Potato Soap and Aliens

Sleep depravation over a long period of time causes stress.  Stress causes people to snap or just start acting loopy.  Basic Training was my first encounter with such conditions and two of my bunkmates did just that.  Washington was one and Wilde was the other.

Wilde was a simple man.  He was a tall, husky white boy from some po-dunk Pennsylvania town.  Drill Sergeant (DS) Rouse asked him why he joined the army.

“To get revenge for my friend that was killed in Iraq, drill sergeant,” was Wilde’s response.

“If he thinks he’s going to find the people that killed his friend, then he’s a fuckin’ idiot,” DS Rouse said.  “This isn’t WWII where the enemy wears the same uniform and you just kill as many as you can.”

Wilde definitely thought it was that type of war.  It seems that calling him a simple man was a generous description.  Our troop went out to train one night and our mission was to hold our position at all costs.  Wilde was put in charge of our platoon on a hilltop and I suspect it was purely for the drill sergeant’s (drill’s) entertainment.  The drills organized a team to harass us all night so we couldn’t sleep and to see how we’d react under that kind of stress.  Well ole Wilde saw one of the enemy forces sneak up and instead of staying together at an easily defensible position, he took off thinking we’d follow.  Not so much.

“I see ‘em! Charge!” he screeched.

Charge?  Really dude?  Are we training for the fuckin’ Civil War now?  How about the American Revolution?  Good luck with the Redcoats buddy.  Wilde was dispatched by a volley of blanks from the enemy and wasn’t allowed to be in charge anymore after that night. 

That battle cry wouldn’t be his only moment of splendor.  Wilde had a habit of sleep walking and talking.  He would be my first encounter with someone that did that and it was memorable.  Basic sure provided a lot of firsts for me.  When Wilde would start mumbling in his sleep, the rest of us in the room would try to get a conversation out of him, but usually to no avail.  One night we got something even better than a conversation; we got to see a freaked out drill having a colorful conversation with Wilde instead. 

I woke in the middle of the night to see Wilde standing at attention against the wall between two bunks with his eyes closed.  To animate how scary it looked, Washington had his green, L-shaped Vietnam era flashlight shining on Wilde’s face by the time I woke.  Wilde looked liked the crazy private from “Full Metal Jacket.”

“Wilde are you ok?” I asked.

“Potato soap!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“You mean potato soup?”

“Soap! Potato soap!”

We laughed our asses off and then a drill walked in.

“Private Wilde, what the fuck are you doing?” questioned the heavy set, black, high pitch voice, fast-talking third platoon drill.

“Potato soap, drill sergeant!”

“Wilde are you fuckin’ with me?”

“Potato soap!”

“Its lights out now get the fuck to bed!”

“Yes, drill sergeant!”

Wilde actually walked straight to bed with his eyes still closed as the drill walked away.  He didn’t lie down though.  Wilde moved his army issued green blanket and top white sheet to the side as if he was going to lie down.  Instead, he sat Indian-style facing the pillow’s end of the bunk.  Sitting up straight with his eyes closed he started to moan and mumble as usual.  Then he started opening his eyes and looking confused. 

“You there Wilde?” asked Washington.

“Yeah?”

“You know a drill just came in here and yelled at ya, right?

“No.  Am I in trouble?”

“Naw, but that drill probably thinks you crazy now.”

“Shit.”

Stress affects people in different ways.  Washington had a few moments of his own where he just acted loopy as hell.  Our platoon was standing in formation after another long day at the range.  DS Rouse came up to us and started to give commands to start marching.  He was still new at being a drill and giving commands wasn’t his strong suit.  When somebody makes a mistake while giving commands in the army, that soldier can correct himself by saying “as you were” to the formation he is talking to in order to back his formation up to their previous stance.  This allows the formation to not be confused, take a step back and everyone gets on the same page.  It is not something a private should say to a drill.  You're safer walking up to a bull with red gloves and sending a backhand right across the snout.

