The Food

The food.

I sit staring at a plate containing something that might be beef stroganoff. Meat over noodles would be more accurate. Just days ago I sat at one of the finest restaurants in Chicago. Now I am wearing a two day old uniform, and my rifle. Days ago I was wearing a suit, dressed to the nines, down to my shoes. My companion wore her strapless dress (don’t ask me to describe it I can identify tanks, not women’s clothing). The line was long today, about 15 minutes. Reservations for Alinea should be made one or more months ahead. My concierge at the Wyndham works miracles.
On a good note this pile of calories cost only my signature on a sign in roster. Alinea cost more than a valve job and a new rear tire on the Kawasaki. It was worth it.
We live our lives in such an ordinary way, we experience ordinary things. We commute to work, for me just a shuffle down stairs. We see the same so often, I like to step out of the ordinary. Sometimes that extra ordinary experience involves a luke war cup of coffee in a tin cup heated over a fuel tab. Watching the sun rise or fall over a remote landscape. It can take your breath away. There have been moments spent in line at the tank range, resting against the front slope and watching tracers play down range, giving color to the inky blackness of night while the steel releases the heat of the day against your back.
My favorite are hours spent playing with gravity as I swoop up and down the mountains. The sound of the engine screaming at me from between my knees. These are experiences of the sight and feel. Dinner was one of taste and smell. It is fortunate both of these has have been dulled by years of smoking. I might have died of sensory overload.
In any profession there are professionals, experts and artists. After the first course I desperately tried to come up with a comparison. My mind went home to motorcycles. I was in the professional space of the Valentino Rossi of cooking. A man who has passed out of mere mortal status to become an Icon. Each of the courses are a visual work of art. The man at the next table takes a picture with a professional camera before eating each of his 14 courses. This is the short meal. A mixture of flavors and smells does not so much assault my senses as infiltrate past my tongue and into the brain to overload.
Fish eggs from some special pond in the last corner of the virgin wilderness of North America, wines from some guy in Italy who only has 25 acres and sells it only to the poshest of posh. I thought I had seen it all half way through the meal. My mind was reeling from course to course. Then they brought out the beef I know what the effects of cryogenic gasses looks like. It is distinctive. That was a piece of beef that had been dipped in a gas cold enough to be liquid.
I thought I was out of my depth when there was no sign other than a valet out front when we gratefully jumped from the cab driven like I used to drive in Iraq. When there is liquid nitrogen involved in keeping raw meat from cooking at room temperature all bets are off. The staff had skill and professionalism of an SF team, and I do not use the comparison lightly.
A three hour meal, of the highest quality and artistic style available anywhere. I beautiful experience to store for when times are not so wonderful, but not something to contemplate in an army chow hall while gazing at beef over noodles. I reach for the salt and open my latest book about long rides. It is simply a matter of self defense.

Freedom pt 3

Who knew so much could happen during a four day pass? As I am borrowing a sport coat from the hotel and getting dressed for the previously mentioned glorious dinner a drunken voice barks out from down the hall. “Sergeant Pinball you look dope!” I flinch It would appear that SGT Nord and crew to include PV2 SPQR have found me. I thought I had left them at the Holiday Inn… no such luck.
As we part from my path to high society and fine dinning, we now take up the narrative of the other members of the company. SSGs Moto and Caine in their best siamese twin impersonation have picked up their significant others and headed for Chi-town. SGT Dragon, after brutalizing a room of enlisted men (mess with the well yoked SGT Nord at your own risk) has headed home to fiancé and children. SPC Bongo is most likely fully inside the nearest bottle, at least he is a happy drunk. The only report we get about the Brothers SSG is when SGT Nighthawk, fully three sheets to the wind and listing thirty degrees sees them at the top of the Sears Tower, the shuffle their SOs off as quickly as possible.
The Nord crew with their underage drivers (If there is one injustice in the US it is that you can be a soldier at 18 but can’t drink until 21. If you can do the deed you should be able to numb the pain.) hit every mixed age drinking establishment they can.
I have seen the video, I have some of the pictures, I still am amazed at the events that unfolded in a room at the wyndham. About the time I was contemplating the benefits of liquid nitrogen and Japanese beef the party got really started.
I can only confirm that the main even involved two exotic dancers, lets be honest here strippers, a large volume of alcohol, PV2 SPQR, and a facsimile of male genitalia mounted on a plug-into-the-wall power drill. At least he was wearing his army approved eye protection. That would be the other extreme of making memories. It is also a good way to get $400 dollar cleaning charge on your room. All things considered my evening was less expensive.
The last day of the pass I packed up rather early and headed back to base. PFC Tooth, hung over and passed out beside I managed to forget the whole toll road thing. I wonder if they will bill the rental car company for the tolls? Once I am in the company area, my bags dropped and a short nap taken I am asked to sign in.
Not just ‘no’ but ‘HELL NO!’ I explain to 1SG Goggles that I was born, and I was around yesterday but I was not born yesterday.
He is understanding, CSM Santa Gives me grief, I smile, execute a ‘Yes Sergeant Major’ and exit the building. My pass lasts until 2359 on the last day of the pass. As long as I am present and ready for duty at first formation I am clear until midnight. Before they realize that I am gone I am down sitting down behind a pint of Samuel Adams at the on post bar, still in civilian clothes.
SFC Redneck and SFC Lightfighter are there. I vow to hide behind their 14 pay grades if questioned. The scouts sit down moments later. Pitchers are bought and pizza eaten. I get to meat Lightfighter’s wife, a wonderful woman who had a few choice words to say about Family Readiness Group. SGT Trackstar and SFC Caine and wife join us later.
I drink like it is my last beer for a year… because it is. PFC Why, looking all civilian and crap dances it up on the dance floor. While I meet Doc Mom’s husband. Sending your wife off with a hundred and fifty men has got to be a challenge.
At 2300 I stagger to the bus. At 2315 I stagger off the bus, smelling like a brewery and able to walk a straight line with a little help and a lot of luck. I pull myself together and march up the steps of the CP. My signature looks like my normal scribble. I try not to burp in the 1sg’s face, turn around and walk out.
Exiting the CP the First Sergeant reminds me that all contraband must be disposed of prior to midnight. Just a friendly reminder.
The disposal committee is waiting for me at the door. I have two small bottles and a wine sized bottle of local beer. CPL Methuselah, SGT Dragon, and others gather around and help me out. With the world spinning around my head I execute a perfect face plant into my rack and promptly pass out. A good way to end a pass.

