Tongue Chicken

           They have no shame.  They don’t crack under pressure.  They are fractionally psychotic.  They are crazy people that I trust with my life.  I could never do what they do.  What group am I talking about?  Medics.  And their mentality.

            Early on I broke down the different jobs in my squadron to describe to my civilian friends who asked, “What are scouts like?” or “What are infantrymen like” or “What are counter intelligence guys like.”  Infantrymen are simple and like to smash things much like a bull in a china shop.  Scouts are curious creatures that smile if you say, “Whatever you do, don’t push that button” and then they push the hell out of that button.  CI soldiers had to be chameleons, because there was only one per platoon and they weren’t trained to be grunts, but had to start acting like they were.  Then there were the medics.

            “Hey Vance, we’re all hanging out on the first floor if you want to drink,” Trezza proclaimed.

            “Sounds like fun, man. Be down in a few,” I replied.

            In early 2005 I had just finished initiation when things started to calm down; or would they.  I only knew the medics of Crazyhorse and I was en route to meet many more throughout the squadron.  Up until that point I had only heard rumors of medic shenanigans and was quite curious.

I walked downstairs to the first floor in the barracks and took a left down the narrow cinder block hallway.  I could already hear the raucous.  I knocked on the first wooden door on the right with a beer in hand.

            “Come in!” someone yelled.

            Thru the door I went into a bloody massacre.  There were medics working in pairs giving each other IV bags of saline while drinking heavily and smoking cigarettes.  I looked to my left into a latrine with white tile flooring covered in blood.  Back to my front a medic was standing ready with a stopwatch.

             “Alright! Ready! Go!” he yelled.

            Not only were they giving each other IV’s, but they were seeing who could clean the site, stick and hook up the fluid the fastest.  This was impressive for the successful ones, but for everyone else, blood dripped to the floor and sometimes squirted thru the air.  My eyes were wide open.

            “7 seconds!” the medic with the stopwatch announced the top time. “Wanna try one, Vance?”

            “Um, nah, I’m good,” I said.

            Everyone shouted and drank as blood flowed well into the night.  These guys don’t mess around.  Even when they drank they found ways to be better medics. 

           

            Medics had to be the jokesters in most situations, because they didn’t have much to do unless somebody was wounded.  Grab-ass would be their clear field of expertise.  Most combat arms soldiers were always trying to prove how tough or manly they were.  Medics loved to exploit this.  For instance if two soldiers were grappling on the ground, a medic would encourage them to pick it up a notch to declare a winner.

            “Check his oil!” one would yell.

            “Check his oil?” I asked.

            “Yeah man, shove your thumb up his ass! Declare male dominance! Trust me, he’ll let go!”

            “I’m so glad I’m not wrestling right now.”

            Medics would also take advantage of a soldier talking trash while inebriated.  If that soldier claimed he could beat anyone at anything, a medic went to the go-to game of Tongue Chicken.  The game started with two completely heterosexual males standing a few feet apart.  Then both would be told to stick their tongues out and start moving towards each other.  The first one to bail out would lose.  In most cases the soldier would bow out immediately at the thought of French kissing another dude.  However, “tough guys” had to be taught a lesson.

            One night in my Tacoma apartment a bunch of guys were participating in “Fifth Night.”  On Fifth Night, nobody could leave for the bars until everyone finished a fifth of their choice of liquor.  A tactic that saved a lot of money as we would only be able to have a few drinks by the time we arrived piggy backing into a bar.  Towards the end of everyone’s bottle the trash talking commenced.

            “I can take you at tongue chicken, Bullis,” Woodrow threatened.

            “You, uh, sure about that?” Bullis responded as innocently as possible.

            “Only one way to find out.”

            I was sitting on my decrepit futon next to Woodrow as the words commenced while Bullis was standing in front of us.  Bullis then stuck his tongue out.

            “Aw shit, here we go,” I whined.

            Woodrow followed suit with his tongue, but remained seated as Bullis walked up and jumped on his lap.  Tongues are still out people.  Bullis gave Woodrow a chance to get out by briefly pausing, but Woodrow was so drunk he could barely hold his eyes open, much less even know a 200 lb man was on his lap.  In went the medic and tongues touched.  We all took pictures and laughed our asses off.  Woodrow still had no idea he was making out with a man.  When his eyes opened after a couple seconds of tongue touching, he turned away.

            “I win!” Bullis announced.

“Did that just happen?” Woodrow asked.

            “Your girlfriend is gonna be so pissed,” I replied.

            Never threaten a medic, especially if you’re a heterosexual male.  You lose every time.