Pull the Pin

“When outnumbered and amongst a people you can’t trust, you must emit the craziest of aura’s to ensure the safety of your men.” ~ The Legend

“Drill Sergeant, what happens if you fall asleep on watch in Iraq,” a private asked during basic training in the summer of 2004.

“I’ll show you, private.  Shut the doors,” Drill Sergeant Scarecrow boldly ordered.

DS Scarecrow showed us a video of an independent contractor in Iraq that fell asleep in a bad part of town.  He was on Al-Jazeera and masked men slowly severed his head with what seemed to be a dull sword.  The image of the man’s face going from fighting for his life, to fear of death, to the exact moment he was gone is forever ingrained in my head.  It taught me to always have your head on a swivel and watch your own back no matter what.

Now speed up to early 2010 in the village of Tibij, Iraq in Diyala Province not too far from the Iranian boarder.  This last tour was the mind-fuck of all tours.  We were in the process of handing over control to corrupt Iraqi Security Forces (ISF) with our hands tied behind our backs regarding the rules of engagement and posture while on patrol.  We felt like we were soldiers trapped in the position of rent-a-cops.

“If you guys can make it out of this year without losing your mind, you can mentally make it out of anything,” I’d constantly tell the fellas.

We did a whole lotta walking in Tibij.

Immense boredom brought the complete opposite of vigilance and offered constant opportunities for the enemy to commit sneak attacks such as dressing up as ISF to hit us hard.  There were and still are several green on blue attacks throughout Iraq and Afghanistan.  Green on blue refers to forces that are supposed to be our allies turning on us with no warning.  These are people we have to trust with weapons and go on joint patrols when they are influenced by the enemy or they are themselves an infiltrating enemy with nothing but the worst intentions.  My brothers in Crazyhorse Troop who served in Afghanistan last year will always be heart broken over such a betrayal they suffered.

With the threat of green on blue always on my mind I tried to keep a comfortable distance from any Iraqi forces while on patrol.  On one mission we were to link up with an Iraqi army company and do a dismounted patrol thru Tibij.  Tibij was a dustbowl and located near a dead lake that we suspected Al-Qaeda was using as both transportation and a hideout.  White Platoon and our Iraqi counterparts were to collect intel from as many people as possible on anything suspicious in the area.

Why was this idea not going to work?  This was a shanty town and what few people lived there were most likely threatened by any “new neighbors” that might have strolled by with an arsenal.  They weren’t going to talk to us, but hey, what the fuck else do we have to do?  I was given control of a squad of Iraqi’s whose leader was nicknamed “Machine Gun.”  I’m guessing it was because he was carrying a… MACHINE GUN.  Some jackass soldier probably called him that and now this dipshit thinks it’s an awesome name.  You might as well call yourself “stinky bastard with two arms and legs.”

Machine Gun had a brown-nosing buddy I’ll call Pip.  Pip was a scrawny, hyperactive guy who was always in my face trying to tell me things like, “mistah, over here, no good.”  To which I would reply, “Yes, Pip, blood on the wall, no good.  Good job, guy.”  I noticed every time Pip tried to get me to investigate something, Machine Gun was stoically posed on the back of an Iraqi pick-up truck and yes, he still had his machine gun and Rambo style head wrap.  Pip had to look back at Machine Gun while flailing his arms in frustration when I refused to go anywhere with him while Machine Gun just stared.  This behavior was a red flag to me.  Why was Pip so upset and why was he always trying to get Machine Gun’s attention?

On the back of an Iraqi army pick-up. Notice how I'm in control of the big weapon
and how this bastard is holding his AK-47...  not safe... not ever. And yes, I was
probably talking shit.

Later in the patrol I found myself on the outside of a cluster of dirt hut homes while the platoon attempted to make nice with the locals.  I was over it so I joined our guys on the outside when Pip frantically came up to me gesturing to follow.  I told my guys to stay back and decided to follow Pip to the end of the cluster.  I stopped so my soldiers could still have eyes on me only 50 meters away.  At that point Pip pointed down a nasty back ally next to Machine Gun’s truck.  The wind picked up and we already had overcast skies.  This didn’t feel right.

Pip changed his innocent tone and grabbed me.  With all my gear on he couldn’t succeed.  I noticed his men started to circle and Machine Gun aggressively jumped off his truck to walk towards me.  This prompted me to swat Pip’s grip from my arm.