Kuwait

Kuwait

The term Fobbit was invented for soldiers working here. There really isn’t a safer place you could be. None of the risks of stateside life and none of the risks of a war zone. How can you prepare people for combat operations when there is a 24 hr Starbucks and Baskin Robbins?
The place is unreal, transients, (units stopping here before going north) live in giant tents. Less than a ten minute walk there are all the conveniences of home. Taco Bell, KFC, Panda express and more proclaim their presence on brightly colored, back lit signs mounted on drab double wide trailers. Most of the troops wander around in a jet lag induced fog. The closer to leaving the more alert they appear, not through a sense of anticipation, but more because they are adapting to the environment.
This is the face of the long war, the small war, the people war. Those of us that enlisted when there was still a threat of red hordes pouring through the Fulda Gap are off balance. War was supposed to be a return to the primitive. You existed in a primal state, eating, sleeping, fighting and dying on your vehicle or with your squad. All the training advertised that kind of war. The kind of war that has not been here since 2003.
The wild west has also departed for parts unknown. We have brought the railroad. Within a year or two of the invasion we drove around like we owned the place. The hiways, byways and back roads all belonged to us. When you came back all they cared about was how many new bullets you needed. Before Strykers and up-armor, when a nice ride had a roof. We rode with our feet hanging out of the truck and our gunners standing behind a hillbilly weapons mount.
Now they question how much ammo we should take for the Mk 19 the Iraqi Army and Police can stop us. Maybe this is all an improvement, the Iraqi government should be in charge. I just don’t trust them. I don’t trust their work ethic. Number one indicator for an IED is that the guys at the check point have gone home.
A thousand questions flood my brain about the upcoming year, none of them have an answer other than wait and see.
In the meantime I will sit by the stage where they have Karaoke night and local bands play. The desert sun washing out my computer screen while I wait for Baskin Robins to open up. Closer to 16 than 31 flavors, but considering where I am, pretty impressive.
In a few days I go back to the war, a nine month ride full of boredom and terror. I look on the bright side, I could be stationed here. I would probably go more crazy than I already am.

