Drunk Punch Pow

            “Hey Vance, you wanna go muddin’ with us?” asked one of the guys in the barracks.

            “I dunno man,” I replied with curiosity.

            “Well do ya, or not?”

            “Yes?”

            “You never been, have ya?”

            “Nope, I’m from the suburbs.”

            “Wow, grab some clothes you don’t mind getting dirty.  You’re about to have a great time.”

            Ending that conversation with “You’re going to have a great time,” would be some famous last words.

            Cheap tequila was being passed around the bonfire like electrolytes at a marathon.  We had been driving all over a wooded training area getting stuck, then unstuck and then stuck again thru heavy mud, swelling streams and rock formations.  It was the summertime in Washington state in 2005 and the weather was sunny and in the high 70’s.  We had just commenced the celebration of off-road vehicles surviving the day when out of nowhere, one of the veterans leaped over the bonfire.

            “YEEEEAH!” cheered the circle of inebriated people.

            “You’re crazy,” I pointed out.

            “And you’re next, Vance,” another vet called me out.

            So, we have a lot of alcohol, a large fire and a guy who can’t jump.  These are the ingredients of a poor decision.  Lets do this.

            “I better have another swig of that tequila first, cause you know my clumsy ass is going to fall right in.”

            I was sober enough to decide to start my running jump from the top of a hill.  Luckily the tequila and Bud Light kicked in as I started my move to numb any misfortunes.  Off I went trying to prove myself again.  I waited until the last possible second to take the leap.  Up in the air I went using my jean-covered legs as a shield for the rest of my body from the heat.  Landing safely over the bonfire of pallets wasn’t difficult at all.  Again?  Of course!  We leaped and drank well into the night.

            “Alright guys, I gotta get back to the house to relieve the babysitter,” Able said.

            “Boooooo!” we bitched.

            “I know, I know.”

            Able, his girlfriend, Johnny Francisco, Rojas and myself crammed into his small SUV.  The rest of the group stayed as we made our way down thru the gravel covered country road.  Able seemed fine when we left, but who was I to know being intoxicated myself.  He was bantering back and forth with his girlfriend, who was in the passenger seat.  The two were laughing hysterically and I noticed Able wasn’t paying attention to the sharp turn ahead.  This sobered me up pretty quick.

            “You OK to drive?” I asked.

            “Yeah, yeah I got this!” Able answered sounding annoyed.

            He then sped up to take the turn.  I’m assuming this is a tough guy’s attempt to impress his girl.

            “Slow the fuck down, Jesus Christ,” Cisco said with authority.

            “Shit,” Able muttered.

            Of course he took the turn too fast and the vehicle started to fishtail.  As we violently swerved and Able tried desperately to maintain control, butterflies went apeshit in my stomach and the hairs on the back of my neck went all Teen Wolf on me.  Brace for impact.  The vehicle finally went perpendicular enough to the road with the right amount of velocity and flipped an unknown amount of times.  All I remember is the SUV hitting on the side the first time then waking up to Cisco’s voice.

            “Get off me Rojas.  You’re fat,” Cisco said.

            The vehicle landed on its side and the three of us in the back were on top of each other with Cisco getting the brunt of the weight.  Luckily for me I landed on the top of that pile.  I crawled out and we helped each other clear the wreckage.  I only counted four of us now.  Where’s Able’s girl?  I looked around the area and there she was on her knees in the middle of the road about 30 feet behind us.  Apparently she flew out of the sunroof when the vehicle went belly up and didn’t have a scratch on her.

            “Thankya Jaysus. Oh lawd I thankya!” Able’s girlfriend screamed to high heaven in a country accent as we all stammered to check on her.

            “Good luck with that tonight, Able,” I laughed.

            “Oh great,” Able replied knowing his girl was going to be an emotional wreck for a while.

            Shortly afterward the car toss, Vines and Phelps pulled up in an old black pickup that Vines had spray painted orange and yellow flames on.

            “You guys have fun?” Vines asked.

            “Had my ass kicked worse than that,” I laughed again.

            “You barracks guys hop in.”