“Sergeant Vance?!” a soldier yelled from the cluster.

“Stay back!” I hollered in fear that this was about to go south.

I needed my guys at a safe distance to possibly light these fuckers up after they lay waste to me.  If White came closer, they would be at risk as well and that would be selfish on my part to invite them into whatever was about to happen.

As Machine Gun closed in more, Pip jumped at me and violently grabbed my vest to drag me in a certain direction.  Then I saw the opportunity I was looking for.  In moments like this you think, “Just shoot them!” but you have to understand that you don’t know the language and it might be a legitimate threat Pip is trying to tell you about.  It still just didn’t feel right.  In that particular moment I decided to send a message to the Iraqi’s to stand down or I’m going to kill everything.  Yes, even those chickens roaming the streets that won’t shut the fuck up, adding to the commotion.

Pip was wearing two grenades on his vest.  Can you see where I’m going with this?  As his men drew closer and I was fearful of being dragged away to be decapitated on Al-Jazeera, I grabbed one of the grenades and slipped my index finger thru the safety.  Pip’s men instantly stopped and his face turned white.  I smiled.  Pip thought for a second and smiled back.  I took this as him thinking I was bluffing, so I widened my eyes and grabbed the same grenade with my other hand to get a better grip on the safety pin.  I then dropped my smile and pulled the pin halfway out.  It’s pointless to be taken alive, because they are just going to torture you and kill you very publicly.  If I’m going out, I’m taking as many enemy units as I can with me.

“No, no, NO! MISTAH NO!” Pip squirmed and squealed.

“Back the FUCK UP. YELLA!” I barked.

You don’t have to speak English to understand when an American soldier isn’t playing around, but I reinforced it with “Yella” which is Arabic for “Go away.”  All the Iraqi’s backed up with hands in the air as my guys came flying up for intimidation.  Perfect timing.  I pushed the safety pin back into place, Pip gave a big sigh of relief as we all slowly dispersed and higher ups on both sides came to investigate.

What Pip didn’t know is that I was prepared to give everything in service to my country and to protect my brothers.  I had to show the enemy that was disguised as a friend that we were lunatics, thus making them think twice before messing with an American they now called “Crazy.”  Everyday after that when we had joint patrols, we all kept our distance as I smiled and shouted “Machine Gun!” he would hesitantly smile and shout back, “Crazy!”  Burn in hell after you rot in Tibij, buddy.

My mentality while overseas is tattooed on my ribcage…

“God,

help my men today,

help me be strong to protect them,

if anyone should fall let it be me.

Thank you.”

Marinate on that the next time you think radicals are the only ones prepared to die for a cause.  My cause is protecting my people.  Deuces.

Song Du Jour

Sadam's famed Cross Sabres over his parade field right outside F.O.B. Union III           

I encountered all kinds of music from various comrades while serving.  I got into country because it relaxes me.  I got into heavy metal because the growling, longhaired and heavily pierced screamer that sounded like a constipated bear bellowing "KICK THE PUPPIES, EAT THE BABIES," actually made sense to me in the middle of a firefight. Then there is music that nobody understands why I listen to it.

           

Crazyhorse Troop had been going balls to the wall for over 9 months when we finally got a time to rest in the land known as “The Green Zone.” Holy shit this place was paradise.  People that were there for the duration of their time in Iraq had no idea how nice they had it.  We got to stay in an old administrative building near the Bath Party Headquarters on F.O.B. Union III that was half collapsed in the middle from a bomb during the invasion.  We stayed on the second floor and spent down time smoking cigarettes and playing the guitar.  Occasionally we would be entertained by people running and screaming for shelter.

            “What’s that noise, Puppet?” I asked.

            “I think it’s an alarm for incoming,” Puppet replied.

We never had the luxury of a warning before.  We knew the incoming rounds weren’t going to land on the F.O.B. that day, because we didn’t hear the whistle the rounds make if they are close.  However, the people who never went outside the wire sure as hell didn’t know that.  They were screaming and scurrying like scared squirrels to find a hard shelter while dawning green helmets and black protective vests.  They had no idea where they were going, but it was fascinating to see people freak out when the danger was so far off.

            “The fuck are they doing, Vance?” Puppet asked.

            “I can’t breathe!” I laughed.

            You’ll have to forgive us for being so desensitized.  Actually, don’t.  Just get used to it. 

