The Nextest Move

Folks!

As the goofball military stories you're used to on this blog sloooooowly move towards publication in the form of "The Funny Side of War: For the Sick and Demented," I am transitioning from funny war stories to funny stories from my latest adventure in life... completing the entire Appalachian Trail in 3 months 18 days in a southbound direction in the name of charity. If you're unfamiliar, it's a footpath from Maine to Georgia spanning 2,186 miles. I just completed the journey and have much to laugh about with YOU!!!  I will begin writing in mid-December and posting excerpts before the new year.

Lets have fun with this and start spreading the word so as many people as possible can take a break from work and laugh at my.... goofball actions? Stupidity? Humiliation? All of the above?

Along the way I will keep you updated on the progress of "The Funny Side," post excerpts on the new book, "Tails from the Trail" and answer any questions you all may have about the A.T. As before, all stories will be completely factual... and embarrassing.

Lets have a good damn time!
Mat Vance
"Charlie Mike!!!!"

Operation Charlie Mike

http://www.operationcharliemike.com

It hath begun!!! (Well on Monday it does) If you know anyone affected by war or cancer and want to get involved to help them out, track me and challenge me online!!!!

Welcome Mat

“Put that away,” ordered the C-130 crewman as I exited the plane at a Baghdad runway.

“Oh it’s not even turned on,” I lied about the camera being used to document my war adventures.

“OK, cool.”

Dumbass.

We walked off the long runway and set our gear down at a smaller tarmac to await the “shithooks,” or Chinooks to take us to FOB Falcon off route Irish, or Jackson.  It was 115 degrees in the sun, which was nice compared to the 125 in Kuwait.  Still sweaty with some stank though.  As we sat on top of our gear baking in the sun, a VBIED (Vehicle Born IED), or car bomb, blew up at one of the entrances to the airport.

“Congratulations, ya’ll just earned a combat action badge,” Bendel muttered.

            We all laughed, knowing the award had lost its bravado and some POG’s literally would have tried to claim one on the that explosion about a mile away.  Sirens went off as ambulances raced to the scene.

“Oh look, there goes the secondary bombs,” joked another NCO.

            We laughed again, only this time after a short chuckle I realized I wasn’t yet numb to the danger around me like the veterans were.  I still wondered how to tactically avoid a fucking car bomb, much less a secondary or even a tertiary.  A silence blanketed us once again as this realization sunk in for everyone.

            The shithooks came in as night fell and we all ran up the ramp piling on top of each other.  I was the last man on and sat next to the ramp with the gunner who was sporting a 240B machine gun.  All the lights on the bird were out as the pilots used NODS to see and up we went over Baghdad.  I was in awe and enjoying the view.  Then shit got real.

            The ramp never went all the way up so the gunner could shoot to protect the bird.  Imagine a 15ft x 10ft open space with wind swirling all around and that’s what was only a few feet away from me as I noticed the gunner holding his headset and screaming into his mic to communicate with the pilots about something.  All of a sudden I saw tracer rounds coming from the city only a few hundred feet below and the shithook released flares, which were quite a surprise to the fresh faced guy sitting next to the gunner.  Not sure if they were counter measures or if the gunner needed to see below, but they made me jump real high in the seat.

            The gunner took aim at something, but never fired as the bird went ass down and I was staring very vertically at the city.  I used a kung fu ninja grip on the cargo netting to keep from falling.  I guess it was a defensive maneuver.  I kept eyes on the gunner incase he fell out of the bird as I was going to take the gun next.  Thankfully he was attached to a safety cord at his waist to hold him in.  The shithook leveled out after gaining some altitude then took us for a nosedive just minutes later.

“Really wish I knew what the fuck was going on outside this deathtrap!” I yelled to the man next to me, who of course couldn’t hear a damn thing.

            The nosedive took us right into Falcon.  We were told to run off the birds and get to cover.  So what did we do?  We ran right past concrete bunkers and into tents.  Tents.  I say again, tents.  You know what those tents had for protection?  Cots.  We bunked up with some of our guys from White platoon that arrived a little earlier to get the Strykers ready for combat.

