Welcome Mat

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

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

“OK, cool.”

Dumbass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hahahaha!” went the veterans.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

“Good point.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome to Iraq.”

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

The FOBbit: An Expected Journey

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

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

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

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

“Who you talkin’ to?”

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

“Yeeee, we done.”

“And no.”

“No?”

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

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

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

"Tell me the pleasantries of your hometown."

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché.”

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

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

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

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

Ahhh, the good ole days.”

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

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

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

Privates are DUMB

“Hey private,” SGT Gindle beckoned.

“Yes, Sergeant!” yelled the motivated FNG.

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

“How do I do that, Sergeant?”

“You fucking kidding me, private?”

“No sergeant,” hanging his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here, ding-a-ling!”

“Moving sergeant!”

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

“Where do I take the sample, sergeant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Moving sergeant!” Golden replied.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Sergeant Vines?” Golden murmured.

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

“I need to get a… Prick E-6?”

“Whad yew cawll me?”

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

“Naw who sent yew?”

“Sergeant Fergie, sergeant.”

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

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

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

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

“Eh Vancey-poo,” Shmiddie chirped.

“Sergeant?”

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

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

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

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

“Sergeant Shmiddie, we have a problem.”

“How’s that? You’re my Vancey-poo.”

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

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

“It aint called a rear sight plate.”

“Well then that thingy right there.”

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

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

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

“I’m telling ya that’s all I did.”

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

Thanks for the poor English lesson.

“Soooo am I in trouble.”

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

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

Operation Charlie Mike

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

http://www.operationcharliemike.com/

Mat

Bored2 + Curious2 = Stupid2

            “That’s the biggest, hairiest, most colorful caterpillar we could find,” Williams said.

            “Alright, get the pot up to 50 bucks and I’ll eat it,” JT promised.

            “All we got is 15.”

            “Close enough.”

            A few of us had finished our land navigation early and decided to gather at the top of a moss-covered hill near Fort Knox, Kentucky during basic training to hide from those scary drill sergeants, or drills.  JT grabbed the juicy critter and held it in suspense over his mouth as his head tilted back.  None of us had seen entertainment like this since Private Sore-ass rubbed Icy-Hot on his balls for $12.  Basic training drove us to such extremes to pass time between getting smoked by the drills.

            “No, no, no!  Oh shit, ew, ew, ewwww!” we all gasped.

            JT smiled, chewed and swallowed what hoped to become a butterfly, but those dreams were cut short thanks to a bunch of bored privates.  This boredom killer of a ritual didn’t stop in basic.  It would follow me throughout my entire time in the army.  The only difference was that as privates became soldiers, money didn’t have to be the great motivator.

I’ll always say that I never met a dirt bag until I joined the army.  One in particular was a plus sized Puerto Rican named Soar-ass.  He had a hilarious lisp when he spoke.  Now to his credit he could somehow move his jellyroll-looking body real fast, but besides that he was only good for comic relief for the rest of us.  He was also going thru OSUT to be a Nasty Girl and I’ll never forget the day our drills told him that his unit was activated to deploy and he would join them as soon as he graduated.

“Soar-ass! Your Pennsylvania unit has been activated!” yelled a drill.

“Like, what do you mean drill sergeant?” he whined.

“It means you are going to deploy, buttercup!”

“Yes, drill sergeant,” and the panic set in.

Soar-ass didn’t join the army to deploy, which made us all very curious as to why he would enlist in combat arms during a time that our country was in two different wars.

“Guys I don’t want to go!”

“Then why are you here?” we questioned.

“To look good in uniform for my family to be proud.”

Yet another moment that everyone’s jaws dropped.  To look good in uniform.  You have to be fucking kidding me.  That was his mentality throughout OSUT; to just do the bare minimum to get that uniform.  We didn’t like Soar-ass much after that, so there was one night we got him to do something incredibly stupid.