            Our tempo slowed to just two missions or patrols a day and spending a week at a time at C.O.P. Remagen then going back to missions for a couple more weeks.  After mission we would go to the open area created by the invasion’s blasts.  There was a local guy that was allowed to come in, set up a kabob stand and sell cheap food to some stinky soldiers.  We simply referred to the area as “The Hodgy Stand.”  The local guy also set up a small tube TV with a Jerry-rigged antenna that would make even McGuiver jealous.

            The TV in the Hodgy Stand would only show 3 channels.  One was news in Arabic.  Another was an Arabic music video station.  The third showed American music videos.  The thing about that channel is that it showed the same three videos all-day, everyday.   So after mission we would run to the Hodgy Stand to eat kabobs, drink stale Pepsi from tiny 8 oz. cans, smoke and watch these videos to relax, but what was so special about these videos?

            Before I reveal these videos I feel the need to ask you to imagine our mindset.  We had been living like savages and this was the first nice place we came to.  It was the summer of 2007, we hadn’t seen a female since the previous summer and we stunk like shit.  We smelled so bad that we could be walking and as the wind picked up, we'd sniff something wonderful, stop dead in our tracks, simultaneously turn and BAM!

“Chicks dude.”

           

            Back at the Hodgy Stand we sat in awe as Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend,” and Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” echoed throughout the accidental courtyard.  White Platoon found an escape.  These songs brought us such happiness that we were there almost everyday.  Rihanna was in sparkling silver body paint sounding like a stuttering badass with her “ella, ella, ella, eh, eh, oh.”  Avril was running around in a schoolgirl outfit being chased by a hotter version of herself.  Fergie was rockin’ tight jeans and a pouty face while leaving her man.  That’s right, Fergie, leave that asshole and find a better man.  I’m single.  Just saying.  No?  That’s cool.

Me jammin' and smokin' between missions with a shaved head.

            Those videos created a memory of my brothers just relaxing in a world of madness and a time where we weren’t screaming obscenities at each other and the higher ups left us alone.  It was peace during war.  It’s a great memory.  Memories like this one help all of us deal with the bad ones.  I always urge veterans to think like this, because I’ve seen too many good men be swallowed by grief.  We’re lucky to be alive… now live!

            After getting out of the military I had a long wait before I could start contracting overseas so I picked up two local jobs to pass time and pay the bills.  I started serving tables at a neighborhood bar, Ramparts, and drove for a catering company delivering food all over DC.  I would be cruising thru South East at 5 am in a really bad part of town and stop at a red light when I saw my surroundings and realized a decision had to be made.  There were gang members plotting some kind of early morning shenanigans and mean mugging me while completely stopped.  What do you do in that situation?

            I’ll tell ya what to do.  You act crazier than them to secur your life for another day.  Now how do you act crazy?  You crank the radio and sing as loud as you can while smiling and staring right back with the windows down.  What song happened to be playing on that fateful morning?

“Hey! Hey! You! YOU! I wanna be your girlfriend!” and the crowd dispersed.

            Whenever I hear those three songs come on the radio you can bet everything on me turning it up as loud as I possibly can and smiling for the duration.  I don't care who's watching and I obviously have no shame.

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.

Cox Rock, Tippin Wall

            “Kid Rock is going to be here tonight,” Jonesy said.

            “Yeah man, I hope we’re back from mission in time to see ‘em,” I replied.

            Our mission that night was to clear the train tracks of anything suspicious.  Insurgents had been using the area between the tracks and the elevated route Jackson paralleling the walls of F.O.B. Falcon in southern Baghdad to stage attacks and plant IED’s.  It was Christmas night and we wanted to get this done as quickly as possible to get back to see Kid Rock perform in the chow hall.  Priorities people.  We needed something to lift our spirits, so off we went into the night.

            “White 4, this is White 2. We’re stuck,” Staff Sergeant (SSG) Breastos said over the net.

            “2, 4. We just started 10 fucking minutes ago,” replied Sergeant First Class (SFC) Pons.

            “Roger.”

One of our many moments sinking into muddy sewage.  Smelled delicious!

            We rolled out into our AO like three ducks in a row with our Strykers.  Breastos’ truck was in the front as they ventured into murky ground.  It was hard to tell if the ground in front of us would hold because of the different layers of nastiness.  Human sewage would flow into any open area and mix with mud, giving the ground a greenish brown swirl that looked solid at night.  Our lead Stryker drove right in and sank on its left side.