“Attention,” Rouse said, sounding like he knew he already messed up.

“As you were drill sergeant!” yelled Washington.

“Who the fuck said that!” DS Anderson stepped in to defend a fellow drill.

“I did, drill sergeant!”

Anderson made a b-line for Washington, bulldozing past anyone in his path to justice.  He started jumping up in the air so his chest could bump the chest of the much taller statured private.  Anderson strongly resembled the DS from “Full Metal Jacket” and was much shorter than all of us.  We often wondered what would happen if he and Wilde ever pissed each other off.  Maybe it would have been a reenactment of the famous bathroom scene.  Nah, we liked Anderson too much to hope for that.  If you pissed him off he would go right up to you and jump into your chest for intimidation purposes.  Rather than being intimidated we usually just tried keeping a straight face. 

“You don’t ever correct a drill!  Why the fuck are you talking in formation?”

“He didn’t address us drill sergeant!”

“Shut the fuck up, private!  Get over there in the grass!”

Rouse was supposed to stand at attention and then say, “Platoon, attention!”  A minor detail that only Washington picked up.  Washington was a tall, strong black guy that I became very good friends with.  He did JROTC in high school and had a heart of gold.  A good leader bound to do great things in his army career.  Unfortunately he didn’t know that drills don’t like to be corrected by the people they are teaching.

“I’m about to start calling you guys the “Window Licker” platoon, since you want to act like you ride the short bus,” Rouse said.

Rouse could say all he wanted.  Washington was our hero that day.  Not a single one of us had the balls to do what he did.  It was just a shame that Anderson was smoking him while we marched off and he would have to run to catch up after “learning his place.”

Washington didn’t do what he did to be a smart ass or a Mr. Know-It All.  He did it because it was instinctual.  Washington actually had a confused look on his face while he was being smoked like, “Why am I being punished?”  He was just loopy like that.  It wouldn’t be the last time he did something out of the blue to make us all love him.

Our platoon was getting ready for lights out when Washington was looking at all of our beds in the leadership room.

“Guys, I want something new.  Lets move our beds around,” he said.

“I don’t think this is the best place to redecorate, man,” I said.

Washington went ahead and moved his bed perpendicular to the rest of our beds so one long side was flat against the wall.  He was so happy that he was able to make a simple change, but the rest of us just laughed.  We knew the drill on duty that night would walk by and not approve. 

Lights out.  I could here the footsteps.  Here we go.  It was hard not to laugh as the drill’s footsteps came to a complete stop at our doorway and we could just feel his body temperature rise as his heart rate peaked and his gigantic eyes tried to escape his head.  I just rolled over and covered my head.

“Washington! What the fuck did you do to your bunk!” said the same poor drill that walked in on Wilde’s “potato soap.”

“What do you mean, drill sergeant?” Washington played dumb.

“Private, how the fuck did your bunk get against the wall like that?”

“Aliens.  Aliens must have done it, drill sergeant.”

I rolled back over to see the massacre.  Washington was just sitting on his bed with the most innocent look on his face.

“Why is it always somebody in this room that’s fuckin’ wit me? Get to fuckin’ bed, privates!”

“Yes, drill sergeant,” we all said together as the drill walked off.

We all turned our attention back to Washington and looked at him in awe.

“What?” Washington enquired, now with a smile added to his innocent face.

“How are you not in the Pit getting smoked right now?” I asked.

“Aliens.”

We started laughing yet again.

“Get to fuckin’ sleep, privates!” yelled the drill from down the hall.

I have a feeling when the drills saw things like that they had to walk away so we didn’t see them laughing.  Moments like that make the hard days in life a little easier.  Its something I’d always come across when I least expected it and will always appreciate.