“Well, how was your day?” I asked Golden.

“We were working on the trucks and started taking small arms fire from I don’t know where,” he replied.

“Everyone OK?”
“Yeah, we just dove behind some tires ‘til it ended and went back to work.”

            I didn’t even have a map of the AO and we were already getting attacked in southern Baghdad.  I found a cot, shoved my gear underneath and shut my eyes.  About ten minutes later I heard a strange whistling noise.  I opened my eyes in the dark tent and frowned at the ceiling.  Then an explosion close by.  I sat up and looked around as more whistles came.  A mortar attack, or indirect fire, had commenced from the city across the street.  Boom, Boom, BOOM, BOOM as dirt and debris rained over the tent.  I looked around the tent as all eyes were open, but nobody was running.

“Should we be moving to a bunker?” I asked.

“Hahahaha!” went the veterans.

“What?”

“Welcome to Iraq,” our platoon sergeant, Pons, confidently replied.

            The next night we were scheduled to roll out into sector with the unit that had been there for the past year.  They had a different demeanor than we did and I only assumed it was because they had been in combat so long.  Soon I would find out it was quite the opposite.

“Vance, you’ll be on the ground with me once we get into the city,” Shmiddie said.

“Roger,” I returned with a smile.  Scouts love exploring on foot.

            We loaded up into the Strykers and followed the little hmmwv’s into Abu Disheer.  I was on the inside of the Stryker peeking thru one of the hatches above.  Dust clouds poured in as I caught glimpses of the tops of buildings and palm trees lit up by a few remaining streetlights.  I felt the vehicle stop.

“Driver, drop the ramp. Vance! You’re up! Possible IR laser in front of us to detonate an IED! Dismount and check it out!” Shmiddie yelled from above.

“Roger!” I yelled all fired up for action.

Wait… IR? As in infrared? The streetlights blurred out my NODs so all I could use was the naked eye and the naked eye can’t see infrared.  Can we talk about this?  Fuck it.  By the time I finished that thought process I was jumping off the ramp to “save the day.”  I was such an idiot.

“Vance, don’t go too far away from me,” Shmiddie whimpered.

“Sergeant, if you step on something that goes ‘boom’ I don’t want to be anywhere near you,” I recommended.

“That’s fucked up.”

“You want to be near me when I trip this IR shit?”

“Good point.”

            Now as we’re checking out the road ahead I notice my view from the inside of the Stryker with “palm trees” was skewed.  Trash.  That’s all I saw and smelled when I jumped off the truck.  Some piles were on fire and the smell was awful.  Animal carcasses were mixed in and it stained everything we wore.  It probably wasn’t too healthy to inhale either.  That being said, I couldn’t wait to light up a Newport.  There were no lights on in any of the buildings and guess what surrounded those buildings… trash. 

Veterans back at Fort Lewis told us that anything could be used as an IED, so don’t go around touching things that you don’t need to.  Well, what else do I see when we’re walking down the street?  A veteran, Woodrow, walk over and kick the living shit out of a styrofoam box the size of a 32 inch tube TV.  A space an IED could easily fit into and was actually used often.  It was no love tap either.  Woodrow’s foot, attached to his 6’5” frame, went above his head as he followed thru as perfectly as a field goal kicker.

            We cleared the street and loaded back up.  As we’re riding along I eaves drop on the conversation between Shmiddie and his counterpart from the other unit.  Shmiddie gets info on all the routes and then asks about contact.

“Our first week here we lost two chaplains and seven men so we made a deal with J.A.M. (Jaysh al-Mahdi Militia) to leave us alone as long as we left them alone,” the NCO said.

