Casa de Muerte and a Case of the Heebee Jeebees

           

Casa de Muerte spray painted in black.

            “Is that a stick or somethin’?” asked Staff Sergeant Shmiddie.

            “Negative sergeant.  That is an arm and hand,” I replied.

            “An arm?”

            “Yeah, a human arm.”

            “Oh shit.”

            It was the late Fall in 2006 in southern Baghdad and White Platoon had been getting shot at and tested for a few months.  We had a midmorning patrol scheduled under cloudy skies.  As we headed for the gate to go outside the wire, or out in sector, nine 107mm rockets hit F.O.B. Falcon with several detonating close to our Strykers.  We pushed thru the barrage and hoped for a new mission plan.  We got just that.

            The troop talk (our headquarters) informed us over the net that cameras on the blimp had captured smoke plumes where they suspected the launch site of the rockets was and provided us with a grid.  We were instructed to move in and investigate.  Just 30 seconds later plans changed, again.  The camera operators saw two men leaving the possible launch site on scooters and our radio guys in the talk would relay their movement to us as this mission turned into a game of “hide and go seek.”  Oh hello, adrenaline.

            We got word that the scooters stopped in a nearby street and the men ran inside a home.  I was very pleased to be a dismount on this mission.  Our three Strykers surrounded the shack of a home as ramps dropped and we ran out to raid the house.  Inside we found two men and two women.  The women were acting docile and the men were jittery, but not acting surprised we were there.  We took the men outside so we could talk to the women first.

            “They say they are very scared of what their husbands will do,” said our interpreter (terp).

            “Are those men outside your husbands?” I asked.

            “They say no, that is why they are scared of what their husbands will do.”

            “Did those men say or do anything to you before we got here?”

            “They say they were told not to talk to anybody or they would be killed, but they are more scared of their husbands knowing other men were in the house while they were away.”

            “That’s all we needed to know, thank you.”

            Well I guess that’s the one good exception to third world countries not having women’s rights.  Those women were more scared of their husbands than they were of the men trying to kill fully armed Americans for cash from Al-Qaeda or the Jaysh al-Mahdi Militia, militants loyal to Muqtada al-Sadr.  After a quick search of the shack while questioning the women, we moved outside for the men.

            “Separate them and make sure they can’t communicate,” Shmiddie ordered.

            While interrogations of the men commenced, a team of us searched the perimeter for any kind of evidence. 

            “Eh Sergeant Vance, got somethin,’” Hall said.

            “Whatchya got?” I asked.

            “Got a video recorder. Might be theirs if we can figure out how to open the video files.  Found it over there under that water container.”

            “A video camera that nice, hidden outside this shack and under a water container?  Try to get that thing working, cause I’m betting it has footage of them attacking us.”

            “Roger.”

            Hall took Mango’s place in our platoon and I couldn’t have been happier.  He was everything an NCO wanted in a soldier.  Hall knew when to take initiative.  That’s rare in a new soldier since I usually had to play “Red Light, Green Light” with my previous 3 soldiers when it came to controlling an area.  He was white, quiet, light haired, average build and from Tennessee with a thick accent.  Hall dove right under the water container that all of us had walked past and he hit the jackpot.

            “These guys answering questions?” I asked.

            “They aren’t saying much.”

            “Got it!” Yelled Hall.

            I ran back to Hall and Woodrow as they were examining the footage.

            “Motherfuckers,” I said, starting to look like Clint Eastwood.

            The footage showed these guys launching all nine rockets at F.O.B. Falcon off route Jackson/Irish.  Yahtzee!

             “Look familiar?” I asked one of the detainees as I showed him the attempt on our lives.

            Both of the men put their heads down and had two completely different stories on why they were in that shack.  Game over.  We blind folded them and put them in separate Strykers while we finished searching the area for more evidence against them.

            “Vance, we might have another problem,” Shmiddie proclaimed.

            “What’s up boss?”

            “See those wires on the ground? That's a makeshift detonator to a command-detonated explosive. I’m going to follow the wire to see where it goes.  Make sure nobody fucks with that.  I don’t want to get blown up.”

            “Got it.”

            What that means is that Shmiddie saw a red and blue wire attached to a small, white plastic cap.  If these two wires were pressed together, they would complete a circuit.  This circuit extended thru very thin white and black wires that went into a field.  Shmiddie had to find out exactly what was intended on being detonated.  I hovered over the wires while he went solo to make sure casualties would be at a minimum in case something went wrong.

Very small and difficult to see, but Shmiddie's eyes saved some lives that day.

            “White 4, this is White 3.  We got a five gallon drum EFP IED crusted in dirt by a trash pile and need to make this route black ASAP,” Shmiddie said on the net.

            “3, this is 4. Roger,” replied our platoon sergeant, Pons.

            To put things into perspective, a coke can sized EFP (Explosively Formed Penetrator) IED can take out a humvee.  A five-gallon drum would cut a 20-ton Stryker in half and maybe send it through an apartment complex.  It was resting by some trash on the side of a heavily traveled route.  To make that route “black” means to shut it down.

Over a half mile away, we found where the wires ended.

            “EOD is en route,” Pons said after reporting to higher.

            As we waited for EOD, we got a call from the talk asking that we go to the original grid of the launch site and investigate after EOD showed up to relieve us at the EFP site.  We complied.  Keep in mind, we still have two detainees.

            “Sergeant Vance, this asshole won’t shut up,” Hall said.