Fun with Words

It was an unspoken rule in my family while growing up that its perfectly acceptable to use vulgar language as long as you were passionate towards what you were talking about and didn’t substitute the “f-bomb” for “the.”  I’ve heard people throw around words like “ignorant” towards people that cuss in a fit of passion and to that I strongly disagree.  I believe it’s in a person’s environment or culture of the household that determines acceptable language.  It’s ignorant to assume the way you speak as the pure exception to the rest of the world.  If it’s used properly I’ve even learned that under high stress, such as a firefight when some soldiers freeze up, using foul language at a high volume gets people moving pretty quick.  I’ve literally seen crudeness and vulgarity save lives.

The following is in no way a typical person’s vocabulary nor do I use such language now as a civilian.  However, it’s a part of the vast culture that is the military.  If you’re in combat arms, you can’t escape it and you can’t be offended by it.  It’s not for the faint of heart.  Instead, it’s for people that can adapt to nasty situations.  Enjoy the ugly duckling of rhetoric below that will develop into an enlightening smile as you read.  You’ll probably even think about it the next time someone cuts you off in traffic or some teenybopper says “like” for hundredth time in a 30 second conversation.

Subliminal Messages – The Grunt to Civilian Translation

“Just start killing yourself.” – Do pushups.

“Beat your chest!” - Do more pushups.

“Charlie Mike.” – Coincides with the letters C and M.   We use this as code for Continue Mission.  If we were on patrol and something bad happened, but we were able to keep going, we would call up “Charlie Mike” on the net, or radio.  It’s all right to fall as long as you can Charlie Mike!

“This is a fuckcluster.” – Somebody better organize this real quick like.

“I’m about to smoke your balls off.” – I’m about to make you do a lot of painful exercises.

“Hey! Fuckstain!” – You just got caught doing something you’re not supposed to be doing.

“He was probably suckin’ on his momma’s titty ‘til the day he went to basic.” – That kid was seriously sheltered and has no clue how the world works.  Mentally weak.

“Guy.” – The mother of all subliminal insults… Saying “hey guy” or “look at this guy” when someone walks up is like calling that someone an inferior life form not of the human species.

“Zonk.” (Ever so quietly, almost a whisper) – Hide for the rest of the day.

“Hey Sergeant(SGT) Vance, how are ya this morning?”

“Peachy.” – Everybody run. Run far away. SGT Vance needs some alone time.

“Well, fuck me in the goat ass.” – To this day I don’t have the slightest idea what this means or insinuates.  Perhaps it’s a “Fuck My Life” moment and you know you’re going to lose.  That's when I would use it.

“Monday run day!”

“But it’s Tuesday, SGT.”

“So it’s not Friday?”

“No, SGT.”

“Then it’s Monday run day!”– It’s going to be a long morning and somebody will vomit.

“Manstrating.”  Even dudes have a “time of the month.”

“Congradu-fuckin-lations.” – You seem excited with your accomplishments, but guess what?  It’s your job!  Nobody cares.

“FNG.” – Fucking New Guy

“Mahogany.” – Yep, I’m surrounded by dudes in the middle of a patrol and I have a hard on while going commando.  Damn my daydreaming of Maxim Magazine chicks and friction.  A bit awkward.

Attention Getters

“Shut your cockholster!”- Stop talking.

 “Go suck start a .50 cal.” – Stop talking.

“Wash your mouth out with buckshot.” – Stop talking

 “Come here, you!” – I’m about to make you cry.

 “You cunt bucket.” – Go away.

 “Go play in traffic.” – Go away

“Don’t forget your puss pad.” – Don’t forget your sleeping pad.

“Get your dick beaters off those!” – Don’t touch anything!

Motivational Words

“Get the sand out of your vagina.” – Stop being a whiny bitch.

“Unfuck yourself!” – You suck at life.

“Slap yourself.” – You’re fired.

“Man the fuck up!” – Oh you’re hurting?  Welcome to the party, Sally.

“Tonight, we’re going to have a religious experience!” – I’m going to smoke you ‘til you start hallucinating.