            Our dismounts jumped out as the trucks maneuvered into position to pull out the stuck Stryker.  After trying several times with just one wench cable, we weren’t making any progress.  The Stryker kept sliding to its 9 o’clock.

            “Grab a snickers bar, gents,” I said.

            “Lets take the high ground and use two Strykers to pull ‘em out,” Shmiddie suggested.

            I directed our truck towards Jackson and we attached our wench cable to the vehicle in despair.  We were aligned to the stuck truck's 3 o’clock and prepared to be an anchor so it didn’t sink any further while the rear truck attempted to pull from the 6 o’clock position.

            If you know anything about wench cables then you know it takes a while to unwind them over 50 feet.  It didn’t help that our dismounts were trudging thru muddy sewage up to their knees.  As we were preparing the wenches, distant gunshots and explosions came closer.  Pons called in air support since we were struggling in the winter conditions and weren’t able to maneuver if a large enemy force decided to hit us.

Pulling the wench cable thru the muck... trust me, its there.

            “Shit!” hissed a soldier from the back right hatch after hearing a pop shot.

            “You OK back there?” I asked from the gunner’s hatch.

            “I think a sniper just took a shot at us.”

            “If you can hear a sniper’s shots, then you’re not being shot at.”

            “Good point.”

            Moments later two Blackhawks flew over to circle the area and scare off anyone thinking about taking advantage of our vulnerable position.  They announced their arrival by launching red and green flares 75 feet above our heads to light up the sky.

            “Wow! They fired Christmas colored flares for us!” Lemon rejoiced.

            I didn’t the heart to say, “You fucking tard. Those are just random.” 

            “Yeah man, Christmas colors for us.”

            We finally got the Stryker unstuck, but still had to complete the mission.  For the next hour we carefully and slowly moved down the train tracks looking for evidence of enemy activity while avoiding another sticky situation.  Finally we made it back to Falcon.  Most of the platoon was covered in mud as we shut down the trucks and hoped that Kid Rock was still performing for midnight chow.  We weren’t so lucky.

            “He fuckin’ killed it, man,” a friend from Alpha troop stated.

            “He’s all done?” I asked with a glimmer of hope that he wasn’t.

            “Yeah. He was shit housed, but still put on a show for us. He even got a little emotional.”

            “Great.”

            We pathetically moved back to the old Iraqi barracks we were living in and crashed for the night, all the while wondering how awesome the performance was.  It was still amazing Kid Rock took the time and flew into a dangerous area to perform for troops in dire need of a little entertainment.  We were so close.

            Famous people do USO tours all the time and its rare that you get an act that is mutually liked across the board such as Kid Rock.  Later that year we got a visit from a rapper I wasn’t too excited about, but I was off mission and went to check it out anyways.  He was in Baghdad to say “hi” and take pictures.  That’s more than I can say for most celebrities.

            “Gonna go see Paul Wall, Vance?” D asked.

            “Sure, why not,” I answered.

            It was late in our 15-month tour and we had the privilege of moving into the Green Zone for the last few months.  Hello paradise and good living.  We walked down to the coffee shop and waited in line as a member of Wall’s entourage passed out pictures we could get signed.  Yes, I still have it to this day.  

One soldier had a fake dental grill and put it in to pose with Paul Wall.  He thought it would be a good idea since Wall had colorful dental work as well.  Wall just looked at the soldier like he was crazy.  It didn’t help that the soldier kept saying, “Yo! What it do?!”  I kinda felt bad for Wall when dealing with fans like that.  I had another approach when it was my turn to meet him.

What it do?

“Hey, man,” I said like a normal human being.

“How ya doin?” he asked.

“We all appreciate you coming all the way out here.”

“No.  I appreciate you all.”

Wall looked me right in the eye with a straight face when he said that.  It hit me that he really gave a shit and wasn’t just doing this for a publicity stunt.  I had a newfound respect for someone I had just met.  Did I mention how surprised I was that I was taller than him?  I was so happy I was taller than someone famous.  Rappers all look so big and tough when they’re “pimpin’ hoes” on TV.  Bottom line is that Paul Wall was the real deal and his appearance gave us something to talk about for a day.