            “He’s probably bitching about how we ruined his big payday.  First he fires rockets on video and then he tried to obliterate a Stryker.  Take a shotgun and charge it one time next to his head.  That’ll shut him up,” I said back.

            Chk, chk!  That detainee sat up straight and about pissed his pants.  He thought he was going to be executed.

            “That’s enough, I don’t need them shittin’ all over my Stryker,” Shmiddie pleaded.

            “Mount up White, time to roll,” our platoon leader said.

            We found the launch site.  There were nine stands from where the rockets were launched and a tenth rocket that never fired on top of a tenth stand.  The evidence on these guys was definitely earning them a trip to a dark, small cage.  Next to the launch site was a half constructed yellow brick and cinder block house.  We dismounted the Strykers and searched the area for more evidence.  I started with the unroofed structure.

107mm Rocket that luckily didn't work.

            “Shmiddie what’s all this white shit on the ground?” I asked.

            “No idea. Lime maybe?”

            I turned a corner and saw a bright blue rope sticking out of the ground.  The dirt around it looked fresh.  Protocol was to get a metal detector around suspicious looking things like that in case it was an IED or land mine, but I had a gut feeling it wasn’t an explosive.  It was way too obvious considering the lengths the two detainees went to conceal their EFP boom boom.  Nobody else was in the room so I took a chance with my own life.

            I gave the rope a little tug from a distance and it seemed to give way fairly easily, so I got closer and pulled much harder.  The rope gave, dropped it from my hands and I fell right on my ass.  I couldn’t believe I was staring at a half decayed human arm and hand.  After others from my platoon started to come into the room I looked around.  It wasn’t sticks or kindling to make fire that was lying around.  It was human bones.  I had just accidently uncovered a mass grave.  The “white shit” on the ground was lime; meant to mask the smell of all the corpses. 

            “You ok, Vance?” asked Shmiddie.

            “Yeah, I just. I don’t know. I guess I have a case of the heebee jeebees, man. I’m gonna smoke by the trucks. Just give me a few.”

            “Yeah, go for it.”

            We had come across a lot of dead bodies before and I had no problems, but the idea that so many people were just dumped in a hole got to me.  They were a few hundred feet from an entire town and our detainees probably put them there.  What the fuck is wrong with these people.

Days like that opened my eyes to how insignificant we all can be in the eyes of monstrous people.  In many places around the world, Darwinism takes a dark turn in the name of survival.  This is why combat vets are always ready for something to go down and prepared to kill to survive.  Its not easy to hide, but just take one look at us when we’ve been startled by something.  You won't make that mistake twice.  It may seem morbid, but this made me appreciate life so much more.

             Specialists came in to investigate the scene as we headed off to Cropper, a jail we brought detainees to in the green zone for further “questioning” and “trial.”  I never got a body count, because there wasn’t enough time for the investigators to count them all.  It was a busy and productive day for White.  We rolled out with our heads high and happy we were all alive as the sun set under clearing skies.

             “Are we going to eat dinner chow in the green zone before coming back to Falcon, Sergeant Vance?” asked Lemon from the driver’s hole.

             “Hell yeah, man.  I think its Mexican night too,” I replied.

             “Woo hoo!”

A Knife Fight? Sure, Why Not?

 One of my fondest memories while trying to fit in with the veterans as I arrived at my unit was a house party in Seattle.  I bought a case of Coors Light and showed up to a bunch of “boo’s.”

            “Coors Light? What the fuck is that shit?” Angel joked.

            “I’m guessing this is a Bud Light kinda crowd?”  I asked.

            “Yeah, leave that shit outside.  We got a keg in the kitchen.”

            I left my silver bullet babies on the deck and ventured in to a world of drunken brotherhood.  I got nothing but head nods on the deck and felt awkward.  The first thing I saw as I passed thru the doorway was a guy carrying what looked to be a beer bong, but the funnel at the top was unfamiliar. 

            “How do you like that, Vance,” asked Angel.

“What’s with the deformed metal funnel?”

“That came off an RPG that got stuck in the side of one of our Strykers.  Great souvenir, bro.”

“That’s awesome.”

My eyes were wide open and I was sporting a big smile.  I couldn’t wait to be able to tell random stories like that.  I kept pushing thru the crowded house that would eventually attract the local college crowd as well.  I wandered into an open area where some new guys were hanging out with vets so I jumped in to hang out. 

“Yo, Vance, sit down,” said a veteran named G as he stood up to give me his seat.

“Me? No way man, I can’t do that.  That’s your seat!” I pleaded.

“Why aint you takin’ that seat?”

“I haven’t done anything to earn a seat!”

G laughed, “Yo, we all the same here!”

It wasn’t much, but it was the nicest offer I’d gotten in a while.  G had E-3 rank, making him lower ranking than me.  I came in as an E-4 simply because I had a college degree, which I believe to be the army’s greatest tragedy along with certain lieutenants.  G was a veteran and I was fresh out of basic training and this man was supposed to be a subordinate to me?  Fuck that.  I looked up to G and whenever he said something, I listened.  G was Hispanic with a thick accent, shaved head, stood about 5’5,” lifted a lot of weights enabling him to keep up with anybody and kinda looked like a mini Vin Diesel.  He was also a guy I chose to punch me in the jaw during one of our crazy barracks nights.  Poor decision.  He even warned me.  I swear to this day he was holding back though.  If he really wanted to, he could’ve caved my face in with ease.