I was in my room getting ready for lights out one night when I heard an awful scream from down the hall.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” screamed Soar-ass as he ran down the hall and into the cleaning closet across the hall from my room.

“What was that all about?” I asked my bunkmates.

I didn’t get an answer so we piled into the hallway to look into the closet only to see Soar-ass spread eagle with his pants down and the sink turned on full blast and aimed at his crotch.

“I put Icy-Hot on my balls,” he moaned.

The entire 45 man-platoon erupted into laughter.  I couldn’t sleep too well after that.  Sleep was something that just didn’t happen much during OSUT due to the training schedule or guys putting spicy cream on their nut sack.  You have to laugh at the little things.

Ritalin

The only other time I was smoked as an individual was due to an investigation.  An investigation as to who had chewing tobacco.  I know, how trifling.  No one was allowed to chew or smoke tobacco during basic.  Even the drills weren’t supposed to smoke, chew or drink around the privates, so you know damn well they were always in a pissy mood and if they couldn’t do it we’d be punished harshly for such acts.  One of the drills still managed to fill his camelback with whiskey for every march we did.  We got a buzz just smelling it come out of his sweaty pores. 

            The person in question during this investigation was someone I became good pals with, JT.  He was a tall, skinny, white Kentucky boy with a southern draw and lots of confidence.  JT wasn’t afraid of anything and he enjoyed living life to the fullest.  He was the guy that would take bets to eat certain critters, such as a thumb sized, multi-colored, hairy caterpillar.  JT was going thru basic to be in the National Guard, or Nasty Girl as us regular army people called them.  One thing JT missed just as much as his girlfriend during basic was chewing tobacco.  Somehow he had it smuggled in and had gotten away with it for a couple of months, but he messed up and a drill found a dip can hidden in the bathroom, or latrine, excuse my French.  Learning military dialect was always hilarious to me.

            The drill was furious that one of his privates was enjoying something that he could not openly do.  This is when drills take their platoons to the “Pit.”  The Pit was a 50 x 50 foot area filled with 3-5 inches of sawdust.  If you managed to piss the drill off to the point of going to the Pit then you were in for a long fucking day.  The Pit was covered to keep the sawdust extra dry.  As you do various exercises the sawdust kicks up and you have no choice but to inhale it into your lungs.  This makes breathing very difficult and usually creates quick results when a drill needs answers.  Unfortunately for our drills, we were a tight nit platoon and not so eager to rat on a good man.  Unfortunately for JT there would eventually be a rat and it would be one of his own bunkmates.

                I was in the leadership room with only four others.  Typically if anyone messed up, we would be replaced.  We made it thru most of the 16 weeks of training together, which was unheard of.  JT was one of those leaders.  The rat in the house, Ritalin, was another.  Ritalin was only in that room because he was good with computer programs the drills used to keep all the private’s training and progress in order.  Ritalin had dark brown hair and freckles peppered his cheeks.  He was of average height, thin, completely nonathletic and annoyingly hyper.  The kid was also a pathological liar. 

Ritalin knew we couldn’t prove anything he said during basic, so he filled us with a lot of BS.  He told us his great, great grandfather was the first recipient of the Medal of Honor during the Civil War and that his brother had recently earned one in Iraq as a scout.  Ritalin said his brother was killed while earning the medal, so of course none of us contested his proud claims.

            After basic I regained access to the Internet and did some research.  That lying motherfucker.  He also claimed that he was higher ranking than all of us, because he had done college courses and JROTC during high school.  The rank was definitely a lie too; only it was a drill that called him out in front of everyone.

            “That’s not the way it works, private, so shut the fuck up!“ yelled the drill.

            If our eyes represented applause, that drill got the longest call for an encore in the history of mankind that day.

            Back in the Pit we continued to sweat and gasp for air.

            “Whoever did it just fess up and stop being a blue falcon,” cried Ritalin.

            “Shut the fuck up, private!” even the drill despised that little shit bird.