“The walls will run with sweat.” – You’re getting smoked in a small room with no ventilation until condensation forms on the windows and cinderblock walls.  Yes, its possible.

Best Briefs – Weekend briefs were by commanders to warn us to stay out of trouble over the weekend while in the States.  Pre-mission briefs were given while deployed by the highest-ranking person in our platoon prior to going on a mission, detailing what to expect.  Usually all were several minutes too long, except for these two.

Best Weekend Brief

“Don’t fry your bacon naked.” – Think before you act… I think.

Best Pre Mission Brief

“Don’t die.” – It’s simple guys; just don’t die while on this patrol in Baghdad at the height of this war.  Easy, right?

You made it!  And this is just the tip of the iceberg people, but you get the point.  If you are offended, I do not apologize.  These are verbatim phrases that I encountered on my adventures.  While some are hurtful if they are directed at you, most of them are funny if they are directed elsewhere.  Now, go motivate someone to unfuck themselves.

Drink Piss then Kiss

            “That’s the biggest, hairiest, most colorful caterpillar we could find,” Williams said.

            “Alright, get the pot up to 50 bucks and I’ll eat it,” JT promised.

            “All we got is 15.”

            “Close enough.”

            A few of us had finished our land navigation early and decided to gather at the top of a moss-covered hill near Fort Knox, Kentucky during basic training to hide from those scary drill sergeants, or drills.  JT grabbed the juicy critter and held it in suspense over his mouth as his head tilted back.  None of us had seen entertainment like this since Private Soress rubbed Icy-Hot on his balls for $12.  Basic training drove us to such extremes to pass time between getting smoked by the drills.

            “No, no, no!  Oh shit, ew, ew, ewwww!” we all gasped.

            JT smiled, chewed and swallowed what hoped to become a butterfly, but those dreams were cut short thanks to a bunch of bored privates.  This boredom killer of a ritual didn’t stop in basic.  It would follow me throughout my entire time in the army.  The only difference was that as privates became soldiers, money didn’t have to be the great motivator.

            Soldiers thought consuming grunt delicacies was another right of passage to becoming a man.  I would find great enjoyment knowing this was a ridiculous theory, but in no way would it stop me from instigating further dereliction from normal food in the intestinal track of other soldiers.

            One such soldier was McClurg.  He was in third platoon of Echo Troop during basic while I was in fourth platoon of the same troop.  Our platoons shared a hallway in the barracks and did a lot of training together.  Although we didn’t formally meet until our first duty station at Fort Lewis, Washington, I was able to observe his unique character from a distance throughout basic.  McClurg was the type of guy that you didn’t want messing with you, but holy shit it was a riot to see him mess with other people.

            McClurg was tall, hefty, skinny armed much like myself, white, dark haired and what he didn’t posses in physical attributes he made up for in being quick witted.  He also had a larger than average head with abnormal growths, because he was dealing with Gorlin syndrome.  Gorlin syndrome causes tumors to grow on the body that can be either cancerous or benign.  Either way, these tumors are painful.  McClurg dealt with it the best he could and often joked about his big head to make people laugh.  On the rare occasion McClurg got under my skin I would just tuck my hands up by my armpits and stagger clumsily like a Tyrannosaurus Rex as if to suggest my head was tough to balance.  Yes, if you want to maintain respect amongst your peers while serving in combat arms you have to be twice as brutal as the soldier that crosses your path.

            McClurg was a constant source of entertainment in basic.  If he wasn’t poking fun at somebody, he was questioning whether or not the drills were allowed to smoke us.  To smoke someone is the privilege of a higher-ranking person to exhaust a lower ranking person thru physical exercise or by making them hold a humiliating position. 