Across the room I saw some girls pouring beer into a softball cleat.  Where there are girls doing silly things with alcohol, there will be curious guys.

“What’s with the ‘shoe-o-beer’?” I asked

“We’re all on a softball team and these new bitches have to drink from it for initiation,” one of them proclaimed while two younger girls grimaced.

“Oh damn, that cleat looks used and abused.”

“A whole season’s worth of use and abuse.”

As the cleat was held up for freshman humiliation and people chanting “drink,” I ventured into the kitchen.  That’s where I met up with Yancey Baker.  He was sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar with a fifth of Wild Turkey; a substance I hadn’t tried before.  Yancey was of average height, brown haired, thin, white, proud Alabamian from the mortar platoon who could throw down ‘til the sun came up. 

“Vance!  Come here and have a drink of whiskey with me,” he ordered from across the kitchen as I passed the line to the keg stand.

“I don’t know man,” I said.

Yancey then proceeded to take out his left eye and hold it on the tip of his left index finger.  He then gave me a big grin. 

“You mean to tell me you can’t sit down and have one fuckin’ drink with me at this party?”

“Baker, I’ll drink as much as you want me to.”

“Aight then.”

Yancey then told me the story of how he lost his eye when a car bomb exploded right next to his Stryker as he was standing out of one of the hatches.  I got to know Yancey real good that night as I learned of the sacrifices some of us would have to make without having a choice.  I was impressed with how real the fake eye looked.  Yancey was happy with it, tossed it in his mouth as if to clean it and then put it back in his socket while we both laughed over a bottle of Wild Turkey. 

From the conversation with Yancey and my first encounter with Wild Turkey things got a little crazy.  After doing a couple rounds of keg stands I was feeling great.  All of a sudden I hear one of the vets screaming at a local guy about messing with his girl.  Clark was the vet and he was no bigger than I was, but a lot more jumpy.  Something about him liking “snow,” but it was too warm outside for that.  He did have an attractive girl and with this much alcohol and people, I’m sure someone made a pass at her and Clark wasn’t in the right mindset to keep calm about it.  Before I knew it, a circle had formed in the kitchen and Clark was threatening a guy twice his size when things took a turn for the worse.  The guy pulled out a knife.

I’m not a rocket scientist, but there’s not a whole lot your army training can do for you when you’re drunk and stuck in a small space with a guy twice your size holding a knife.  You’re going to get shanked.  So what does my dumb ass do?  I jump right in front of Clark and start screaming at the guy to make a move.  Luckily for both Clark and I, this local was smart enough to realize there were a lot more of us and just a few of his friends.  He backed down and left.  Clark was impressed I had the balls to try to help and that was enough for me to be happy.  Wild end to a great night.

Even the next day had an extra surprise.

“Where’s Rojas?” I asked.

            “I’m right here, dude.  I just got back,” Rojas said as he walked up to the third floor of the barracks.

            “Shit man, what happened to you last night?”

            “I wandered off, so I guess my ride left me.  I woke up on a stranger’s recliner a couple houses down from the party.”

            “That’s awesome.”

The day after a crazy night we all thought we would chill out and relax.  Nope, not anymore.  It was taught to us from the beginning that it was a life style to work hard all day and party your ass off all night.  It was frowned upon to show up to morning PT without a funny story to tell or reek of booze.  As long as we could hold ourselves up, keep our mouth shut and do the exercises, superiors would put up with how the smell of alcohol was seeping from our pores.  The weekends weren’t even a time to rest the liver.  They just allowed more time to booze.  Six years later I’m sure my liver was making a big sigh of relief.

My 3 Little All-Stars

          Our unit was six months from deploying when I was assigned my first three soldiers that were all mine.  Of course, these soldiers were the biggest idiots I’d ever met.  I thought I was being punished for something.

            “No Vance, we just think you’re the only one that can fix them,” Pons said.

            Every group has a problem child mixed in with good soldiers to dull the pain.  All I had were three problem children, a dunce for a first line supervisor and nobody to be proud of or look up to.  That’s what happens when you’re the newest NCO.  I kept a positive attitude, but soon realized being positive doesn’t fix stupid.

            We’ll name the three mouth breathers Lemon, Lover and Mango.  Lemon was a scout of average height, lackadaisical, clumsy, well fit, light haired and an overall male ditz.  He reminded me of a five year old who says he wants to be a fireman one day and the next day he wants to be an astronaut.  Yeah, that’s great kid.  Just let me know when you’re all grown up and know what the fuck you’re actually going to be.  By describing him as “well fit” I mean he had retard strength.  You need over a hundred pounds of ammo lifted over your head to load onto the trucks?  Lemon!

            Mango had the same strength, but the demeanor of a Neanderthal.  A white, backwoods, and gorilla-shaped scout from Minnesota who always had tall tales of crazy hunting days with some character he called “Gunner Nelson.”  Mango couldn’t just say “Nelson” or “Gunner” either.  Both names had to be used together.  He graduated in a class of seven.  Seven, and he wasn’t even the runner up to valedictorian.  Imagine a guy that thinks he’s fooling everyone with lies about how awesome his life in Minnesota was.  Now imagine he’s telling these lies with that hilarious accent from the state of ten thousand lakes.

            “Oh yaw, Gunner Nelson and me would go out fer days hunting!” he’d say all excited as we would all just smile and nod with an awkward silence.