            We collected all the alcohol so Able could leave it overnight without being investigated too thoroughly if anyone found the vehicle before he could get it towed the next day.  Vines drove us back to the barracks and I slept wonderfully that night.  Mudding was fun, but I need to select a DD with better efficiency.

           

            A couple of weeks later I was propositioned for another trip to go mudding.  Of course I jumped at the opportunity to get out of the barracks.  This time I went in Whitey’s 4-door Durango.  Not your typical vehicle to go mudding in, but that thing could take a beating.

            After mudding until the sun went down we commenced in the consumption of tasty beverages again.  At some point in the night I hit the wood line to relieve myself.  Glaze wandered off to do the same.  As I’m marking my territory, I hear the Durango’s engine rev up.  I turn my head enough to see that Whitey wasn’t done mudding yet.  He was barreling in the same direction that Glaze had walked.  It was dark, so Whitey had his lights on and as the Durango started to get some air under it I see Glaze scampering off to the side laughing his ass off.  If Glaze didn’t move he would have been crushed.

            “Glaze, you almost got run over, man!” I yelled thru the woods.

            “Heh! Fuckin’ Whitey, man,” Glaze laughed with a big grin, shaking off the fact he almost got steam rolled.

            Brett Glaze was a proud Texan (shocker) of average height, strong, brown hair, blue eyes, no fear and had a crazy streak in him that magnetized other soldiers to his always “loyal to my bros” side.  If I were to make my own team of scouts and infantry to go to war with, Glaze would be at the top of my list.

            “You good, Glaze?” asked Whitey.

            “Yeah, fuck it,” he replied still laughing.

            It was time to head back.  I sat behind Whitey in the back and Glaze was on the opposite side of the back seat with me.  Once again, my driver seemed OK.  I was wrong, again.  As we headed towards Fort Lewis down some country road I noticed we were going too fast for the up coming s-curve.  I didn’t bother to try and say anything since my attempt the last time this happened went unnoticed.  I just braced myself the best I could.

            We skidded off the road and hit a tree on Glaze’s side of the vehicle.  I flew across the back seat and the side of my head slammed into Glaze’s broad left shoulder, knocking me out cold.  Both windows on Glaze’s side shattered and it looked like Chuck Norris did a roundhouse kick between the two doors.

            “Vance!” Glaze yelled.

            “Yeah? I’m good,” I replied in a haze.

            “No dude, I’ve been screaming your name.  You were out.”

            “Shit, well I’m good now,” I said with a smile.

            “I think I fucked my shoulder up.”

            I felt the warm sensation of my own blood running down my head and all over my right shoulder.  There was a gash on both my ear and my temple.  I thought,   “This can’t be good.”  That tough Durango wasn’t done yet, though.  Whitey managed to wiggle the vehicle off the tree we almost wrapped around and got us back on the road.  Somehow it rolled back to Fort Lewis.  One problem was left.  How are going to get thru the gate with a vehicle that looked like it was at the receiving end of a monster truck rally?  It looked like Gravedigger made a violent return.

            As we crept up to the gate on a slow roll, Whitey killed the music and the lights while we remained silent and bloodied in the back seat.  He came to a stop at a gate guard shack on the left side of the Durango, concealing the damage on the right side.  The guard checked our military ID’s Whitey gave him and we were in the clear, or so we thought.  As Whitey was taking the ID’s back, a second guard came out of nowhere on the right side of the vehicle about 25 feet away. 

            “Hey. Excuse me! Are you guys OK?” asked the guard.

            “We good!” we all said together as the wheels started to turn.

            “Fucking go, Whitey!” Glaze whispered.

            We all laughed as the two guards shrunk in the rear view mirrors.  That second guard saw all the blood and vehicle destruction and then didn’t know what to think or do.  Luckily for us it was a narrow escape and the Durango was officially retired that night.  Whitey dropped us off at the barracks and we continued to drink at the monkey bars while telling Baker about our adventure.  We just let the ensuing rain wash the blood away.

Doing crazy things on the weekends without any regard for anyone around us was normal behavior.  By no means was it right or should it be condoned or popularized, but it’s just how people in combat arms tend to handle stress.  We were releasing angst we couldn’t explain.  We just had to do it and not care about consequences for the time being.