Part Deux

            LT’s were responsible for accountability reports on all equipment in the platoon.  Birdbrain was actually signed for an expensive Leopold scope that came up missing.  One of our soldiers said they had seen the LT take the scope out of its storage bag and place it on top of the Stryker.  Birdbrain denied this.  He made us dump everything out of all the trucks after a mission in the middle of an Iraqi summer.  We had to lay everything out in a fancy, organized fashion.  Then we told his highness everything was ready to be searched.  He found nothing.  Birdbrain then searched our personal items… twice.  He found nothing.

            One day while out on patrol we stopped by an Iraqi army post in Tibij.  Out of a field an Iraqi soldier came walking up with a pipe-shaped object while pointing at Birdfuck.  Oh hell no.  It was the scope worth thousands of dollars that had been missing.  That turd lied about not taking it out and putting it on top of the Stryker.  Birdbrain left it on the Stryker during a night mission and it flew off after we hit a few bumps.  He just laughed with joy, because now he didn’t have to pay for it.  We loathed him.

Soldiers in White started to openly show their disgust after that.  Birdbrain got testy with one in particular.  Specialist Rogers was our Military Intelligence soldier that collected and analyzed all the intel we were getting.  He also interrogated people for information.  Rogers was an asset to White and unfortunately he had to work as closely with the LT as I did.  Since nobody was giving respect to Birdbrain, he tried to force it on the lowest ranking soldiers, such as Rogers.

“Sergeant Vance, I want Rogers to start calling me sir,” Birdbrain announced.

“Excuse me?” I snapped back like a hood rat.

“I don’t like how he calls me LT.”

“Well…LT, Rogers is authorized to call you sir, LT or lieutenant.”

I had no idea if that was true, but he was so scared of me it worked.  For you young leaders out there, you need to earn that salute or title through gaining the respect of your subordinates.  You never ask for it, because if you do, then you’ve lost it forever.  I was an enlisted soldier and people saluted me at times.  I introduced myself as Vance, not Sergeant Vance, but people still called me Sergeant.  Not everyone is going to respect you, but don’t ever ask to be called something you haven’t earned.

How’s about a little action story regarding our special little lieutenant to finish this off.  We had received a call from an Iraqi army unit in Asadiyah about an IED on the road.  It wasn’t our platoon’s area of operation (AO), but we were on quick reaction force (QRF) that day and escorted explosive ordinance disposal (EOD) to the site.  Was that enough abbreviations for you?  We rolled up and stopped a few hundred meters away from the IED on the road.

“I want to dismount and check this out,” Birdbrain said.

“That’s not a good idea since this isn’t our AO.  For all we know, we’re parked in the same spot third platoon parks in when they get a call about an IED,” I advised.

“So?”

“So that could be a decoy IED and the real one is waiting for us to jump off these Strykers.”

“I want to over watch EOD.”

“At least keep everyone else on the trucks to minimize targets on the ground.  We haven’t cleared any of these buildings or that cemetery on the other side of the street.”

“White 4, White 1, I’m dismounting with White 1 Tango and the terp.  Everyone else stay on the trucks.”

“This is White 4, Roger,” Woody said back.

The air was filled with dust and visibility was down to just under a mile.  Something bad always happened under those conditions.  We started our walk and I noticed White 3 took a couple of soldiers into a nearby courtyard to help clear the area against Birdbrain’s instructions.  He ended up not hearing those instructions and Lt apparently didn’t hear White 3 say he was dismounting.  This is why communication is key and saves lives.

      BOOM!

This is what's left of the wall where the IED exploded throwing Carter, Rogers and White3 into a building.

My team was walking in the middle of the street a few feet ahead of the debris. Hall was about ten feet from the blast. 

I felt the concussion of the blast push thru my body as my bones shuttered and debris flew all over, but managed to stay on my feet.  My ears were ringing as my other senses heightened.  AK-47 gunfire rang out as the Iraqi soldiers commenced with what they do best, the death blossom, which is spraying bullets aimlessly in all directions in fear.  I turned to check for casualties and actually had a split second of comedic relief.