A Jump to the Right

A Jump to the Right

A dear friend of mine whom I will call Traveler spends most of her professional life going through airports. How different the process of traveling with the army her life is. Airports are wonders of efficiency you walk in the door at SFO, and if like her you know what you are doing, you walk out the door at PDX just a few hours later. The Army can make brushing your teeth difficult. In our little jump over the pond and into the kitty litter box it would be hard to make it more complex.
We start the day of, final packing, the last laundry carted to the washers and back to be stuffed into already over full bags. It doesn’t take James bond to figure out that the unit is leaving, the dozens bottles of laundry soap left in Laundromat. Soldiers are chucking the bits and pieces they don’t need, makes it easy for me. I don’t need to buy more soap.
We stack the bags at 1830 and the wait begins. Some time later we load all the bags onto a truck, a pretty good work out all things considered. I call the parents, and chat after arranging to have the phone shut off on the first. Then call my sister to chat it up. More waiting, until the buses arrive. They are school busses to old to be used for schools anymore. Each soldier has his carry on, we sit two to a seat, time to make your buddy smile. The buses get fuel and drive around on post without apparent direction.
The poor bus driver is subjected to the 1st platoon standard entertainment. On other rides, with other platoons the guys will sit and listen to their media players. We entertain ourselves by singing. Between 10 and 20 voices sing everything from rap to 80’s hits even some Motown. The one or two odd balls who know that key are not for opening locks or can carry a tune in a sack are drowned out by the rest.
The driver fails to comment, clearly a wise man. SFC Big Daddy and 2LT Corn Fed know all the words to ‘I Like Big Butts’ considering that they are only slightly less pale than I am it is mildly disturbing. SPC Stonewall next to me has never heard of Johnny Cash, His only excuse is that he is black, I don’t buy it.
At the airfield we have to go through the TSA search. No lighters, knives, or bottles of liquid. Never mind that every passenger is in uniform, we are taking off from a military airfield and carrying our M4s, SAWs and bayonets, that little pocket folding knife is prohibited. It has been said before: “The Army could screw up a wet dream.” I know, it has screwed up mine.
Even the pornography check is pointless as most troops have personal computers. (What do YOU think the internet is for?)
Then we wait some more. Another call to the sister and parents. We continue to wait. The plane boards at 0230, I haven’t slept since 0600. We cram ourselves into seats designed for normal passengers with weapons and outsized carry-on’s. They want the weapons on the floor, taking up my valuable leg room. Mine goes muzzle down by the window.
Time begins to blur, helped with Doans back pills and Tylenol PM. I wak up as we land in pouring rain. We all get off the plane as it fuels. Then back on for the next hop. Again I pass out before the lights of the USA fade below us. We are racing into the sun, shades down to watch the in flight movie. The tape is damaged though only a half dozen of us notice, being the only ones awake.
I fade in and out of consciousness. Time zones and travel have made the time irrelevant. At the next airport they still speak English… sorta. We pile out and head to the smoking area. There is internet for those who can find it. We pile back onto the plane blurry eyed some of us simply following the uniform in front of us. Wedged into the seat again I take my secret weapon and pass out as the green fields are obscured by the clouds. SGT Dozer has been a good traveling companion. He keeps his short legs in front of him as I stretch into the empty seat between us. SGT Nord, our orgional third moved forward to more space as soon as we got altitude the first time.
Back in the galley three soldiers have taken off the ACU top and brew coffee wearing Omni Air International aprons over their T-shirts and ACU pants. I snap a picture and stumble back into my seat.