 

During my second deployment, we were on QRF when we got a call to come pick some people up at headquarters and give them a ride in a Stryker around C.O.P. Cobra.  I had no idea that the Marlboro-looking gentleman standing out of the hatch next to me was none other than country star, Aaron Tippin.  I thought we were giving some politician a ride for what we call a “Dog and Pony Show” where we pretend to be happy and get cleaned up for high-ranking personnel.  Not the case this time.  Tippin was quiet and completely respectful while on our Stryker.

Tippin stopped by with a small entourage and Fox news contributor Bill Cox.  Cox had some hilarious stories from his time in Vietnam, but out of complete respect for him I’ll keep those between him and us.  I had to leave their appearance early for QRF purposes, but I heard Tippin played five songs and had to leave.  I asked Mickey to ask both men to sign my guitar and they did so without hesitation.  That guitar hangs high in my house today.

Its not a celebrity's job to “support the troops” or not cry over a broken nail and report it on twitter, but it means so much to people overseas to simply make an appearance.  Just think of all the emotional times, whether good or bad, like at a wedding or a funeral in your life.  Now think about how good it felt to see someone’s face as they walked thru the door to hug you during those emotional times.  You didn’t care what they had to give you or what they had to say.  You only cared that they were there.  That’s how people overseas feel when celebrities simply show up and we’ll always be thankful.

Meat Gazer

            “We got a squatter!” I announced brazenly from the latrine.

            “Ohhhhh!” responded the long line of Crazyhorse men waiting to take a piss test.

           

During a urinalysis to test for illegal drug abuse in the ranks, there is one soldier that documents everything and has to take a class in order to be in that position.  Another soldier is picked at random to be the meat gazer.  That lucky soldier was responsible for going into the latrine with each soldier and watching him urinate to verify that the piss in the cup was indeed his.  Oh my.

When I was selected to be a meat gazer I would turn it into a show, because if I had to do that disturbing duty I might as well have fun with it.  Some guys would get nervous pissing in front of another man and we dubbed that fear “stage fright.”  If a soldier had stage fright we would make them drink copious amounts of water until he couldn’t hold his urine any longer.  That tactic never made sense to me, as I’m sure it diluted any trace of drugs.  To help some friends that had substance abuse problems, I just kept quiet about the dilution.

Some soldiers would just need some help urinating and no, I’m not talking about physically helping them down below, you pervert.  Simply turning on the sink and talking about waterfalls would do the trick.  With other soldiers I would stand about two inches behind them.

“How ya doin’ there, buddy?” I’d awkwardly ask.

“Oh fuck off, man,” they’d all reply.

“Everything going OK down there?”

“I hate you right now.”

To mess with them even more I would wait until I heard them pissing and then start massaging their shoulders.  Since they were in the act of filling the cup, they couldn’t turn to punch me in the throat, so it was funny to see them squirm and freak out.  To civilians this seems creepy, but to those of us watching in line it was pure entertainment.  Every now and then we would have a special case.  A soldier would turn to me with dreaded verbiage.

“Sergeant Vance, I have to go number two,” a soldier said.

“You motherfucker,” I responded with dead eyes.

“So what do we do?”

“You will sit your ass on that toilet and I will grab a chair and sit down right in front of you in the stall.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah, its game on. You don’t get off that easy. Have fun filling that cup with piss while you’re trying to drop a deuce.”

A soldier that had to go poo would be deemed a “squatter.”  It could be an innocent coincidence or it might be an attempt to be in private to swap another soldiers urine sample with his own.  The trick for me was making people feel uncomfortable.  I never had to literally check out somebody doing their business.  I was just boisterous and close enough to deter them from trying to cheat the system or putting me in a shitty spot to either report them or do something immoral.  Finding a spot on the wall just over their shoulders was my point of focus.

The things soldiers have to do in the military isn’t quite what you thought now is it?  No worries, because many of us would rather not enlighten the world of certain duties such as being a meat gazer.  I, on the other hand, don’t give a shit.  I just want to be as accurate as possible so you know exactly what randomness we do on the daily.  Also, this will open your eyes on what to expect with that veteran you just started dating… hahaha!  We’re all a little loopy, so don’t judge.  Even you have issues.

Hippies Throw Oranges?

            “At least its not like Vietnam and everyone supports the troops.”

            “Oh look at you, living in your tiny bubble.”

