Paying taxes.

“What the fuck did I do? I have been a good kid, why the fuck?” I yelled at SFC Big Daddy.
By this time I had completely lost my military bearing. It started twenty minutes ago when I was informed that I would have to go on ‘Rock Detail’ the post extracts taxes like a feudal lord in the form of the labor of serfs. A week spent watching the Iraqi business that hauls away our large waste. Piles of scrap metal, broken appliances and other debris is sorted and removed from the post to enhance the local economy. This is also where the gravel that covers our base is hauled in. From the giant rock piles comes the detail’s name. Normally this duty comes with a negative counseling statement.
Big Daddy is laughing at me, SSG Moto is laughing behind him. The back of my mind tells me I am being unprofessional, I am not listening.
“Somebody has to of fucked up enough to warrant this. Now I am going to spend a week explaining to everyone that I haven’t done anything wrong.” I go on, so not amused by their laughter. I have done everything in my power to find some other guy to take the duty. This will be four troops down for my squad, it screws Moto.
“SGT Pinball, when you get out there, if they give you any problems give them my card.” Says the voice of doom from behind me. The First Sergeant pulls me over to talk to me about this detail. My fate is sealed, a week in purgatory.
I submit to my fate. The last thing the First Sergeant says to me is truly ominous.
“SGT Pinball, when you get out there I want you to be the biggest pain in the ass you can.” I give him a skeptical look and he smiles, “The active duty has been treating our guys badly and so when the Sergeant Major and I were looking for an NCO to be a pain in the ass yours was the first one that came up.”
Is this a compliment or an insult? I think about it, and in a moment of deep honesty I accept that when I want to be I can be a real pain in the ass, and generally don’t play well with the Big Army. I sulk back to my room and get ready for duty. I have to get up at 5am, normally go to sleep around 3am, this is not going to be fun.

At 0500 I slap my snooze control and roll back over, two more snoozes and I am fumbling in dark to put my gear on. SGT G3 and PFC Evil Mighty Mouse (Mighty Mouse’s evil twin) meet me at out ASV to drive out. It is cold, like high ‘20s cold. Then there is the wind. My mood does not want to improve. At the ECP CP (Entry Control Point Command Post) they tell me that they don’t have a computer for the briefing, and the radio is not available. Down by the tower they hand me Binos, and keys and point to the tower. A shipping container sized box 31 steps up in to the air.
The job is easy, unlock the Iraqi manned gate, then sit there and count the trucks coming in. We drop our helmets, sit in the lifeguard chairs and commence to bull shit. If they don’t want to tell us what to do, I will run this like the last check point I manned. In the middle of the desert, miles from the nearest US troops. At 1430 I wander down to inquire about lunch, that they were supposed to provide. It arrived at 1130 and no one told us. Maybe the 1SG was right, they are treating our troops like shit.
I had asked about radios a few times earlier, and the SSG in charge said it wouldn’t be held against me because they didn’t provide one.
The next day they give me a man pack radio that can reach about 200meters from inside the guard tower. The third day a sand storm picks up and we can’t talk to anyone. My professionalism is insulted. Why have an observation post when you can’t tell anyone what you observe. What if something happens when we climb down and unlock the gate 300m from the tower as the bullet flies and 500m as the grunt walks?
On the fourth day a SSG comes up and tells us to put our helmets on, there is no music, no reading and we have to wear protective goggles, gloves and helmets at all times. The big army officially pissed me off in the person of this diminutive female SSG. Game on.
I explain, that the radio doesn’t work, and how we need to fix it. Then explain that we received no briefing, there is no SOP, or standing orders on the post. She explains that one of my soldiers left a magazine in the latrine and I need to conduct a physical inventory of my troops.
I see the metal magazine, like every other magazine issued by the US Army.
“It isn’t one of ours.” I say, she looks disbelieving, “I have a saw gunner who doesn’t have any mags, and I only use P-mags.” I heft my rifle showing the plastic magazine, that doesn’t bend, pop rivets or let the follower jam. “The other M4 guy hasn’t been to your latrine.”
She insists on a physical inventory, that I conduct. Sure enough it isn’t one of ours. As she leaves I resolve that I will enjoy following the 1SG’s orders.