            It would only be stories about Gunner Nelson from his hometown.  Ole Gunner Nelson sounded more like an imaginary friend, but I guess that’s to be expected with a graduating class that was three times smaller than our platoon.  I tried, but had a hard time relating to his hunting stories.  I was from the suburbs where fishing was the closest thing to hunting as I ever got.  One of many characters I would have to adapt to in order to allow our little group to function properly.

            Then there was Lover.  Holy shit.  This guy.  Lover was quite the character and even in his absence, he would provide us with good stories while deployed.  He was a slow moving, short, frumpy Hispanic infantryman from L.A. with a thick accent from somewhere south of the boarder.  It took a serious effort from him to look like he was awake and not a complete bag of ass.  Lover was a terrible soldier and frustrating as hell to work with, but he had the most hysterical stories about his girlfriend.  I mean, they weren’t funny to him, but I was usually in tears laughing at how crazy she was while listening to his accent.

            “Like, this one time, my girl wanted to get freaky in bed so she told me to let her fall asleep and then wanted me to fuck her awake.  So I did!  She freaked out and screamed at me to stop raping her,” Lover said with a sad look on his face that turned to a smile for the ending comment of his story, “but I fucking lover, man.”

            Lover would end every story with those words.  You can’t make this shit up.  I couldn’t believe the stuff that would come out of his mouth.  We all had a hard time understanding why he would put up with his alleged girlfriend.  He’d begin every story with wide eyes and words of wonderment.

            “Like, this one time, I walked two miles to McDonalds to get her breakfast in bed and she told her cousins to jump me.  So they did!  But I fucking lover, man.”

            “Why the hell did she tell her cousins to do something like that?” I’d enquire.

            “I don’t know, maybe because I raped her.”

            “But she told you too!”

            “Yeah, but I fucking lover man.”

            Just imagine a bunch of us listening to this.  One guy would slap his own forehead, another would put his head down in disbelief, another would tilt his head like a confused dog and the rest of us would just stare with our jaws down.

            “Like, this one time, she said she was going to kill my mom.”

            “Alright dude, that’s a deal breaker.”

            “But I fucking lover, man.”

            “Hooooly shit.  Just stop.”

            Eventually that crazy little firecracker would use all $20,000 of Lover’s enlistment bonus on jewelry shortly before dumping his ass while he was at Fort Lewis and she was in LA.  Lover was already a mess, but that didn’t help.  He took a dull knife to his wrist one night.  Lover called another platoon member shortly before he did it, so we don’t know if it was a legit attempt or a cry for attention.  Either way, that was a one-way ticket out of the platoon as we were too close to deploying for mental issues.  His actions left us a man down in an already small platoon.  Something that I’m sure didn’t go thru his mind as he sawed at his wrist.  We missed Lover’s stories after we took off for Kuwait and Iraq, but he was certainly the weakest link so we were able to pick up the pace.  Or would we?

As soon as we got to Kuwait I found out that Mango had an issue with his enlistment contract.  He was supposed to receive a bonus after enlisting for the regular army from the National Guard, but never did, thus making it a breach of contract.  Mango’s options were to either leave the army due to the breach or reenlist for nothing.  Both options were crap.  Mango had a kid on the way and needed the money, but on the other hand his current job was quite hazardous and making it home wasn’t guaranteed.

Being so close to moving into Iraq during the surge, most of the platoon would brand him a coward if he decided to go home.  Mango was my soldier; therefore I had to give him that older brother advice.  I told him he had a family on the way and it was his responsibility to take care of them.  Of course the decision was his, but I reiterated the most important thing is family.  Mango could stay and earn money with benefits.  Some of us morbid bastards thought about how the army’s $400,000 life insurance would take care of his family too.  He decided to go home and I supported him, even though his decision was not what any of us would have done in the same situation.

            Where did all my advice and support get Mango?  That piece of shit went home, cheated on his girl and then left his own kid in the dust.  The last time anyone saw ole Gunner Nelson’s best friend, he was lurking in some bushes outside an apartment complex in Tacoma claiming to hunt squirrels.  My trust in people doing the right thing started to slide downhill and I hadn’t even been in a firefight yet.

            Out of my three turd nuggets, Lover was being kicked out of the army because he “fucking lover” and Mango would be sent home shortly to cheat on his woman.  This left me with Lemon.  To his credit, if I ever asked him to do something, he’d do it real fast like.  I could tell him to run into a door full speed and a few seconds later you’d hear the crash.  I had just been promoted to sergeant so it was solely on me to keep this guy in line.  Oh how I hoped for better soldiers in the future.

Johnny Francisco and a Pink Belly

Back at the troop things had calmed down since some officers heard Golden’s thunderous fall and came back to the cages to investigate.  As soon as the officers left, game on.  I was standing next to the supply cage when I saw John Francisco, or Cisco, examining another FNG.  He literally had his arms crossed while circling the FNG and occasionally poking him.

            “You’re cute,” Cisco creepily told the confused new soldier.

            I instantly thought he was an asshole.  This first impression couldn't have been further from the truth.  Cisco was a mortarman of the highest order.  He was incredibly smart and took pride in taking initiative.  Cisco was one of those guys that had the brains for an Ivy League school, but chose to serve his country instead.  He was from Virginia, average height, white, shaved head, smoked and dipped non-stop.  For some reason, when he would become inebriated he spoke with a slight English accent, which seemingly further illustrated his genius.  