One such position is known as the “monkey fucker” in which a soldier bends over, reaches between his legs and wraps his hands around each Achilles tendon.  While holding on to his Achilles that soldier would repeatedly squat up and down to make his quads burn.  To add a little more humiliation the higher-ranking soldier would tell another soldier to stand behind the guy doing monkey fuckers.  The soldier in the rear would then be told to do the “hip rotation!”  That entails the rear soldier to put his hands on his own hips, feet shoulder length apart for good balance and then make a circular motion with his hips.  Yep, that’s two soldiers doing soft-core porn in front of a lot of people.  Sexy.

            With humiliation and pain like that well known to all of us if we misbehaved, I believed McClurg to be ballsy for breaking out regulation and telling the drills if something seemed out of line.  This infuriated the drills though, so they took shots at him whenever they could.  One such shot was during a class on how to properly apply camouflage face paint.

            “McClurg!  Eh private, you gonna just use the bright green paint,” said a drill.

            “Yes, drill sergeant,” McClurg said while staring down the drill.

            In the summer of 2004 while we were in basic, the Shrek movies were still very popular.  Can you already see where this is going?  With nothing but bright green paint on his face, an abnormally shaped noggin and a snaggle-tooth on his under bite, McClurg was dubbed “Shrek.”  Even he laughed.  McClurg was a good sport about it and turned it into a part of him.  A new character if you will.

            With his new persona, Shrek trekked to Fort Lewis and went off to war.  At F.O.B. Falcon in southern Baghdad a mortar attack came in while we had some down time in our old Iraqi barracks and the dirty little bastards hit the jackpot.  One of the rounds landed in our ammo point, exploded and set off a large portion of our ammunition.  Falcon went into self-destruction mode all over the news and we had to hunker down to hide from our own ammo.   Throughout the night, for several hours, munitions flew at us and exploded.  Some of the bigger rounds flew thru other barrack’s walls as soldiers ran for dear life.  What did my platoon do?  We gathered in the hallway to make bets.

            With our helmets on and the chinstraps not connected we cheered at every explosion like kids at a Fourth of July show, only we didn’t care that at any second a large artillery round could smash thru the wall, detonate and send us off to the after life.  I walked into the hall and some of the guys were already trying to collect money for Shrek to drink his own piss.  Since the latrines were a far walk we pissed in empty water bottles.  Shrek was holding one of his piss bottles filled about a third of the way.  We negotiated to give up a shameful amount of money for him to down it all.  Game on.  With explosions all around and life possibly ending soon, Shrek saved our minds from fear.

            “No, no, no!  Oh shit, ew, ew, ewwww!” we all gasped.

            Seem familiar?  Down it went.  Only Shrek would take it up a level.  He only took one break then killed the rest of it and grimaced for a moment.  Shrek even held it down after a disturbing belch next to a trashcan.  We all reacted like we were the stars of a Harlem Shake video.  Shrek then lifted his head up, stood high, smiled, looked to his right and laid a big ole fat, piss infested kiss on the left cheek of one of our Iraqi interpreters, A.K.  Then we commenced with Harlem Shake overdrive.

            “Ohhhhhh!” we all yelled as we jumped like crazy.

            A.K. was disgusted and I felt kinda bad at first, but A.K. would later betray us by sending phone messages to a town we had to invade.  The militia in that town set up several IED’s and fighting positions in reaction to A.K.’s messages and a lot of us almost got killed.  A.K. wasn’t even executed for his treasonous act.  He was simply fired and let go.  Man, now I wish Shrek had gone even further and face raped A.K. with his piss-drenched tongue.

Shenanigans

         

 Lil' ball-o-pain.

            “Vance, I want you to shoot me in the ass,” Bullis asked.

            “Shoot you in the ass with what?” I inquired.

            “The non-lethal paintball gun.”

            “You realize if I miss your ass cheek and hit your asshole, its not going to be so non-lethal, right?”

            “That’s why I’m asking you to do it.  I trust you.”

            “This is gonna to be hilarious.”

            Bullis was my platoon’s medic and if I’ve learned anything in the army, it’s that medics are crazy and very creative when it comes to killing boredom.  Bodily harm is apparently not above them. 

