make sure that the Marines had properly put on his mask before entering the chamber, and had it tightly secured on his face. All Marines were instructed to bend at the waist and vigorously shake their heads around. The gagging that followed brought a smile to my face when I realized that I was still good to go. Misery might love company, but it is always better for the other guy. Those Marines then demonstrated the proper way to clear one's mask after contamination. A couple of times.

After the shake came the pt. We ran around the walls, getting our heart rates up and sounding off to the cadence of the instructor. He was not pleased with the volume of our shouts, and told us so. After we all came to a stop, the instructor removed his gas mask, and proceeded to give us instructions for our next demonstrations of proficiency. The chamber was now fully filled with the smoke.

"All right, since you little pussies don't want to sound off while double timing with your friggin masks on, we'll just take them off and pt! When I give the order, all Marines will remove your masks and begin to double time around my chamber. The slower you pukes run, the longer we will be in my domain here. You motivate me, and I will motivate you. You fail to motivate me, and I WILL motivate you!!!" He rasped.

As the NBC instructors don't normally take off their masks in the middle of the chamber to berate us and instruct, we all figured that the gas was not as potent as we had initially guessed. We had forgotten that 1) This guy lived for the chamber. 2) He had been doing this stuff for a long time, and probably gotten conditioned somewhat. 3) To him, anyone lower than E-7 was a FNG, and he loved to see FNGs squirm.

We got the order, I removed my mask and my eyeballs promptly melted and ran down my face.

More pain...more pain.


"ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, I LOVE THE MARINE CORPS!!!" He bellowed.


We croaked something unintelligible.


We could hear the other squads outside the chamber roaring with laughter.

Laugh now, you bastards, you're next.


The intensity of the gas was definitely on par with boot camp, and much stronger than my last 4 times in the chamber since. To run, one had to trail one's fingers along the bulkhead, with the other hand on the shoulder of the Marine in front of you. This would ensure that you wouldn't run over somebody in the crowded room. Worked like a champ for a while, until someone about 5 bodies ahead fell to his knees. Much like a NASCAR pile up, the Marine immediately behind him slammed on his brakes, only to be bowled over by the rest of the choking, gagging, snot-flinging squad. I landed nuts first on someones heel, and the knee of the Marine behind me lodged firmly in my ass.


Not my best day.


As a last cruel tease, the instructor open the hatch to the outside, while continuing our pt on the inside of the chamber. We were forced to run past the open door, while continuing to run circles around him. Finally, he got bored with us, and gave us the okay to run outside and begin decontamination.

As always, the other squads were ready and waiting with cameras to forever memorialize our discomfort. S'ok, we would do the same to them, when their time came.

AAAAAaaatack!!!!!

Ah, memories.

For those not intimate with the Marine Corps boot camp experience, the video shows a hapless recruit failing to offer the proper greeting of the day to the Marine that enters the hatch. Thankfully, several Drill Instructors are there to helpfully provide him with some of the proper motivation to recognize the error of his ways, and to hopefully draw his attention to little things like maintaining a low profile, attention to detail, General Orders for Sentries, immediate obedience to orders, proper procedure, maintaining of one's bearing, stress management, tunnel vision avoidance, situational awareness, respect of rank, auditory chaos, chain of command, and last but (most definitely not least), Murphy's Law.

Scout Swimmer, Part 1

About a month before we boarded the ship for deployment, the call was made that we might have some need of scout swimmers. Not enough time to send any Marines to school, command decided that we would get all the zodiac coxwains (guess what we called 'em), first-class and above rated swimmers, and a few guys from the recon platoon together to figure out how we were going to take care of fielding swimmers, if needed.

For a down and dirty swimming course, we didn't spend all that much time in the water. It was kind of a given that anybody who was there was going to be a decent swimmer, and for the most part, everybody was. The focus of the course was to ensure that Marines from the different platoons would all know the same information, and if need be, could be considered interchangeable when it actually came to training and working joint ops. We spent a lot of time on beach clearing, signaling, and the like.

Finally, the time came to get into the zodiacs and do a number of practice runs.

As it has been said many other times in much better ways, you do not really control an area until you have boots on the ground. Technology is great, but until you have some mean looking knuckle-dragger on the ground and ready to hook and jab, its just all hot air.