           The first time I saw Cisco I walked into his barracks room to drink with some guys jamming to Danzig's "Mother."  He was sitting in a chair completely passed out with both arms resting on the armchair looking like a worn out Abe Lincoln Memorial except a cigarette was burning away in his right hand.  The second time was a different kind of stoic pose.  Cisco was in the same chair facing a TV with adult material on and his dick was in his hand instead of a cigarette.  Yes, still passed out.  As you can imagine, I was curious to see what this guy was like sober.

            Cisco didn’t see the soldier he was examining as fun enough, so he walked back to the entrance of the mortar platoon office door.  It was like a sixth sense that he had.  Cisco was a good judge of character and could tell the soldier he was just messing with saw initiation as “wrong,” meaning no fun.  Veterans saw initiation as a way to see what we were made of and most of us new guys liked that.  We saw initiation as a right of passage and gaining a morsel of respect from people that we looked up to so much.

            My eyes wandered for a few seconds before they met Cisco’s eyes.  He was already looking at me with that same creepy look he was giving the boring FNG.  He flicked his head to the side while chewing a fat wad in the front of his lower jaw.  I was thinking “Oh cool, finally someone wants to get to know me.”  Wrong. 

            “Hey there.  Come on in and meet everyone,” Cisco said as I began my move into the mortars office.

            I walked right into the office, which was a big no, no as a scout.  Scouts and regular infantry always outnumbered the mortars, so they picked us off one by one.  I was just oblivious to this at the moment.  I walked into the office and stopped with an awkward smile aimed at everyone that had just stood up aggressively.  I saw a metal hanger wire flash in front of my eyes on its way to being wrapped around my neck.  Great.

            The door slammed behind me and I was instantly grabbed, flipped upside down and slammed against a wall locker while the mortars commenced beating the shit out of me.  It all ended with them flipping my shirt up, twisting my nipples and slapping the hell out of my stomach, a ritual known as a “Pink Belly.”  Smacking of the belly is no joke.  There was blood and chunks of skin missing.

            “Welcome to Crazyhorse,” they all said.

            “Well, thanks for that,” I said as I limped out of the office half dressed to an applauding group of scouts and infantry.

            By day all of the new guys would get their asses kicked and train, but by night the veterans would bring us in to drink with them so as to not ostracize us.  We would all gather for a “Barracks Night” on the third and top floor.  Some veterans would awe us with war stories, we’d flip quarters off our nasty hallway floor into Dixie cups full of beer and pound them, destroy any exit signs, expend all fire extinguishers, exchange punches to the jaw to see who would get knocked out first, grapple, spar, scream at the top of our lungs as blood dripped to the floor. 

From the outside this can look like a terrible version of fraternity hazing, but I assure you it’s a very important step to becoming a soldier and being able to protect the men by your side.  The new guys that hid or spoke out against these activities were seen as guys not willing to sacrifice a little pride to be a part of a team.  If you can’t sacrifice a little pride, how the hell are other soldiers going to trust that you’ll sacrifice yourself for them in battle?  I believe initiation is a necessary evil, so long as there’s a stopping point.

Blue

After a few weeks the beatings fizzled and we could focus more on learning our jobs, except one motherfucker wanted to keep messing with us.  Fergie.  He really got a rise out of seeing other people suffer.  Even Vines would walk away as Fergie kept on with his reign of annoyance.  One trick Fergie loved was using an old communications device to electrocute people.  It looked like a portable Vietnam era phone attached to a small battery.  He would simply touch one end of the phone to someone and then press the “push to talk” button, sending a shock with a snapping sound right at his victim.  I was one such victim.

            Fergie had been threatening me all day and I was tired of it.

            “Go ahead, sergeant, but if you do I’ll kick your nuts up into your throat,” I calmly said with a scowl while standing at parade rest.

            “No you fucking won’t, Vance.”

            “Your choice, sergeant.”

            There was a great silence throughout the troop when this went down as no FNG had talked to ole Fergie like that.  After that exchange, I went down to the motor pool to work on our vehicles.  I did my work quickly, visited buddies in other platoons and then started walking down the line to finalize some more chores.  This is when Fergie made his move.  With my back turned he ran up from behind me.

            “Hey Vance,” he whispered.

            Before I had the chance to turn around, Fergie planted one end of the phone on the back of my neck and pressed to talk.  I let out a grunt as I was shocked.  Without even thinking I turned around and swung my right leg as hard as I could.  As I was turning I didn’t care who it was or where I connected with my boot.  I ended up connecting with Fergie’s crotch and the strike immediately dropped him.  I ran I ran for the hills before he had the opportunity to get up.  Everyone cheered.

            Fergie knew I wasn’t completely in the wrong for striking a NCO, or Non-Commissioned Officer, in the balls so he backed off a little.  His next target was Marion.  Marion was a beast.  He was about my height, shaved head, built like a bowling ball of sheer muscle, spoke like everyone else from rural Texas and sported one gold front tooth.  Marion was so black we called him “Blue.”  Blue would always do what was asked of him and Fergie jumped at the opportunity.  We always asked Blue to beat his ass, but Blue would always decline.  He was a very chill, quiet soldier.

            “Naw, man.  Dude’s just messin’ with me,” Blue would protest.

            On a slow afternoon, the entire troop was gathered together for more Fuck, Fuck games.  Fergie apparently wanted to pick it up a notch and called out Blue to the center of the concrete floor. 

            “Blue!  Get in the front leaning rest right there, boa,” Fergie salivated.