            Every platoon was assigned a few paintball guns.  These guns weren’t like the ones you shoot at your buddies in the States.  These paintball guns were shaped like Tommy Guns with a ten round disc that slipped right in front of the trigger.  As a butt stock there was an oxygen tank that gave the paintballs a high velocity.  In fact, these rounds came out of the short barrel at such a speed that if you hit someone in the eye it would go right into the brain and cause death.  It didn’t help that after 20 or 30 feet these rounds took nasty curves and could be highly inaccurate if you didn’t practice first.

            The rounds themselves were anything but circular.  The rear of the paintball round was filled with yellow paint and had a flat bottom so you could stand the round up like a regular bullet shell.  The front, or top, portion was dome shaped and filled with little metallic bee bees.  These bee bees combined with a plastic shell and high velocity maid for quite the violent strike.

One day a vehicle was driving too fast for my comfort while my Stryker was in a blocking position nearby.  I aimed for the driver’s side door to warn the fucker to drive carefully around American forces.  Car bombs, or VBIEDs, were a big threat.  The round curved up and flew into the vehicle hitting the driver in the left shoulder.  There was a huge yellow splatter as the round hit, covering his neck and head, so at first I thought I hit the guy in the ear and killed him.  Luckily I just scared the shit out of him as he swerved, hit the curb and then got the hell out of Dodge thinking he got shot with an actual bullet.

Another local encounter with my girly Tommy gun was when an unsuspecting teenage boy was riding his bike too close to our position while on patrol.  This was a time when suicide bike IED’s were not uncommon.  Knowing this and being aware of my surroundings, I decided to give him a strong warning to go away.  I put a paintball round right in the center of his handlebars.  To give you an idea of how these paintball rounds freak people out, it caused the kid to completely flip his bike face forward.  His entire torso and face were covered in yellow victory as we all had a laugh at his expense.  This might seem cruel, but some Americans would have shot him with a real bullet thinking he was a suicide biker driving at that speed so close to our forces.  Even his friends were laughing.  That’s what I call winning “hearts and minds.”

            Back to Bullis.  He’s a little over six feet tall, brown haired, well built with a face for modeling and he hales from a suburb of Boston.  Let me contest that while heavily intoxicated a thick Boston accent comes out of nowhere and you might as well be listening to fucking Chinese.  Bullis walked about 30 feet away and bent over with his hind parts facing me.  One of the guys walked behind me to film this exciting moment as I turned to the camera.

            “What Bullis doesn’t know is that I’m not that great of a shot,” I whispered with a smile.

            “What?” Bullis hollered with his head between his legs.

            “Nothin’!  Stay down and look away!”

            “The suspense is killing me.”

            Half the platoon was watching eagerly, grinning from ear to ear.  As I took aim, I noticed a bulge in his right butt cheek.  It had to be his wallet.  It might be thick enough to sustain the pain.  We’ve had our differences, but he was a dear friend and great drinking buddy back in the states so I had to hit that bulge to spare pain.  The problem is that with this inaccurate weapon at that exact range, I have to play the curve perfectly.  I wait for the breeze to die, exhale, hold steady and squeeze.

            “Poof!” went the gun.

            “Uhh!” went the Bullis.

            I missed by about an inch to the right, but considering the weapon it wasn’t a bad shot at all.  Bullis and I hugged it out as everyone laughed and cheered in the middle of our motor pool.  It was a brief moment of entertainment and escape from our insane operational tempo of two to four missions a day for 15 months in my first deployment to Iraq.

            “How bad?” I asked.

            “It stings,” Bullis said with a frown and half smile.

            Bullis was an outstanding and creative medic I’m privileged to have seen him in action and give what little help I could, but on that day, he volunteered to be the butt of all jokes.  Pun intended.  On behalf of a lot of guys that needed a laugh we thank you Bullis.