Head mean looking knuckle-dragger came in the form of...well, we'll just call him Staff Sergeant Enojado. SSgt. Enojado wasn't the most cheery sort, what with his colorful vocabulary, hatred of everybody (especially Officers), and a muy fuerte accent. About the only thing that I saw give him joy was when he managed to throw off several Marines from his zodiac while attempting to set naval speed records on his boat. ¡Olé!

I would always hear a couple of the good-old boys in the group let out more than a few "yeee-haws" (a la the Dukes of Hazzard) when we went airborne, always followed by muffled curses when we crashed down to the water, and then followed by swallowing several gallons of water when the Ssgt. cut hard to the flank immediately upon crash landing. Several times the 'tactical water insertion' was accomplished thusly.

On one particular nut-numbing practice run, I was holding on for dear life on the starboard side. Marines were stacked upon the inflatable 'arm', facing forward and draped over the tube to maintain a low profile, with their swim buddy on the other side of the zodiac. Theory was when you got to you drop off point, you would look over to your swim buddy, ensure that both were ready to abandon ship, and just kind of lean over into the water. SSgt. was having none of that, of course. Cruising along at roughly the speed of sound and cursing all Officers ever born, Ssgt. was in top form. I could tell he was feeling particularly nice today by the way he informed us of the upcoming drop-off. "Hold on, ju fockers, an get ready to get the fuck outta my boat! Pinche beach is somewheres over dere!". He illustrated his fine directions with a nod to a generally forward direction.

I felt like one of those motorcycle racers, when they lean waaaay over the bike, to avoid being flung off like so many...Marines on a zodiac. We were getting a lot better at holding on, much to SSgt.'s displeasure. If we had enough prior warning, we would anticipate the turn, leaning to one side or the other. Sneaky bastard noticed this and started faking us out, letting us anticipate a turn and then deftly slamming the boat in the opposite direction, promptly tossing one side or the others worth of Marines, and apparently for the Naval Marine-chucking World Distance Record. Inevitably, you would find yourself on the outside of the turn, nothing keeping you on the boat but fingernails, curses, and grit.


From the beach, you would have not noticed anything at all, just the crashing of the waves, birds calling and shitting, and the regular noises of nature. Out to sea, zodiacs would be quietly cruising along (and/or soaring through the air). Marines would depart the zodiacs by signaling their swim buddy and easing themselves off of the boat (and/or flying ass over teakettle, cursing all the way, into the water).


Back on the zodiac, I found myself on the outside of yet another turn. This hard flank was not as sharp as some of the other, probably why I wasn't immediately tossed overboard. When the g-forces get to a certain point at a high rate of speed, I don't care how many pull-ups you can do, your ass is launching. I was barely holding on, arms fully extended, fingers in a death-grip around the rope, willing myself to curl my body back atop the tube. I remember the moment when my determination to remain with the boat started to overcome the force of the turn. I managed to curl my arms and move my body about half an inch closer to the tube. That was when I knew that I had this turn beat.

That was also the moment that Popeye, immediately behind me, lost his grip and started his ungraceful exit from the boat. Apparently, his right boot had slipped from its perch and made contact with the water. Scrambling atop the slippery rubber, he reached out for any purchase he could find, and found....me.

Just as I was celebrating my victory over what turned out to be the inevitable, I was sucked off of the zodiac like I had tied a line to the pier. I caught a flailing boot to the side of my grape whilst soaring through the air, and managed to suck down about 20 gallons of sea water, as I was cursing Popey in about 3 different languages. We bobbed to the surface, exchanged a few pleasantries, and waited for the zodaic to swing around.


to be continued...

Snippets of Wisdom...

When in the field for a training op, immediately upon completion of a grueling hump (is there really any other kind?), and after discovering that ones water supply is depleted, never ask Crusty old Corpsman for a swig from his canteen. Knowing that one of his canteens is always full of orange juice and he drinks like a fish should be a good indicator of what might be in the other canteen.



n.b. It is also considered very bad form to spew another mans vodka all over packs, other Marines, and said Crusty Corpsman. Even if it was the most hilarious event. Ever.