Kuwait is just like we left it, you could go twenty miles and not be able to tell the last thousand years has passed, or be in a major commercial center. This may be the safest place on earth for soldiers. The Kuwaitis are very effective at keeping the war at arms length while making billions off it. I pity the terrorist who would risk his organizations funding by launching an attack here.
Another ride in the dawns light to the Gateway camp. Sit in a briefing no one listens to except the locations of DFACs and the PX. We unload the truck of our bags and into the tent. Over 60 soldiers in one long have pipe tent. The smell will eventually get bad. For now most pass out. I sign out with the boss, grab CPL Methuselah and go on a pinball bounce. Maybe I will be able to stay awake long enough get my body into the new pattern of day and night. To help myself out I try a new delicacy, the Red Bull Icee.
I call the parents and discover my time calculations were off, it is 4am at home. I look for an internet connection. No luck to find one without a two hour wait. Then head back, the Red Bull wears off and I crash like a DC-10 without engines. Morpheus awaits, sanity may return with sleep, or is that just a pipe dream?

Freedom Pt 2

I find the bar without difficulty. The third bumper and I hear my score going up. Inside PFC Thug, Doc Mom, some of the scouts, and more were already working on their boozing. I sit down, and a beer appears in front of me. The night begins to blur, I know that SPC Bongo and the other Silent Killer show up, Nord and his crew, SGT Trackstar and his car of guys. Soon there are tables full of drinking troops. A few are still in uniform, these are the ones flying out late tonight or early in the morning.

If I continue the roll down to Chicago I need to stay sober, less than one drink an hour. SPC Bongo wants to hit a strip bar, not surprisingly the scouts have a list of important questions. Where is it, how far, what is the cover, drink minimum, cost of a lap dance? Questions answered we begin to gather up the troops.

I do a head count, and realize that we are staying here tonight. I skip off from the strip club and get two rooms at the Holiday Inn. Whatever happens I will not be sleeping in the rental tonight. I pawn off the other room to SPQR and Heart Disease. Free from any real responsibility I go on the bar bounce. Yes we are supposed to travel in pairs. I set out to see what this college town has in the way of local bars.

I pop my head into the Animal House, crowd was a little old for me, the one with a nautical theme was a little stuffy, I would have done gone to “Then Library: an interesting place to drink” but they were closed. I end up in a little place called “Johns” About my speed, cheap drinks, and a dart machine. I prefer the metal pointed darts, but anything will do in a pinch. Another OIF vet in the bar and I start talking, then we team up to play, two girls.

Drinks are rolling, I stick with Jack and Coke, the official drink of OIF II and III. The stories roll, and then someone starts buying shots. Patron goes down so smooth. The games keep rolling, the booze is flowing, I seem to be able to hit my target often enough not to get too embarrassed.

At some point a glass is broken and I find out that it is no big deal, as the other team in a three way game of cricket is the manager. He buys a round for his clumsiness. By midnight I am listing at 15 degress and three sheets to the wind.

It is my sister’s birthday so I give her a call. Okay not the best of ideas, but she not only understands, but seems happy her little brother is having a fine time. I run across Nord and crew returning from the strip club, as it turns out the mission was a failure, and finish the night with a beer bought for me at Hooters again. Then I go and crash out in my wonderful hotel room.

For the first time in two months I sleep without the noise of snoring in the room (yes I snore but I never hear it). I am in a state of blissful silence. Five floors below all hell is breaking loose.

It would seem that crowding at least six troops have crowded into my other room. SGT Dragon showed up, killing time until his flight leaves. While SPQR and Wookie float around in the indoor pool (I wonder if they found a hairball in the filter the next day) the three suitcases of beer begin to disappear. Not fast enough for Dragon, even without his ever present partner SGT Nighthawk he is the life of the party. His favorite game seems to have been “Beer Grenade”.