            I received mixed reactions from different groups of people in my life when I enlisted.  My family didn’t quite know how to react and usually just asked if I was sure I wanted to commit to something like that.  Most of my friends were the same way since not too many of us joined the service.  A lot of people were just curiously excited to know someone about to go to a once in a generation war.  One irate female cussed me out in front of a restaurant full of people.

            “So hey guys, I decided to enlist over spring break,” I mentioned.

            “Are you a fucking idiot?!” a girl yelled as she stood up at the table.

            “Probably.”

            “Did you at least sign up to be an officer?”

            “Nope.”

            I definitely didn’t see that reaction coming.  It was my first encounter with a strongly opinionated person that wasn’t fond of the idea of war.  I let her vent and feel good about herself and then quietly left.  The things that people say about events that are set in motion won’t matter in the long run.  Ultimately that girl was the “fucking idiot” for attempting to humiliate a guy that just wanted to go on an adventure helping a country that couldn’t help itself.  There’s nothing wrong with voicing an opinion, but for God’s sake at least find out why somebody enlisted before assuming they did it in the name of killing other human beings.

           

            Off I went to the army and my first duty station was at Fort Lewis, Washington.  Hello west coast.  On the weekends we would do anything to get out of the barracks.  Along the I-5 corridor the three major cities for “Joes” to go party at are Seattle, Tacoma and Olympia.  Tacoma was the closest place to base and although the locals loathed our primitive behavior, we supplied a lot of money to their economy so they put up with us.  Seattle was 45 minutes north and far enough away that people maintained a “support the troops” attitude, but it was close enough so that college boys recognized our hair cuts and stayed out of our way when talking to college ladies.  Olympia was another story.

            “You’re in the service aren’t ya, boy,” an old man grumbled with a sneer.

            “Yes, sir,” I replied with a smile.

            “Then fuck you! FUCK YOU! Fuck all you baby killers!”

            I was in shock.  Then I was angry.  Then I was just confused.  Olympia, for the most part, was home of the hippies.  They didn’t care what your reasons were for joining or what was really going on overseas.  They just wanted somebody to hate.  Our haircuts easily gave us away in a city where musicians and white Rastafarians roamed the streets.  Some bars solely existed for political gatherings.  That old man at the bar almost got pummeled, but we decided to walk it off to the next bar.  From that night on we tried avoiding places of that nature.

            After my first deployment, our Strykers were loaded onto huge ships and we flew home, except a small contingent of soldiers that stayed with the Strykers for security thru pirate-infested waters.  The ships arrived about a month later at one of our local ports.  We notified the public the ships were arriving at a different port than the actual destination to avoid a hippy gathering.  It wasn’t long before they figured it out.

            The first wave of Strykers were off the boat and ready to convoy back to Lewis.  Police officers were at the gates of the port to both escort us while on the highway and keep the hippies back.  The hippie’s numbers swelled.  I was in the second chalk (convoy) and watched as the first chalk took off.  The hippies managed to cross in front of the convoy while being chained to each other with metal pipes.  Apparently they thought this would stop us.  The police were very effective in moving them back off the road after a few minutes, but then things got a little juicy.

            “These assholes are throwing oranges at us!” one soldier said.

            “Oranges?” I asked.

            “Yeah, who the fuck throws oranges?”

            “That’s gotta hurt. There’s nothing peaceful about being hit with an orange. What kind of hippies are these?”
            As the first chalk continued thru the gates, a hippy driving a car decided he was going to ram a Stryker with his Pinto sized vehicle.  This was funny because that hippy didn’t realize a Stryker was 20 tons until he was just meters away and changed his mind, slamming on his breaks.  I definitely thought hippies were peaceful people.  Not so much.  Throwing heavy fruit and trying to ram us with cars was a lot different than flowers in your hair.  What would they do next?

            One hippy actually pulled a Tie Neman Square by lying down flat in the middle of the road in an attempt to stop the convoy and allow further attacks on us.  What that hippy didn’t know is that there was easily two feet of clearance under a Stryker and we could drive over them without causing any bodily harm.

            “We got one lying down up here. Want me to just run her over since we ain’t gonna actually touch her?”

            “Nah, cause then she’ll sit up as we’re rolling over her and I don’t wanna clean that mess up. We just got these washed.”