My Calving & Hobbes Childhood, Why I did not Die Then, and Mom

Crazy school photos? Check
Parachuting off of the roof top with a blanket? Check (only once)
Battling fierce dinosaurs and space aliens? Check
Main cause of teacher insanity? Check
Main cause of babysitter insanity? Check
Main cause of Mom's insanity? Check
Out of control science projects? Check
Living room forts (no girls allowed)? Check
Survived super snow sled of death? Check (barely)
Multiple attempts to dig to China....in the front yard? Check
Wildly inappropriate snow figures? Check
Getting in trouble at school? Check
Getting in trouble at home? Check
Getting in trouble at church? Check (Amen)
Getting in trouble at market? Check
Late night battles with the boogey man? Check
Destruction of major appliances/furniture? Check
Attempts to jump over pond with my banana-seat Schwinn? Check
Creative new clothing alterations? Check
Creative interpretation of permissions and grounding? Check


I gave so many opportunities for my parents to have a legitimate excuse to explain why I was no longer among the living, it is unreal. I figured it was because I was invincible. Dad grumbled that he just wasn't that lucky. When mom eventually figured out that eating (most) insects, falling from stationary and moving objects, and finding new and creative ways to pass the time (resulting in another trip to the hospital) would not (usually) kill me, I think her whole outlook on parenting changed. After my childhood and by the time my siblings were of age to start running around and getting in trouble, she had relaxed quite a bit (probably due in part to extra sacramental wine).

Brother figures letting the neighbor girl cut his hair, trim his eyebrows & eyelashes, and apply make-up would be a neat way to get ready for first grade? Not a peep from mom.

Sister decides to deposit some change at the bank in her tummy? A call to the doc to verify, and then...nada

Sister has her new car (?!?!) for a week before the first dent? Dad raised holy hell, but mom...silence.

When my brother came downstairs for his first formal dance with a girl, he had a Mohawk that nicely complimented the bright-orange braided and nubbly 'do of his girlfriend. They both wore formal attire, he in a tux and she in a dress. They wore matching combat boots. Mom took lots of pictures. When asked why she was only taking pictures and not hitting the roof like she would have for me, she mumbled replies of "evidence for the courts", and "blackmail for when you cretins have kids".


Mom had it all figured out.

Personal Thoughts

Don't remember where I first heard of this, and I am sorry to say that I don't know who to attribute it to. It is a quote that I think of often, and when will-power, rage, thinking happy thoughts or all the rest of the usual personal motivators are not quite doing the trick, this one makes me pause, think, and get back to work.



"Somewhere a True Believer is training to kill you. He is training with minimal food or water, in austere conditions, training day and night. The only thing clean on him is his weapon and he made his web gear. He doesn't worry about what workout to do - his ruck weighs what it weighs, his runs end when the enemy stops chasing him. This True Believer is not concerned about 'how hard it is;' he knows either he wins or dies. He doesn't go home at 17:00, he is home. He knows only The Cause. Still want to quit?"



Something that I think that people tend to overlook is that a True Believer can and will be anywhere.

Ft. Dix, anyone?

Murph was a....Pilot?

That would ruin my day.

Motivation

Camp Cupcake, Iraq.

On an interior wall of this one chow hall on Camp Cupcake past the salad bar, ice cream bins, and dessert display, was the big screen TV.


Yes freaken' way.


The tube was usually turned to a big name news network, and was always on during the meal times. Occasionally, one would find that it would be turned to a European news channel, or a game in progress. One day, I went in for the evening meal, and found that a European music video station was on. In the country where 'seeing a little T 'n A' means 'Toes 'n Ankles', and after long, long months of not seeing curvy loved ones, this was playing. For those 2:58, not a word was said, bite of food taken, hell, I doubt anyone blinked.





Afterwards, I shit you not, standing ovation.




The chow hall was packed from then on.

The Power of the Trash 'Stache

After a couple of months in Iraq, we were good to go. We just about knew all the roads, definitely knew where most of the bad stuff was (most of it we found prior to detonation, some we found the hard way), and were continuing our proficiency in our performance. At the time, I had not completely developed my perspectives on convoys nor (then) Gunny Murphy of Murphy's Law's fame, but it was coming. A story from one of my Corporals illustrated to me a little bit of both subjects, and helped to develop the theories on the two.

I guess that I had been pissing and moaning a little bit much about convoys, enough so that I was given orders to perform what else, a convoy escort. Typical story, too many vehicles to allow for mobility in the event of attack, not enough assets to respond to an attack, soldiers too new to the country to have learned all of the nuances of immediate action in the event of an attack, and yet another set of gray hairs for moi, attack or no. I was running around pulling out my pathetic little excuse for a trash 'stache in my doomed attempts to haul just about everything, and everyone, kicking and screaming I might add, to an acceptable level of competency.


A word, on the trash 'stache.