Through speed, aggression and violence of action he manages to route at least two to the rental car, and leaves the rest of the crew bruised on the floor. When I show up to check up on them the next morning, it looks like and smells like a frat house on New Years Day. I require they leave beer, a tip and a note for the maid and hope that my credit card won’t be billed for water (I mean beer) damage.

Enough of this small time stuff, my pass is well and truly started. It is 250 miles to Chicago, I have a full tank of gas, a carton of cigarettes, it is quite bright and I left my sunglasses in the barracks. I hit it.

An hour later I want to strangle Tooth. He has bought the cheapest ear phones in the PX and is playing his music at full blast. I crank the stereo louder to block out the noise. Five hours to his hotel, the musical clinking of beer and wine come from the back at every bump and toll booth. WTF toll booths on interstates!?!?! We get to the Holiday Inn in Chicago. They didn’t have reservations, so in my last effort as an NCO I put the rooms on my card for the first night. Tooth is checked in, the rest of the guys will show up as hangovers and other perils of traveling in groups allow.

I make a point of not telling anyone my destination, as the car warms up I turn off the cell phone and remove the name tapes from my back pack and computer bag. SGT Pinball has left the building. Mr Pinball a civilian replaces him. For just a little over 72 hours I will live life to the fullest, then back to the army.

Crew

The crew

The end is near and most of us are happy for it. Our time in beautiful CONUS (CONtinental United States) will be over soon, by the time this is posted there is a good chance I will be over the pond. It is time to go, the training was useful, it was needed. Now it is over. No more First Army trainers, no more boxes to check and sheets to sign.

I sit on the porch stoop smoking a cigarette and watching the tendrils disperses into the evening air. SPC Bongo is next to me. He has been back from his last tour less than 6 months. We are just done.

I look over at him and ask, “You ready for this?”

He gives me that silly grin and laughs, “Sarge, I was ready when we showed up.”

It is so true. When I came back from the last trip half the troops got out as soon as they could. Another quarter spread to the four winds, some beyond the reach of a combat deployment in recruiting command or the Air Force. The rest are still here. There is something addicting about the army. Something that we get here, that we don’t get anywhere else.

Part of it is family, a second family that is. Looking down the barracks I can tell you the about each guys marriage, how his home life is going, and so much more. You don’t get this kind of social situation anywhere else. They try to capture it on film or in books and it all falls short of the mark. These are the men that I will trust with my life a network of mutual dependence.

Then there is the destination. This will be an opportunity. A place to test yourself, where nothing matters, but what you do, and how well you do it. This will not be the wild west of OIF II and III, the rules are more strict, the enemy (according to reports) is less bold. Still the challenge is there.

I have always said that the army sponsoring a NASCAR was a bad idea. They need to sponsor AMA or Moto GP motorcycle racing. The drive is the same, to push your self and your body faster or further than the other guy. There is an acceptance of risk, an understanding that gain comes only with risk.

Riders come in two types, those that have perfected self deception, (these do not usually last past their first good crash) and those that accept the price for what they do. I think I am in the second group, but I could be deceiving myself. I have seen the risk that Iraq shows. The risk is worth the reward. It really was last time. Back then we had few armored vehicles and most didn’t have doors or roofs. Just three to five guys, hanging out the doors or standing behind a piece of metal pipe welded to the floor with a machine gun on top.

Now there are gun shields and MRAPS, ASVs and nothing unarmored rolls out the gate. Most gunners don’t even stick their heads out of the hatch. The mission is more dangerous, but the risk to me is lower. Just like heading out on a cool summer morning to ride HWY 9, just because the road is dry, and the tires are freshly scrubbed in doesn’t mean you relax. Ease into it, and feel where your skill is today. I wonder what my real skill level is, how much has the training refreshed and improved?

SPC Bongo and I know what is there, the good, the bad and the ugly, yet we still go. Is it any wonder that humans still war? With an inexhaustible supply of young and in my case not-so-young men looking for a chance to step beyond the bubble wrap protectiveness of our society, and a limited supply of motorcycles?

Something drives us to risk, to push to take the long dark journey. This is mine. If the urge hits me again, I should have the means to just get on the bike and ride. You don’t have to go through 120 days of train up to ride to Panama.

Freedom

The long awaited time had come. The company stood in formation, eagerly awaiting the magic words while SFC Big Daddy administered the safety brief. We have all heard it before and I let it wash over me like music before bed time. Don’t drink and drive (duh!). Don’t drink to excess (not bloody likely). Do not engage in risky sexual behavior (this earns a chuckle from the crowd). The drone goes on. Then the magic word comes… “DISMISSED”

I think I made it to the car before my hat reached the ground. If either way it would have gone to the judges. The pinball has been launched into the game. Like a shot I gather my two passengers and head off into the sunset. Surprisingly since my ultimate destination is Chi-town to the east I must first go west. PFC Airborne is meeting his fiancé at the airport, I suspect that he will not see the light of day for the next four days. PFC Tooth will rally up with the other single troops for a weekend of traditional stress reduction in Chi-town, but needs a ride that far.