            “Roger, sergeant!”

            Blue got into position to do pushups in front of everyone.

            “Down!” Fergie yelled as Blue lowered his body in perfect pushup form.

            While Blue stayed in the down position awaiting Fergie to tell him “up” Fergie walked up behind Blue on his left side and pulled out a knife.  Everyone gasped.  Fergie then held the knife over the center of Blue’s back with the pointy end facing down.  “Up!”  Blue pushed himself up, not knowing the knife was there, and Fergie gave him a strong poke in the back.  Blue cringed as he felt the knife poke him and Fergie just laughed.  Voices from the crowd were whispering their disapproval.

            “Oh I aint really stabbin’ ‘em,” Fergie defended his line crossing actions.  “Down!”

            “C’mon, sergeant,” Blue said as politely as he could.

            “Up!”

            Blue never came back up.  That’s where the most obedient soldier drew the line with the most unprofessional NCO.  He simply side crawled to the right, stood up and walked away.  Good for Blue, but I wanted revenge on his behalf.  There would be more instances involving Fergie instigating rebellion amongst the new guys.  Slowly we all started fighting back and Fergie eventually learned that nobody respected him.  He couldn’t punish us under UCMJ  (Uniform Code of Military Justice) if he was the one starting shit.  During a flag football game between Raider and White platoon, he kept hitting me from behind.  I turned around and speared his big ass into the ground.  He got the message.  Initiations were over.

Let the Beatings Commence

“Hey Vance, I’m going to smash this clipboard over Opey’s head unless you want me to smash it over your head,” Fergie said.

What a great set of options.  Get your head smashed or run like a bitch.

            “You can hit me, just don’t fuckin’ miss,” I stated.

            Opey was already hiding in the fetal position in the arms room when Fergie approached me with this proposition.  Fergie was a tall, out of shape, backwoods bigot that took advantage of his E-6 staff sergeant rank and the cluelessness of new guys.  I had just begun the ritual of initiation. 

Fergie raised the clipboard and swung.  I simultaneously thrust my head forward as if I was striking a soccer ball.  Soccer skills actually came in handy in this situation.  If you strike the ball with the top of your forehead, it wouldn’t hurt.  I took this same philosophy with the clipboard.  The clipboard shattered and everyone watching thought I’d be in pain, but I just walked outside of the arms room with a smile.

            “You’re welcome Opey,” I said as I passed thru the doorway.

            Opey was an infantryman that had already deployed, so I was a bit curious as to why he was still being picked on in front of a bunch of new guys.  He was a tall, thin, redhead that flinched every time Fergie lunged at him.  I knew I could start proving myself by making sacrifices and taking beatings to protect other soldiers, but how far could I take it?  I was out of the arms room for a split second when Fergie wanted another round.

            “Vance, atten-huh!” grunted Vines.

            “We’re not done yet, Vance,” Fergie said.

            There I was standing at attention in front of 80 guys I wanted to desperately prove my worth to.  Vines was staring me down about six inches away from my face to make sure I wouldn’t run.  When I stared right back as if to say, “bring it” he backed off while smiling with a wad of chew tucked in his lower lip. 

“All right, Vance, all right,” he said in a soothing yet scary voice.

Vines was in Raider platoon with Fergie and together they were quite the force to be reckoned with.  Vines was the most diesel looking guy in the troop.  He was white, held a Louisiana draw, stood at six feet tall, dipped tobacco constantly and had a gap between his front two teeth.  He was easily 215 lbs of pure wrecking ball strength.  I was fucking screwed.

            Vines posted up a few feet away as Fergie walked out of the arms room and grabbed a fire extinguisher.  He put the bottom end against my stomach while rotating it with a curious look on his face.  I knew exactly why he was sizing it up against my stomach so I flexed my abs and braced for impact.  He cocked back and swung with everything he had.

            The sound of a hiss came out of my nose as my nostrils flared and I struggled to keep from folding in half.  It didn’t hurt too badly though.  Next.  Vines knew I wanted nothing to do with Fergie’s approval and could take a beating like that all day.  Vines picked up a .50 cal barrel.  Shit.  Those barrels are 45 inches in length and 24 lbs.  Now, if you take a guy that has 65 lbs of muscle on you and he decides to try stabbing you with a .50 cal barrel, you’re going to feel it.  I stood proudly, but I was secretly screaming like a little girl on the inside.  Vines took aim for my navel.  Perfect strike.

            “Umph,” I grunted.

            “All right, that’s enough now,” Sergeant Shmiddie said as he walked out of the arms room, “You OK Vancey?”

            “Never better,” I barely whispered as I gasped for air.

            “Go get some air.”

            Everyone was looking at me in awe.  They hadn’t seen anyone take a beating like that without crying about it.  A seed was sewn for growing respect from the veterans.  Only the new guy beatings weren’t done yet. 

Golden Drop

I walked passed all the platoon cages and exited the building.  “Fuck, Fuck” games had commenced with the FNG’s.  Ten guys from my basic training class were assigned to Crazyhorse troop and 35 others were spread throughout the squadron.  Crazyhorse saw all ten of us as fresh meat.  One of the Fuck, Fuck games was assigning a FNG a rock that he had to carry around.  If a soldier lost his rock then he would instantly get smoked.