            It was time for my chalk to start its move.  The gates to the port were pretty far away and we couldn’t see exactly what was going on, so for all we knew we were about to get an orange barrage to the face.  Instead we got a nice surprise from the local police force.  They were armed with paintball guns and sprayed the out of control group of anti-war hippies.  By the time my Stryker made it thru the gates, the hippies were doused in multi-color paint splatters, holding hands and flipping us the peace sign.  Finally, a stereotypical hippy move!  We laughed and waved to the police as they waved back and cheered us on. 

“Mat, why don’t you ever fight back when people act so rudely about something they know nothing about?”

People ask me this all the time.  If I fought back it would ruin everything I believe in about being a soldier.  I’ve had things hurled at me, been cussed at, spat at and threatened on many levels, but I’ve never raised a hand at the people that disrespect us.  It’s a freedom they have and we secure it for them.  Many years from now nobody will remember what the hippies did, but they sure as hell will remember what soldiers did in a time of war.  Perhaps one day I will fight back and I feel sorry for the family of the person on the receiving end of that, but for now I can only smile and walk away from people that will never understand what soldiers really do.

Face Raped

            “Oh yeah, I see poison or venom in the middle there,” one medic said.

            “The dark shit in the middle? I see it alright,” another medic announced.

            “So how do you fix it?” I asked.

            “Just don’t touch it. Yeah, just don’t touch it.”

            “You don’t have anything, to help me out?”

            “Let us know if it gets worse?”

            “Wow.”

            In late February of 2007, White platoon was preparing to move from F.O.B. Falcon to F.O.B. Union III in central Baghdad.  Temperatures were in the glorious 80’s as we moved our equipment.  Between runs to our new home we had a few hours to eat and sleep so I crashed on the shrapnel proof matted and dusty floor of a Stryker.  I bundled up some camouflage netting to use as a pillow.

            A few hours later I woke and utilized the latrine.  As I was washing my face, I noticed two tiny white dots right above my chin.  They were very close together and I assumed they were new pimples, so I popped them both and rolled out.  While dropping off some wounded locals to medical facilities we picked up on the way, I kept asking Shmiddie the same question.

            “What’s the temperature?” I asked.

            “For the hundredth fuckin’ time food stamp, I don’t know. What’s wrong with you today?” he bickered back.

            “I got the shakes man.”

            “There’s no way you should be cold.”

            “I’m freezing.”

            All the way back to Falcon I was shaking in the gunner’s hatch.  I had no idea what was wrong with me.  We parked our vehicles for a couple more hours of rest.

            “What’s on your face, Vance? Herpes of the mouth?” Puppet asked.

            “Huh?” I responded quivering.

            “There’s a big ass red thing on your chin.”

            The two little pimples joined forces and started to swell.  I felt a pulse on my own damn chin and it started to burn.  What the hell.  I hadn’t missed a single mission to injury or maintenance, so I just manned up and got ready to roll out again.  White got set to roll for a third time that day by lining up at the gate and test firing our weapons.  I had trouble seeing, my hands locked up like I had carpal tunnel and every single joint in my body began to ache.  Standing up in the gunners hatch became an issue.

            “Shmiddie, he’s fucked!” our medic, Bullis, yelled from the inside of our Stryker while looking up at me.

            “I’m good,” I pathetically argued as I mean mugged Bullis.

            “Vance I don’t even recognize your voice. Sometimes you just have to sit one out. We’re dropping you off and you’re going to go rest,” Shmiddie ordered.

            “Roger.”

            I went back to my room, hit the mattress resting on a cot, bundled up and passed out.  I didn’t even hear White come back.  I woke up 11 hours later thinking I had pissed my pants.  It was sweat.  I completely sweated thru the mattress.  Disgusting.  The good news was the fever broke and I started feeling better.

            “We’ll get you checked out at Union III,” Shmiddie affirmed as we prepped for a morning convoy north.

            Half of my chin had been covered in this scab-looking crater with an extremely dark color in the shape of a cartoonish lightening bolt in the center.  With the exception of the superhero symbol center, it resembled a nasty fever blister, or as Puppet dubbed it, herpes of the mouth.  To this day, I still have a zigzag scar just above the right side of my chin where the dark center was.  We tried to find out how I got it when the light bulb went on above my head.  That camouflage netting I used as a pillow!  We always found critters hiding in that thing.  Some nasty spider crawled on my face and took a bite.  I hope it crawled in my mouth and I ate it in my slumber.  Lesson learned.  Bastard.