We hit the first bumper without a hitch. Airborne does a perfect PLF out of the vehicle at the airport. With a few phone calls we discover the rest of the boys are nearby at the mall getting rid of army gray for the varied colors of civilian clothes. Under the gentle management of SGT Nord. I Macys into the rental car GPS and away we go. We are less than a mile out we realize that something is wrong.

The dot on the Hertz ‘Never Lost’ does not correspond to a physical building. Indeed it tells us we have arrived while on a freeway in the middle of a swamp. I look around for land marks, no luck. We begin a search pattern and call the guys already there, again no luck.

I begin to bitch at “That gods damned piece of proprietary shit!”

Ranting and raving as the rain pours down I try other mall type stores. All show up at the same location, the middle of a swamp. Stupid thing probably hasn’t been updated in years.

PFC Tooth manages to convince me to ask for directions. It would appear we are two miles off target. I hope that the army isn’t buying the same technology. It probably is. We pull into Macy’s in a minor rain squall, pop out and head for the doors. Now we have to find one of the half dozen or so troops in the mall. Well it isn’t easy.

PV2 SPQR (yes he used to be a PFC, but it would be wrong of me to explain the details) spots us at the center of the mall. All I need is a sweat shirt or a flannel or something. Tooth didn’t bring any civilian clothes so he needs a whole outfit. I dive into the store recommended by SPQR.

Ten minutes later I am standing in the greatest of ironies. A zippered hoody with the words “Holister, SoCal” emblazoned on the front. Never mind that I have traveled 1800 miles to get a shirt from the town just down the road from my house. Or that the only way Holister is southern California is if you don’t own a map and don’t know anyone with a map. Not only that it cost $60 which is more than I would pay for any everyday article of clothing.

Never mind I am warm, and that is what counts. We gather up, rather SGT Nord herds the cats into a smallish gaggle. PFC Wookie, PFC Chin, PFC Heart Disease, PFC and a passel of others make a group decision… We are off to Hooters. I make a call to them on the way to the car, this time never lost can find the address, although it can’t find them through the directory. Piece of shit.

Two bumpers down still rolling and bouncing I head for the next stop. A place based around the fact that men spend money on hot girls in tight clothes. The perfect honey trap for this crew.

To be continued.

Gunnery

Gunnery

The apex of the training year for mechanized units is gunnery. I understand the active duty tankers take most of a month to complete this task, reserve units take a two week annual training period from drawing tanks to turning in the last cleaned weapon. I thought that was a little stressful, then we did wheeled gunnery here. Is having a wrong opinion wrong? I hope not.

SFC Big daddy is the HMFIC (Head Mother Frakker In Charge) by virtue of his training as a Master Gunner. My self and 12 others would be the VCEs (Vehicle Crew Evaluators) going down with crews, grading them and then explaining the grade, then jumping in with the next crew and doing it all again. We found out we were going to the evaluator class the night before the class started. Of 13 evaluators, 11 failed the first test, and thus it began.
We would have to go and retest while range, that needed 12 VCEs ran with 2. Big Daddy was unhappy with us, to put it mildly. The crews are stressed because this is their big test, and the rest of the company feels the stress and reacts to it.
To put it mildly the first couple of hours on the range were…. Stressful (I said that already didn’t I?). In true military fashion the master gunner vents on his evaluators, the VCEs vent on the crews, who then vent back at each other. This lasts for about 2 hours. Then we get the magic. The immensity of the task overcomes the individuals. Like some giant group think the tension begins to drop. Soldiers help their buddies, and the range begins to click a machine gun. Truck heads down range, the next one is pulled up to the ready line. A truck returns, and we shoot the next one down.
I wander past the iconic image of gunnery, not tracers arcing down range, or the boom of cannon fire. Three soldiers, vehicle commander, gunner and driver passed out asleep in a neat line. I step back to take a picture and notice the all over crews eat, bullshit or pass out together. Maybe it was the crews going down range that managed to calm us down. You never know.
The VCEs will shoot and grade, no rest for the wicked. The engagements begin to blur, only the notes on the score card to tell you what happened this time and what was on the last crew. Unlike tanks where you sit in the tower and listen to the fire commands and time the crew we have to ride down behind the gunner.
Ever tried to stand up in the back of a vehicle, a stop watch in one hand, pen in the other, holding down a score sheet while tracking targets, and grading fire commands? Not easy. Then there are our generally young drivers. They drive with the aggression of the young and the skill of the same. CPL Calm got thrown into the back hard enough to leave bruises , twice. I got a full can of .50 ammo thrown at me like a medicine ball. I collapse back into the clam shell, toss the ammo off to the side, and ride the sudden stop back up to my place behind the gunner, hit the stop watch and recover the grade sheet. I get bruises on both sides and a sore back for the rest of the event. Bull riders eat your heart out.
I as the day goes on, I am walking to my next truck and hear the evaluator briefing the crew.
“Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. If you throw the VCE out of the vehicle or make him swallow his dip it is an automatic zero.”
SGT Adams deals with it another way. I am leaning against the shack as he ‘counsels his driver. “If you don’t slow down I am putting a steaming cup of coffee on the dash in front of you.” It takes his driver PFC SPQR a second before he realizes the repercussions of a jack rabbit start and steaming hot coffee. “Rodger Sergeant” He says.
The day moves on, crews go to sleep after their day run, waiting for darkness. The range crew keeps rocking. A weapons guard is kept employed almost full time keeping the two pots of coffee brewing. The temperature drops and still vehicles head down range. With the back hatch open the heaters are fighting a hopless battle against the cold.
We bundle up and keep going. Midnight comes and goes without us noticing, as crews keep going down range. At night the tracers tell the whole story. As gunners get better they all go the same place instead of spraying all over the place. Targets get hit, engagements get shorter.
At some point I begin to notice less hang dog expressions from returning crews. More After Action Reviews include “Great engagement, I can’t really say anything more.”
SFC Caine keeps the crews rolling SFC Big Daddy fixes guns and helps crews and evaluators. The temperature drops into the low forties and a mist comes over the range. We are in constant motion, but the speed has dropped as we dip deeper into our reserves. If you see a guy dragging ass too much you take his next crew and tell him to get an hour or two of sleep.
Help your buddy, cover down, make things work. The boxes of empty brass and links grows behind the ammo point. Crates stacked upon crates of the debris of gunnery.
At 4am the range shuts down. We will start up again in the morning, rather later in the morning. Most of the crews go on the first bus, then the range crew. Two hours of sleep and we start up again. Remember to eat and drink water. I dip into my emergency energy drink supply and share it around as needed.
My crew, SSG Lifeguard and PFC Mighty Mouse take on the lions share of setting up our vehicle to shoot. Down we go, and then I am back to grading. No cause to complain, eleven of us are in the same boat. Sleep is for the weak. You can sleep when you are dead.
Events truly blur, I don’t even remember my own qualification, but apparently I did well. Over 30 crews in less than three days. Not bad, not bad at all.
Gunnery is over and our trip over the pond comes near. With a solid eight hours of sleep behind me, I look back and feel pride and confidence. One of my last AARs sticks in my mind. I look into the faces of a crew that was shaky at the beginning and say, “You guys really cowboy’d up. I look forward to rolling down the road with you watching my back.” That really says it all.