            Shmiddie just looked at him and replied, “Oh.”  An American unit made a deal with the very people that were killing us.  Cowards.  We would turn that part of Baghdad upside down for the next 9 months, but damn we were off to a rough start in the first 48 hours.  We were in a world that made no sense and that fact was the only thing that made sense.  I just thought back to the tent that was to be our “cover” for the first week and there was a comment that summed everything up, which would go on to keep me sane in a very sick and demented way.

“Welcome to Iraq.”

Where ever we showed up, people generally wanted to do this since they knew by our  indian head patch that there was going to be a fight... CRAZYHORSE!!!

The FOBbit: An Expected Journey

“HEY!” I heard a man’s voice yell in the night. I keep walking. “HEY!” Now I’m looking around, as it sounds closer.  I see a tall E-6 with a crisp uniform walking my way, but as I turn to scowl at his tone, he stops. “Man, get yo hands out yo pockets,” he ordered.

Why was his uniform so clean and why did he smell so good?  It was the late fall of 2006 in Baghdad during the height of the Iraq war.  Without immediately responding I look around.  It was a bad day on multiple missions.  It was bitter cold and windy.  My entire body was crusted in sand and sweat with salt stains on my uniform.  All I wanted to do was call home and talk about anything except war, but I couldn’t.  A few men residing at F.O.B. Falcon were killed and all communication was cut until the families were notified.  Now I just wanted to get under some shelter and be left alone.

“EH! YOU HEAR ME?” he screamed again, only his voice cracking this time.

“Are you done?” I asked with my hands still in my pockets.

“Who you talkin’ to?”

“I’m talking to a FOBbit that has no idea what goes on outside those walls and definitely has no idea who he’s talking to, but if you’d like to find out, come on back and meet my platoon getting ready for their third mission today. So… ARE YOU DONE?”

“Yeeee, we done.”

“And no.”

“No?”

I walked off and muttered under my breath to prevent this from getting out of hand “No… I didn’t hear you. My selective hearing doesn’t pick up the whining of a fucking FOBbit.”

            That was a fueler NCO that didn’t get out much.  Back in the states, or “garrison,” we weren’t permitted to put our hands in our pockets even during extreme weather.  I agree it can look unprofessional, but in the middle of a war zone?  Get the fuck out of here!  A FOBbit is someone that is in the military and deploys overseas, but is rarely in any danger as they stay on the FOB.  You’ll hear a lot of FOBbit’s tell war stories and talk about their “PTSD.”  They’re easy to spot.  Just look for someone who’s really proud, but you can’t figure out why.

            Most FOBbits know they aren’t doing anything exciting and keep to themselves.  Other FOBbits just get the short end of the stick.  People in combat arms are randomly selected to work in “The Talk” where someone is needed to work the radios for platoons on missions.  I feel for those guys.  They sign up for combat arms and then they’re stuck answering radios and making coffee.  I’m lucky to have been on the line my entire time deployed.

"Tell me the pleasantries of your hometown."

           I always got a kick out of hearing stories from my guys about their hometowns.  Even Mango’s imaginary friend Gunner Nelson and Lover’s girlfriend stories made me laugh a few times.  Then again, maybe it was just their thick accents talking about it.  If you’re going to make it a long period of time with the same group of people in small quarters, you better understand where they come from or you’re going to end up killing each other.

            Espinal, or Easy E as we called him, was from Queens and when he told me about growing up in his neighborhood I always convulsed with laughter.  If we ever had a bad day we would sit on the ramp of a Stryker between missions, light a cigarette and ask him to tell us about “Crazy Ivan.”  His story goes like this… oh and keep in mind he has a New York City accent while telling this tale… so again, it goes like this…

“Ok, growing up in Queens was a good time with all my crazy Irish friends that corrupted me and taught me how to play street hockey.  Everyday after school we would play street hockey or tag football.  After the games we would hang out on my friend Pat Parsley’s front stoop and chill, get drinks, etcetera.  Well everyday of the week this crazy old junky named Ivan would pass by and harass us and tell us to, ‘Get the fuck out of the way,’ or, ‘Move your fuckin’ hockey equipment you shmucks!’ 