“LT!  Terp!” I yelled.

The terp was just in a slight daze, but Birdbrain was literally crouched down and spinning in circles with his head down.  It was almost like that game we’ve all tried where you spin around ten times with your forehead on the handle of a baseball bat that’s touching the ground then you walk like you're highly intoxicated.  It was hilarious.  Everyone reacts differently to contact, but that was by far the funniest.

I grabbed both men and directed them to cover and climbed up the side of one of the Strykers to talk to the gunner.

“Hey!  3 Golf!  Where’s White 3’s team!” I screamed fearing the worst.

“I think the courtyard!” he hollered.

You think.  Right.  I climbed back down and told Birdbrain and the terp to stay behind me so we can check on White 3 and his team. 

“4, 1 Tango, I’m going into the courtyard to check for casualties,” I said on the net.

“This is 4, roger,” Woodrow said back with a quickness.

A little bit of panic set in, because some of the guys on White 3’s team were mine and he told me he was taking them for the mission.  I didn’t approve, but I didn’t have a choice since he outranked me.  Thanks to White 3 not hearing the radio calls to stay on the truck and Birdbrain not heeding to my warnings, lives are in danger.  As we ran into the courtyard the three soldiers were holding each other up and moving to the exit.  The blast had thrown all three into a wall.  My team secured their backside as we went back to the trucks to assess casualties.

“Hall!  Drop the ramp!” I yelled to the back hatch plug.

Something was wrong with Hall.  He could see me yelling, but he couldn’t understand me.  Hall saw the wounded soldiers moving towards him and dropped the ramp.

“You OK Hall?” I asked.

“I can’t hear shit!” he yelled.

The blast was right next to his Stryker and his head was completely exposed at half the distance I was.  The blast in the courtyard was the back blast area and not as strong, but it still managed to throw three men over 200 lbs into a wall.  The main force of the blast hit Hall on the other side of the courtyard wall in the street and then ten feet later hit my team.  It blew his eardrum out and gave him a nasty concussion.

White headed back to C.O.P. Cobra for medical attention.  The gate was blocked by local construction crews trying to get on the compound, so Swanny jumped on top of his Stryker while he was gunning and took matters into his own hands in the name of helping his brothers.

“Hey! Get the FUCK out of the way! Fucking MOVE!” he screamed.

The locals didn’t have to speak the same language to understand that if they didn’t move, they were going to be the next casualties via Swanny’s wrath.  Well played Swanny.  We dropped our walking wounded off at the squadron medical trailer and returned to the gate to park until we were called out again.

“1 Tango, this is White 4,” Woody said to me over the net.

“This is 1 Tango,” I replied.

“Yeah, you gotta come up here and get evaluated for a concussion.”

 I could tell it wasn’t his choice so I complied even though we both knew I had worse blows to the noggin.  As I arrived, I couldn’t help but notice our little LT was feeling sorry for himself and that was his first brush with death.  Aw, need a hug little guy?  Woody had a funny conversation with our troop commander.

Sergeant Woody, why is your LT trying to get a purple heart for a concussion?”

The entire platoon bellowed in laughter when we caught wind of this conversation.  What a pussy.  That’s why he called me up to the medics.  He knew if I requested it, people would listen.  Well, I don’t believe in requesting a Purple Heart for myself.  Especially when there was no loss of blood or permanent physical damage, so he was shit out of luck.  Traumatic brain injuries are a whole other discussion.  Score another one for the good guys.  He’s also one of those guys that received a Combat Action Badge for a mortar round that landed on the opposite side of a compound, nowhere close to being a threat.

Birdbrain represented everything a soldier shouldn’t be.  He wanted awards and respect without earning them and refused to take responsibility for getting several men wounded.  I saw a growing number of soldiers like this as my time in the service came to an end.  What can you do?  I say raise awareness of dirtbags by making fun of them mercilessly.