            The term “blue falcon” was synonymous with “buddy fucker.”  The drill realized the Pit wasn’t working and sent us into the barracks to stand by for another smoke session.  As the drills were plotting our torturous night to come, the platoon’s leaders gathered.

            “Vance, I’m just going to call it,” JT told me.

            “Yeah, you should admit it you fucking buddy fucker!” Ritalin screeched.

            “Just for that outburst, let it ride JT,” I suggested while glaring at Ritalin, “as far as the drill knows, that dip can has been in the latrine since the last cycle of privates.”

            Ritalin looked like he was going to cry.  A drill walked into our room first. 

            “I’m going to make the walls wet with your sweat if I don’t get answers, privates.”

            I could tell immediately he was bluffing and about to just smoke us for a few minutes then call it a night.  Ritalin wasn’t so good at reading people.

            “I know who did it drill sergeant,” the drill turned to Ritalin and he about crapped his pants, “well, I mean, I know that Vance knows who did it, drill sergeant.”

            “The fuck I do Ritalin,” I denied.

            “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Vance,” the drill snapped, “Well, who did it?”

            “Drill sergeant, I do not know who did it.”

            “Yeah you do Vance, just say it,” yet another weak, whiny cry from Ritalin that made me think of the part from the Never-Ending Story where the girl keeps saying, “Say my name Atreyu, just say my naaaaaaame.”  You know what I’m talking about ‘80’s babies!

            “No I do not.”

            “Step into my office, Vance,” said the drill with a calmer voice.

            JT looked like he was about to say something as the drill turned his back, but I shook my head at him to keep quiet.  The drill smoked me for only a few minutes.  We both knew I wasn’t going to talk even though we both knew I had answers.  JT was too good of a man to watch me suffer so he told the drill the truth and said I knew nothing.  It was a blatant lie about my knowledge of the situation, but neither JT nor the drill believed a person should be punished for not ratting in that particular situation. 

            Unfortunately for JT, lying to a non-commissioned officer, or NCO, was a punishable offense.  He was kicked out of the leadership room and paperwork was being done to strip his Private First Class E-3 rank to be replaced by Private E-2 rank.  He was also put on 30 days extra duty, which meant the drills would have extra work for him even after each long day of training.  The next 30 days would suck for JT.  As he was getting an initial ass chewing from a drill, I was in the leadership room with Ritalin.

            “See dude, its all good,” Ritalin said in an attempt to rid my face of rage.

            I was seeing red and I know the room was left to just us by our other bunkmates for a reason.  It was a moment that happened throughout basic in different forms for a private to be fixed violently by another private.  We never had “pillow fights,” which were pillowcases filled with soap bars used to beat a blue falcon in his sleep.  That was a more old-school approach.  In our platoon, we just arranged for a room or latrine to be emptied except for the privates that needed to fix a problem.  It was just Ritalin standing 15 feet away from me in our empty room and a quiet hallway beside us.  Rucksacks and duffel bags stood in my way.  I had to beat him to a pulp for such cowardice.  As soon as he spoke I B-lined it toward him at a high rate of speed, kicking and throwing everything in my path right at him.

            “You fucking coward! Pussy-ass piece of shit!” I bellowed.

            He was out the door before the first rucksack hit the ground and no, I have no idea what a “pussy-ass piece of shit” is, but that’s what naturally came out during my temper tantrum.  I’m actually glad I didn’t get the chance to cave his face in, because he most likely would have tattled.  Ritalin hid from me until he could request to change rooms from a drill.  My platoon approved of all my actions and Ritalin was ignored for the remainder of our 16-weeks of training.  Even the drills knew what had happened and ignored my attack.  In that moment I had to take a relationship with a friend and ask if it was worth losing rank over.  I chose my friend.  Life in the military would put me in several different situations with these options.  JT’s situation was the easiest decision in 6 ½ years of service.