Just like everything else, the Corps has regulations on facial hair. A mustache will be within acceptable grooming standards, length, width, and extension from the mug all measured out. The mustache will be allowed to grow for a set period, if it ain't there in two weeks, it's not coming in brother, time to call the time of death and shave it off. They are actually not terribly common, in the states and/or garrison. In the field / combat however...

Perhaps one of the top contenders for the best leader I know had a 'stache. He started to grow it out in the pre-deployment training, and I really wouldn't be too surprised to learn that he did not trim it. At all. Not even once. This thing was out of control. Wildly beyond regulations, he started to bear a strong resemblance to an old, grizzled walrus. Mustache wax? I think it was the brand named Copenhagen. Reading lips? Uh-uh, no way, we learned to read the mustache twitch. One one pre-raid brief, the Captain concluded his otherwise deadpan orders with, "if there are no further questions at this time, I would just like to let everyone know if you need any motivation for these trying times, I will let you touch my mustache."


Twitch, twitch.


Needless to say, about a month later EVERYONE started to grow a trash 'stach. Even the females.


Ok, maybe not.


Certain types, like the above mentioned Marines, didn't have the proper gender and / or heritage to grow a truly impressive nose beard (Thanks, Dad!). I already knew that my facial hair was somewhat sparse due to some distant South American Indian connection, but what I didn't know was, in addition to sparseness, enough of my maternal side came through in the form of about 15 blond 'stache hairs (seemed to be about 30% of the total). Made for some funky looking whiskers, even when I wasn't pulling them out in frustration.

Back to the convoy...

Eventually, I had dispersed enough radios to pass for a mediocre communication ability, gotten an accurate head count (true definition of herding cats, that one), and successfully imparted my intent for immediate action in the event of attack (just get out of the way and let the Marines handle it). We were ready to make the trip.

Naturally, about 30 minutes into an otherwise uneventful escort, one of the convoy trucks goes tits up. Even more naturally, I don't hear about it over the #$%@!&* radios until I am about 5 miles up the road, unaware and alone (I had about 6 convoy vehicles, so yes, I was essentially alone). I had to stop, get out of my truck, go to each vehicle driver and ask if they knew why there was a big gap in the convoy, and why they had not passed that information onto me, 'cause I just might be curious about that. Then I had to guide each driver in the movement we eloquently called 'flipping the bitch', or turning an element of vehicles around, to drive off into another direction. While I was enjoying myself thus, Cpl. Weirdo experienced the following...

Curious as to why the convoy had stopped and why I had not come over the radio to announce a reason for said delay, Weirdo passed the radio off to one of his Marines, and stepped out of his vehicle to conduct some urgent business. Buttoning up his fly, he re-checked the shoulders of the road in the immediate vicinity (a sixth time couldn't hurt) and started trudging to the head of the convoy, to see what was shakin'.

A quick description of Weirdo, and to tell the truth, just about all of us. Lack of showers, laundry facilities, pxs, and the ever increasing patrol lengths had combined to produce some...interesting..fragrances / appearances. To put it blunt, we were pretty dingy. Just about all bore proud trash 'staches of varying levels of pride, shaving was usually done after a looong laundry list of other, higher priorities, and I think probably about 3 Marines had any sort of rank insignia left on their uniforms. On the plus side, our vehicles were as tip top as they were going to get in their current condition, our weapons were friggin' immaculate, and I knew, for a fact, that most of my Lance Corporals had the stones to pick up the ball and run with my position, should I be...unavailable.

Weirdo, being the Marine that he was, had taken to smoking the occasional stogey to cut down on his natural man musk, and to test the limits of authority. Walking up to the downed vehicle, he saw that it was for the time being, out of commission. The industrious leader of the soldiers, a Lieutenant, was already taking the time to place out his soldiers in defensive positions for the anticipated wait. Noticing my Corporal walking up he said, "well sir, the vehicle is down, I got my boys set up, what do you think about their positions?"

Twitch, twitch, went Weirdo's 'stache.

Apparently, the Lt. had seen the cigar, lack of immediately noticeable enlisted rank, wildly out of regulation trash 'stache, combat elan, and assumed that he was speaking to a higher ranking Marine Officer. Weirdo, for his part noticed that there were a few, better covered positioned spots that the soldiers could be occupying for the purposes of security, and told the Lt. as much. "Roger that, sir, will do" was the response.

Weirdo wisely chose to attend to business elsewhere before anyone discovered why you (and especially Army Lieutenants, new to Iraq and working with Marines) should ever A-S-S-U-M-E.



Ever.



Especially with Marines.