Raid?

A note to any soldiers going through the 1st Army training, there is only one solution. All field problems involving simulated Iraqi civilians can be solved by talking to the sheik. Lock the town down, talk to the sheik and you pass the mission. My squad leader knows this. On the other hand sometimes you just want to have fun.

The mission comes down, a US soldier is being held prisoner in the notional town of Ali Babba. Our mission is to go into the town and find him. First, understand that we are organized to escort convoys. This means that we are distinctly lacking in some of the essential things required to raid a town. Things like man pack radios, battering rams and dismounts. The OCTs (Observer/Controler/Trainers) are attempting to induce a fault. Fuck’em.

We rally up with the other platoon, pull a wet and stinky plan out of our ass, and roll out. The US Army has locked down entire cities using thousands of soldiers over a single soldier. I bring this up to SSG Lifeguard, my new boss. He smiles, spits a gob of tobacco juice into our Escalation of Force (EOF) bottles and says; “Just check the box”.

The other platoon locks down the town… sort of. Then he gives me the move out.

I put on my game face and the yelling begins. Try controlling 9 vehicles, directing your driver while looking for IEDs and snipers sometime.
“Left or right at the traffic circle?”
“Left.”
“Echo 221, this is Echo 111 split off to the right.”
“MIGHT MOUSE! ARE THEY SPLITTING OFF?”
An unintelligible reply from the turret.
“PINBALL GO FORWARD!”
“Where the fuck do you want me to go?”
“PAST THE FUCKING HOUSE!”
“Hadji women just standing there blocking the way!”
“Drive past them.”
“MIGHTY MOUSE AM I CLEAR ON THE RIGHT?”
A hand shoots down from the turret with a thumbs up.
“Keep Going!”
Where the fuck do you want me to go, just tell me where we need to stop and I will fucking get there!”
The last is garbled as I spit a gob of juice into the EOF bottle.
“Hook a right and stop when we can see the whole back of the town!”
Vehicles are all over the place, outer security is set the inner vehicles making it up as it goes along.
I stomp on the accelerator as we clear the simulated locals and yank the vehicle around the last building. Mighty Mouse Fights the 200 pound turret that is almost twice his weight around to cover his sector of fire.
As soon as the vehicle stops and I yank the E-brake Lifeguard tosses the mike at me and pops out to join the dismounts. I hand it up to Mighty Mouse, nothing like multi tasking. I chamber a round and pop out to check the area for hadji presents. Only a fool drives cross country with a round in the chamber. The chances of the weapon being knocked off safe and then firing a round inside the vehicle is way to high. Armor keeps bullets out, but also keeps them in.
I scan out, the outer security guys have neglected this sector. Nothing like a well tuned plan with lots of time to rehearse. I Look over at SPC Choo Choo and wave him forward. He begins to roll forward to cover us. I continue my inspection.
Half way done I hear the distinct sound of an AK blank round. No answering fire. That would be the hostage getting executed. Then a little hadji head poking out of a door, looking to do a runner. I drop to a knee and wait for him, hiding behind the notional armor of out notionally up armored vehicle.
He runs for the tree line, blind firing in the general direction of Mighty Mouse, whose caliber .50 jams. I track him into the wood line, aim point center mass, squeezing off rounds on single shot. Without MILES (Military laser tag system) this has turned into a giant game of cowboys and Indians.
I will not play the ‘I shot you first!’ game.
I fade back behind the truck, putting the armor between me and the threat.
“Mouse, Shift Left!” I yell.
“Fucker’s Jammed Sergeant!” He yells back.
“Transition and continue to engage!”
He unloads a mag into the tree line then goes back to fighting the most temperamental weapon in the US Army.
Another truck pulls up and begins to rock at the tree line with their ‘240. In my minds eye I can see chunks of tree flying, and tracers chewing pine trees to firewood.
BANG! BANG! “FUCK” Mouse continues to fight his gun.
I see movement. “SHIFT LEFT!” I yell I don’t see movement from the rusted jammed piece of shit turret. I pull the farkled piece of shit double mag holder out and try to seat it. The clips holding the two mags together have shifted. I rip one mag out of the stupid contraption and slap it into my weapon, and pop the bolt release. When did I fire up that second mag? Who cares? I seat my M4 into my shoulder letting the red dot fall over the last place I saw the bad guy.
“FIRE ON MY TRACERS!!!” I actually squeeze off four rounds before a bit of sanity intrudes on my psyche… blanks you fucking moron…
The OCT walks up and tells my gunner he is unconscious. Like a good little role player he drops limp into the vehicle. A second truck comes up from the right and begins to rock into the tree line.
I pop the door, open his vest and check for an exit wound, a piece of plastic over both and Mighty Mouse will live to see the simulated chopper, or the real medic.
I crawl through the truck to the turret, yank on the charging handle, and fire a test burst. The bitch fires. The bad guy pops a round off, I see the flash from my right. Traverse and mash the butterfly trigger like it insulted my mother. Short bursts my ass, I cut a sweeping burst from right to left. Every time he pops one off I reply with ten.
There are times when my academic mind decides that muscle memory can take over. I recall LTC (ret) Grossman saying that he who makes the loudest noise wins. The Ma Duce was built for that.
The extraction team passes behind me, ignoring my calls for a medic. Just as I run out of ammo. Damn all training events where they don’t give you a real combat load.
I pop back down, identify SSG Moto’s truck by his driver PFC Why. Folding Mighty Mouse’s legs inside the truck I turn to see some OC leaning into the passenger door filming us.
“MOVE!” I yell.
No response.
I pick up the diminutive little camera man and remove him from the vehicle, slam the door, hop in the driver seat and rally up with SSG Lifeguard at SSG Moto’s truck. Then take a deep breath, and lower my blood pressure.

The platoon extracts in a more or less orderly manner. Not by the book, but we all work together. It happens.

What is the epilogue to this little tale. The OC I removed from my truck turns out to be a female Captain. She gives me a little speech about her right to be on the simulated battle field. I say “Yes Ma’am.” Never mind that she was in the way. I later found out that the entry teams had tripped over her a couple of times. Whatever.
Her male counter parts are upset. They accost me in the motor pool. There is talk they complain to my LTC. I spend a day sweating. Then I get the word. It would seem that the newly minted Big Poppa scoffed, and the thoughts of Non Judicial Punishment disappear.
Who says that promotion is a bad thing?

I just can’t help but wonder, would they have made a big deal of it if she had been a he?