            Golden was the first victim in this game.  He was thin, freckle faced, brown-haired and possessed the agility of a monkey.  Golden had a selective southern draw from being born in Louisiana, but he was raised in Pennsylvania.  He only seemed to have an accent when somebody said nice things about the south.  Golden was a brave guy, but reckless with his actions and his mouth.  He was assigned to Raider platoon.  What we didn’t know as FNGs was the rock we were assigned would attract the attention of lower ranking veterans who wanted to see us get smoked.

            Whitey, a short, strong black guy, took Golden’s rock.  That’s right, a black guy named Whitey.  Golden smiled at him and Whitey just walked away with his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Sucks to be you.”  Golden thought it was a joke since Whitey wasn’t a NCO.  Golden followed Whitey inside asking for his rock and the rest of us were in en tow to watch the ensuing fight.  Whitey refused to give up the rock and Golden picked it up a notch.

            “You better give up that rock,” Golden ordered.

            Whitey just smiled, forcing Golden to act.  What Golden didn’t realize is that even though he was in good shape, Whitey had just returned from war.  When someone goes off to war and comes back, they have a rage festering inside them.  When a combat veteran unleashes the rage, not a whole lot can stop him.  Golden towered over Whitey and saw him as an easy target.  Golden was wrong.

            Golden came up from behind Whitey and wrapped his arms around him in an attempt to fling Whitey away from the pet rock.  In a split second Whitey ducked and got behind Golden.  He wrapped his arm around the back of Golden’s neck with such a force that Golden folded and Whitey picked him up in a cradling position, like holding a baby.  Whitey then lifted Golden over his head and threw him to the concrete floor.  I heard the thud and turned away.

            The thud noise was Golden’s head making contact with the concrete ground inside the troop.  He was knocked out cold for a couple of seconds with blood starting to form on the back of his dome. 

            “Shit, now we gotta fix ‘em Whitey,” Vines said with his thick Louisiana accent.

            Raider platoon picked Golden up and took him to the aid station where he told medics, “I fell,” like a battered wife as Vines watched him get patched up.  He took a beating and protected his superiors.  Point to Golden, even though he lost some brain cells that day.

Places to Poo

Encouragement, YES! Helping Bullis do his business.

            “Vance, you OK?”  Lebel asked.

            “Yeah, it’s that time,” I replied with a pale face.

            “Time for what?”

            “Time to piss out of my ass.”

            “You just ate ten minutes ago.”

            “Yep, then I’m late.

            I scurried out of the chow hall in Taji, Iraq in the Spring of 2010 hoping to make it to the latrine on the other side of the compound.  No such luck. 

            “Shit, shit, shit oh no, this isn’t happening,” I whimpered to myself.

            Oh but it is, Mat, IT IS.  There’s no way I can make it to the other side of the compound for an actual toilet, but I scanned the area for a shack with “Hodgy Shitters” where I could do the whole “squat to poo in a hole in the ground” thing.  I spotted a shack and awkwardly ran in as I clinched my ass cheeks while still whimpering.

 “No, no, no you don’t.”

I dropped my pants around my ankles while I was still a few feet away from the hole, spun my body around to get into position, grabbed a wall and down I went in a sweaty heap thinking I was about to expel Lucifer himself right out of my bunghole.

            “Ohhhhh yeah,” I moaned in both relief and pain.

            That’ll teach me to eat local food that’s prepared with unfiltered river water.  My average sized body had dysentery for a few weeks and dropped 20 pounds thanks to completely liquidating all consumed food in about ten minutes.  From the moment food went down my throat, it waged a violent war with my digestive track letting out screams from within to let me know that I had better find a place for the casualties real quick.  There were no solid pieces either.  It was all acidy liquid that burned all the chafed skin from where I would wipe at least nine times in 24 hours.  To this day, I only purchase premium Charmin’s.  Dehydration is a motherfucker.

            Going number two is taken for granted every day back in the States.  Did you know it’s actually better for your digestive track to squat over a hole in the ground and the way you’re used to sitting on the toilet actually creates hemorrhoids?  Squatters apparently know a thing or two about poo.  Squatting is the hard part, but by no means the nasty part.

            Luckily on that fateful day in Taji, I had already been dealing with the issue since I was in Diyala Province near the Iranian boarder two weeks earlier.  That means I knew I had to carry an emergency supply of toilet paper at all times.  If I hadn’t had the TP with me in the shack, I would have had to go “third world” on the wiping.  That would entail hoping there was still water in the hose lying next to the hole to rinse while wiping with my hand.  That’s why Iraqi’s don’t shake with their left hand and to offer yours is extremely insulting.

           

Questionable Evolution

I’ve stayed in some really nice places while deployed, but then again I’ve also stayed in places where even rats are like, “Oh, hell no.”  In 2009 at Combat Outpost (C.O.P.) Cobra, we had to improvise when it came to our bowel needs.  There were nice porcelain holes in the ground, but its not easy to squat and aim with all of our gear on.  We first grabbed a metallic folding chair and cut out an ass-sized hole in the seat and then placed the chair over the porcelain hole.  Great success!  However, the local plumbing couldn’t handle TP.  After wiping, we had to put the used TP in a trash bag sitting next to the makeshift toilet.  Yes, that meant if some mouth-breathing degenerate decided to miss the trash we all got a whiff and a few lucky ones got an accidental touch of someone else’s feces.