“Wait. Shmucks? People actually use that word?” I interrupted.

“Hell yeah, man. I mean, We called him ‘Crazy Ivan’ for a reason.”

“Touché.”

“So we got fed up with this crazy old bum.  We noticed that on some days he would

walk home with his mom and she would complain about him not having a job.  We used this against him on days he would pass by talking shit and complaining to us.

‘Hey Ivan, go get a fuckin’ job you bum! Quit spending your mom’s money on crack! Crack is wack!’ we’d yell and mind you this guy was in his 40’s.

‘Fuck you, you little shits! I have a job! It’s to fuck your mothers you little spic, mic bastards! ALL OF YA! I have a job! I don’t smoke crack! I smoke your moms pussy!’ Crazy Ivan would reply, spilling his beer out of his 40 oz bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Ahhh, the good ole days.”

“Hahahawwww ‘crack is wack?’ Really dude?” I’d ask. “Spic, mic bastards? That’s not even offensive coming from a crack head!”

E’s hometown story never got old.  There’s just something about teasing a crazy bum with a potty mouth that makes my day and it sure cheered the entire platoon up.  From time to time, all E would have to do is yell, “I fawked ya mothers ya shmucks!” and an eruption of laughter followed. 

This is how we looked before missions. That's D.J. with a cig and the paper chillin.

Privates are DUMB

“Hey private,” SGT Gindle beckoned.

“Yes, Sergeant!” yelled the motivated FNG.

“Grab me an exhaust sample from that there Stryker.”

“How do I do that, Sergeant?”

“You fucking kidding me, private?”

“No sergeant,” hanging his head.

“You START the vehicle, then you GRAB a plastic bag, head to the exhaust and then figure it the FUCK out. ROGER?!”

“Roger, Sergeant!” and off he went, all motivated to prove himself.

            “Fuck-fuck games” hath returned.  It was performed masterfully.  With a straight face a sergeant asked a private to do something that is completely pointless and makes the private look dumb, thus teaching that same private his place on the totem pole.  The genius behind the action was acting like the private should have known all along how to get an “exhaust sample.”  Had SGT Gindle hesitated or smiled, a better private would have picked up on the fact that it was a joke and rendered the act not so funny for onlookers.

“Look at that dummy over there, inhaling exhaust fumes and shit,” Gindle gloated.

“He’s trying real hard, but lets get him started on another project,” SSG Ham suggested.

“Come here, ding-a-ling!”

“Moving sergeant!”

“Well hold the bag tight now, damnit! You’re gonna to let the exhaust sample out.”

“Where do I take the sample, sergeant?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Ya did good so I need ya to make sure there’s no soft spots on the armor. Grab a hammer and tap all around the entire Stryker.”

“How will I know if there’s a soft spot?”

“It’ll go squish! Now stop wastin’ daylight you squirrely little fucker!”

“Yes sergeant!” off he went for round 2 as Gindle discarded the exhaust sample.

            Once again, Gindle acted like the private should have known what a soft spot sounded like.  The funny thing is, armor doesn’t have soft spots.  The integrity can be compromised by bullets, RPG’s, IED’s or rolling the vehicle over, but nothing that goes “squish.”

            Fuck-fuck games were endless as an FNG.  Until you had the guts to call out a higher-ranking soldier, you were fresh meat.  Another example is making a bad word sound like a legitimate nomenclature for equipment, combining it with a particular higher rank and sending a private off to find it in the direction of a person with that exact rank.

“Hey slap-nuts. Yeah, you,” SSG Fergie began.

“Moving sergeant!” Golden replied.

“Go over to sergeant Vines and tell ‘em I need a PRC E-6.”

“Huh?”

“HUH?! A PRC E-6! You don’t know what a ‘Prick E-6’ is?  It’s an important part to our comms and as a scout you better learn what the fuck it is! Hooooly shit, private!”