The Letter U

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter U. U is for UCMJ. The Uniform Code of Military Justice is an odd animal. It combines aspects of The Enlightenment, a paternal social structure, military necessity and fascism. How does a military reconcile the high ideals of its legal system with the needs of a military environment? The same way a duck billed platypus meets the needs of its environment, a system that looks strange as a preacher in a whore house but still works.
The first and foremost factor in this system is the need for obedience under life threatening levels of stress. The second is respect for a chain of command that has to maintain this obedience. Third is the constitutional need to protect soldiers rights as citizens as will as soldiers.
The line that you sign away your rights when you enlist is bullshit. The truth is that you exchange your civilian rights for military ones. Some people never understand the difference.
The absolute bottom rung on the discipline ladder is ‘corrective training’ usually in the form of some physical exertion that will result a soldier not wanting to repeat the bad behavior. Get a little smart with a sergeant and you may find yourself practicing 3-5 second rushes through the company training area. Loose a weapon, and you may have to low crawl to every NCO in the unit to get a piece of it back. Corrective training replaced Wall to Wall counseling in the mid 80’s.
Wall to Wall, or turret counseling was where an enlisted man repeatedly tripped and fell into walls, turrets or down stairs until he had learned the error of his ways. This is no longer a practice condoned by the US military. It can now result in the counselor being reduced to a pay grade where he will be the subject of said method. In some of the more highly strung combat units this still happens. I can remember training sessions during basic where I wished the drill sergeant would just hit me. (A brief web search can call up a humorous manual on wall to wall counseling, but no matter how official it looks, one should remember that it is signed by COL Charles Norris.)
The lowest level of the military justice system is the counseling statement. Not all counseling statements are bad. I have a really long one that tells the world how I have more additional duties a dog has fleas. The statement is really supposed to be a record how you are doing and what goals you have. Unless you screw up.
A troop mouths off a sergeant or forgets some gear, and he can expect to get some sort of informal reprimand from a quick 10 pushups, to a good long smoke session that leaves the troop soaked in sweat. The soldier’s participation is voluntary. He can require that the misdeed be put in writing and the training outlined there. Smart troops do not do this. Exhaustion passes, paperwork has a life of its own. The more aggressive, the closer to the sharp end a unit is the more likely a soldier will forgo anything on paper and simply pay the price in sweat.
If a soldier still does not respond, or the offense is more serious the soldier will go through an Article 15, or Non-judicial punishment. There are different levels of this, usually a troop can ask for a court martial instead, smart troops suck it up, unless there is something really stinky about these proceedings. The commander, and in the army commanders have all sorts of really interesting powers, looks at the facts and makes a dictatorial decision that within his legal powers. His options are various levels of loss of pay, extra duty and restrictions as well as taking away rank. The further up the chain it goes the more a commander can take, and the more likely a severe the punishment can be. Unlike the civilian justice system there are usually a lot of chances to fix your behavior before you are standing in front of the commander. He can take your money, you free time and your rank.
Other soldiers in your chain of command can legally order you into a place or to perform acts that could cost you your life. We train for a time of war, and in time of war somebody has to issue the order to take a hill or to walk point or check something out. This is the reason that the legal system follows the same chain of command that those orders do.
Does this mean that the commander, or other leader has absolute power to do as he pleases? Not in the least. The balance to the immediate power of a commander is in two forms, both are paternal in nature. The first is that in courts martial higher head quarters reviews the findings, and second is that the noncommissioned officers in his chain of command should and usually are standing right beside him during the proceedings.
There are other interesting points, like the judge can throw out plea bargains, and enlisted men can require that there be enlisted men on their jury. But the really fun part are the things that the military judges as crimes and their punishments.
My favorite is the line ‘prejudicial to the good order and conduct of the unit’ many crimes are listed as such because they are. Does this mean that the crime such as murder, theft or rape are not crimes if they are for the good order of the unit? Officers are forbidden from talking smack about their superiors, but enlisted men get a free ride. (That is a good one as if every grunt was punished for talking shit about the chain of command there wouldn’t be any enlisted men.)
Article 120: Rape is another really odd one, it is the only place where the burden of proof is on the accused and death is a listed possible punishment. Is there any civil court that severe? Death is listed as a punishment for some many crimes that you would think the code was written by Texans, it may have been. Desertion, and murder and rape among others all have a maximum penalty of death.
Can anyone tell me when the last time the army actually killed a soldier by hanging or firing squad. A side note, in some armies firing squad is for soldierly offences, but hanging is for cowards and deserters. There is a section on adultery that is still enforced (seen it done on this mobilization and the last one), sexual harassment can be criminally charged, and another section on sodomy. I have never seen that last one used, as it covers everything but the missionary position. (The whole position thing might be a military urban myth.)
Then there is the whole Jury selection. Normally one might expect to be tried by a jury of their peers. Not only are officers and enlisted men very much not peers, but the soldiers available for a jury in the states often have nothing in common with the soldier being tried. Do I want a senior NCO who has spent his career in higher headquarters judging a call I made while under fire? I think not.
The legal counsel thing is also a little stilted junior lawyers are generally the defense lawyers and senior ones the prosecutors. My info on that is a little dated it may have changed. Anyway just doing my part on misinforming the populace. UCMJ is an odd little platypus, but it is the one I am subject to, and it seems to survive just fine.

The Letter P

Today’s posting is brought to you by the letter ‘P’. ‘P’ is for promotion. There is good and bad in everything. For 1SG Poppa this could not be more true.

We stand in a company formation, the gentle morning sunlight is just warm enough for comfort. 1SG Poppa calls us to attention for the last time. The morning ritual has more meaning than usual.

“Company!” He calls.

“Platoon!” The Platoon Sergeants echo.

“Attention!” He yells.
As one we bring our feet together, hands at our sides, eyes fixed forward.
“Good Morning Gentlemen!” He says, if there is the tiniest hint of a quaver in his voice no one will say anything.
As one the company, bellows at the top of our lungs “GOOD MORNING FIRST SERGEANT!”

He puts us at ease and begins the last speech. The Battalion Ops Sergeant Major has become non-deployable. He is number one on the state Order of Merit List or OML. Rumors have been floating through the company. Now he confirms it. The 1SG is the senior enlisted man in the company, our mom. He feeds us, cares for us and administers low justice. The commander is dad, ‘The Man”, or “The Old Man”, but Poppa is mom. Now he is leaving us.
He will be moving up, more responsibility, more pay, but he has to leave his family. A new man will come into fill his slot, an unknown from another company. As he gives his fare well speech we ignore when his voice catches, we will miss him.

The speech finished, he puts out the information of the day, and turns us over to the platoon sergeants. They fall us out. The platoon begins to ooze towards Poppa in a vague gaggle. We begin to surround him, a few hand shakes…. Then it happens.

A voice in the middle of the gaggle yells “Group Hug!” Like fat kids on the last candy bar we pile on. Exaggerated emotion outbursts and expressions of regret at his leaving. We use humor to cover reality but we will miss him, and now we have to learn someone one new.

I know who the new one is, but now is not the time to introduce him. For now we watch Poppa move up. Good luck to him, and maybe he can unfuck battalion, a Herculean task, and he may just be able to do it.