            Eventually engineers made it out to C.O.P. Cobra and installed toilets.  All good, right?  Negative.  We shared those latrines with the Iraqi Army.  They couldn’t get a handle on “sitting.”  Instead of sitting on the toilet to do their business, they would stand on top of the toilet seat and squat.  As you can imagine, they missed.  The toilet seat would look like somebody dropped mud on it and then leaped all over to the sounds of “Kris Kross will make you jump, jump.”

Burn It

             “If I was going to be a shit burner, I made damn sure I was the best shit burner we’d ever had,” Coach Lyons ranted.

            Coach Lyons was referring to his service back in Vietnam.  At the time, I was riding the bench as usual attempting to play college football at Christopher Newport University.  I never complained about being on the bench because I knew college was the wrong time to start playing.  I was in it purely to try something new and man, I was the worst player on that team.  However, a lot of other bench-ridden players were crying about the splinter collection on their asses from riding the pine.

            Good ole Coach Lyons decided to do a motivational speech teaching them how to be team players.  He explained that everyone has a place and if people don’t take their jobs seriously, the whole team falls apart.  Coach Lyons explained that back in Vietnam, as an FNG, he was told to burn shit.  Instead of complaining about the nasty job, he did it the best he could until he was promoted.  A lot of guys on the team might have forgotten that speech, but it served me well as a leader.  Thank you, sir.

            I was lucky enough to never have been actually told to burn shit, but I didn’t think that was right.  During my second tour I always included myself in the shit burning rotation.  It can be pretty demoralizing to burn somebody’s excrement that doesn’t share the same duties, no pun intended, so I think it would behoove every leader to join in the fun.

So how do you burn shit?  Very easy and the smell is unforgettable!  Grab a 15 gallon metal bucket for everyone to shit in.  All full?  Drag that fucker out in the open away from anything flammable or edible.  It’s recommended to dump just a cup of diesel fuel in the shit bucket, but I’m a pyro so I encouraged the fellas to do a “healthy pour.”  Light a MRE match and drop it in.  Man make fire!  Man make stinky fire.  Start stirring.  Depending on the load, everything should be evaporated after 30-45 minutes of stirring.  Add more diesel as necessary.  Now you’re a big boy.  Go brag about this war story at the bar and let me know how many digits you land.

Most Creative Drop

            While deployed, our schedule could go from insane to complete boredom on the daily.  Along with an extremely new environment, new diet, adjusting to vaccines and of course sleep depravation, our bowel cycle was all kinds of FUBAR.  When Mother Nature called, you had no choice but to answer.  Often times we weren’t in a natural place to make it happen, so we had to improvise. 

            If we were on a dismounted patrol that came to a halt, guys would just walk a few feet off the path or road to drop a deuce.  If we were clearing a house, guys would leave a present for whoever dwelled there to come home to and it wasn’t in a toilet.  The most difficult time to poo was when we were in a moving Stryker.  Some guys would just open the back hatch, squat with their bare asses hanging out of the back of the Stryker and drop a turd.  From the side it definitely looked like the Stryker itself was shitting all over the street, much like a horse without care.

            Zach Brown, not the country star, takes the cake with the most creative attempt.  Notice the word “attempt.”  I met Zach after my first tour and he’s become one of my best friends.  There’s never a dull moment in his life.  Zach went thru a world of shit before the army, yet I've only known him to be an outstanding person and soldier.  He’s tall, white, had peppered hair before his 23^rd birthday, loves all things Baltimore and can party like no other.  One thing about Zach is that he’s not afraid of anything.  This mentality allowed him to do whatever he wanted in front of other people with no shame.

            So no shit there he was (I have to stop with these puns).  Zach was inside a Stryker on the move.  He was riding in a mortar variant.  The mortar variant had an actual mortar tube on the inside and the roof of the Stryker would open like a French door to allow the mortar tube to fire on the move.  Zach’s vehicle could essentially drop a bomb (I did that pun on purpose) down the tube and it would then fly out of the Stryker en route to killing the enemy.  Zach however would use this tube for a different kind of mission.

Zach really had to go number 2, but his platoon couldn’t safely stop.  He grabbed a plastic bag, threw it in the mortar tube as if it were a makeshift trashcan and tried to hop on.  The problem was the angle of the tube and the bumpy road his platoon was traveling on.  Zach literally had to jump multiple times while grabbing at whatever he could to balance himself to attempt this feat.  He not only got some in the bag successfully, but he got it everywhere else as well.  Probably not a good experience for the rest of the mortar platoon inside that Stryker, but I love laughing while thinking of that story.

Proper Poo Disposal

            “Sergeant Stache!  Are we supposed to piss in these too?” I hollered from a nearby culvert.

            “Uh, no I don’t think so,” SGT Stache yelled back.

            “Damn it.”

            While working with boarder patrol agents on the Mexican boarder in October and November of 2005 we had to be very careful to hide our existence.  A measure I believed to be most unnecessary.  Each Stryker was given one plastic 5-gallon bucket to bring to their position on the boarder.  These crafty little midge-Johns came with plastic bags and a seat.  The trick was that we were only allowed to poo in these plastic bags.  I don’t know about you, but if I go poo it’s usually followed by pissing.  So essentially we had to poo while slinging our wangs over the side of the bucket.  This would be the most awkward poo I would make.  How would women do this successfully?  Every day our First Sergeant and his driver would stop by and pick up the bags-o-poo.  He and his driver then went to a disposal area, opened each bag and then dumped the remnants.  That had to be quite the smell.  That’s what I call paying your dues.  God bless you two.

Patrol stopped? Don't mind if I do.