Good ole Golden hadn’t caught a grasp of the rank system yet.  He was under the impression that a PRC E-6 was a piece of radio equipment.  PRC was just a made up nomenclature that was pronounced ‘Prick’ and E-6 was SSG Vines pay grade.  Off Golden went towards the scariest Staff Sergeant in the unit.

“Sergeant Vines?” Golden murmured.

“Wha?” Vines grunted as his Ragin’ Cajun self spit some dip into a cup adding to his intimidation factor.

“I need to get a… Prick E-6?”

“Whad yew cawll me?”

“Nothing, I just need a Prick E-6,” still not getting it as we all started to look in horror.

“Naw who sent yew?”

“Sergeant Fergie, sergeant.”

Vines looked towards Fergie and smiled, nodding his head as if to say, “Well played, Fergie, well played indeed.”

“Well I guess you found one Golden. Sucks to be you. Just start beatin’ your face.”

    And the pushups commenced as Golden then realized he just called a NCO a prick right to his face.  There ya go, just let it sink in.  He might not be smart but at least he’ll get strong along the way.

     When you combine being naïve with a high motivation level, you get all kinds of results.  I was caught up in one such event and it was a failure of epic proportions.  My platoon was about to train in the field for a few days as the sun was setting at Fort Lewis.  Yes, I said the Sun, or B.O.B. (bright orange ball) and it happened to be the first time I got to be in the gunner’s hatch.  I knew very little about the .50 cal at the time and never even touched the thermal sights that had to be installed on top of the weapon to accurately fire at night, which was upon us very quickly.  What’s even worse is that I didn’t know how to mount the equipment that attached the thermal to the weapon.  Now why didn’t I know how to efficiently operate this equipment?  Aw yes, because my first-line supervisor was a turd that never taught me anything.

“Eh Vancey-poo,” Shmiddie chirped.

“Sergeant?”

“Yeah go ahead and put the PAS-13 up.”

“I’ve never seen the mount for it before and don’t know how it goes, sergeant.”

“Well it’s getting dark so just… figure it out ya food stamp.”

I realize a monkey could probably do this task, but if you’ve never seen the mount, it actually looks backwards when properly attached to the .50 cal.  Fuck it.  I’m a motivated go-getter that gets shit done and if he’s not going to teach me, then I’m going to tear this weapon to pieces in defiance… then play dumb.  I took out my military issued Gerber and went nuts.  I got the mount on in a way that looked normal.  The bad news is that it was at the expense of the rear metal sights which were attached to a plate that was internally attached to a part of the weapon that makes it go, ‘pew, pew, pew’ or more accurately, ‘thun, thun, thun, thun, thun.’

“Sergeant Shmiddie, we have a problem.”

“How’s that? You’re my Vancey-poo.”

Cheesy terms of endearment…  not helping your case for worst leader ever, buddy.

“I had to unscrew the rear sight plate to make the mount fit.”

“It aint called a rear sight plate.”

“Well then that thingy right there.”

“You fuckin’ smart ass. You’re so cute when you’re pissed.”

I just stared with a face that can only be described as, “When my patience runs out, your face is going to hurt.”

“Vance, these screws are supposed to be permanently stamped in and a Gerber can’t get them out.”

“I’m telling ya that’s all I did.”

“Well I’m not that pissed even though you deadlined the weapon, ‘cause I ain’t ever seen someone do this. I mean, never.”

Thanks for the poor English lesson.

“Soooo am I in trouble.”

“Nah I’ll make somethin’ up for Pons. Just put up the 240. And shit man, next time just ask for help.”

REALLY?! Guess I didn’t make it clear enough earlier.  At least he covered for me?  Even though he created this mess?  After that I just taught myself and can do all tasks in my sleep, but if you don’t show someone how to use an object they’ve never seen, the results can be… no bueno.

Operation Charlie Mike

Friends! A great adventure is taking place this summer that I'm lucky enough to be involved in... I just got the website up, so check it out and get involved!  Oh and more Charlie Mike stories will be posted within the next few days! Many thanks for the support!

http://www.operationcharliemike.com/

Mat