Archive for the ‘Guest Story’ Category

A Specialist who is currently still serving has written this and asked if he can share it with the world here. And since I am such a huge fan of having other people write stuff for my site, herbal I have agreed. Pretty much anyone who has ever served can identify with at least some part of this list. It seems to be a list themed week so far. I may need to run with that.

1. I am sick of shaving.
2. I am sick of weekly haircuts.
3. I am sick of military haircuts.
4. I am sick of waking up at 5:30 am
5. I am sick of formations.
6. I am sick of running.
7. I am sick of pushups
8. I am sick of sit-ups.
9. I am sick of PT.
10. I am sick of layouts.
11. I am sick of maintenance.
12. I am sick of motor pool closeouts.
13. I am sick of police calls.
14. Addendum to 13: I am sick of picking up smoker’s disgusting cigarette butts because they are too lazy and ill-disciplined to put them where they belong.
15. I am sick of waiting around for hours, ailment doing nothing, price but not allowed to leave work.
16. I am tired of driving. I have never had any real interest in it, and now, thanks to the Army forcing me to get a military license despite never having held a civilian license, I view it more as another degree of enslavement to the whims and fancies of others to such an extent that I categorically refuse to get a civilian license any time in the predictable future.
17. I am sick of downloading CONEXes to be inventoried, multiple times in a week.
18. I am of being treated like a child, all the while being told that the military makes you a man.
19. I am tired of mass punishment.
20. I am tired of being accused, even only by inference, of being a thief any time anything goes missing.
21. I am tired of being accused, by inference, of drug use when another person is caught using drugs.
22. I am tired of doing nothing for most of a day, then being kept late because someone else realized that they didn’t know where something was, and therefore, I have to try and find it for them.
23. I am tired of MREs
24. I am tired of military food.
25. I am tired of hearing cadences at 6:30 in the morning, especially when I have the day off.
26. I am sick of mandatory “fun” events.
27. I am sick of being told that I will enjoy something/have a good time, when it is plain that not only will I not have a good time/enjoy said activity, but I must participate in sports that I absolutely despise.
28. I am tired of being asked if I want to re-enlist.
29. I am tired of being asked why I do not want to re-enlist when I answer no.
30. I am tired of waking up at three AM to sit on guard. I know it is necessary, but that doesn’t make me hate it less.
31. I am tired of block leave being the only times I have available for leave.
32. I am tired of details, big and small.
33. I am tired of being tasked out to do other unit’s work for them.
34. I am tired of the bullshit associated with jumps.
35. I am tired of being told that if I PCS, I won’t have to jump again. I know that, but I won’t get a PCS approved without a re-enlistment contract, and that isn’t happening–see 1-33 inclusive, and 36-92 inclusive.
36. I am tired of safety briefs that completely fail to apply to me (most notably, being told not to drink and drive–see item 16. Note that many other things completely fail to apply to me, but drinking and driving is very high on the list.)
37. I am tired of hearing the same safety brief, three times in a day, from different people at different times.
38. I am tired of CQ shifts.
39. I am tired of Battalion Staff Duty Shifts.
40. I am quite certain that even one Brigade or Division Staff Duty Shift will be more than enough to make me despise them as well, given the likelihood of seeing an important personage, and then having to do some trivial, pointless, task to satisfy their whim/ego.
41. Field problems are aptly named–I am in the field, and that is a major problem. Camping trips are occasionally fun, but not when you have to repeat a task over and again, and then comply with standards that are completely disregarded in actual combat (e.g., safety stakes and safety Ts)
42. Dress right dress is getting pretty damn annoying, especially when it applies to tasks (i.e. someone else is doing it, therefore, we must as well)
43. Class A inspections. This would not be nearly so annoying if it wasn’t for the fact that they are the only reason that we have to wear them.
44. The fact that jump boots are going away, so I’d be forced to look like a goddamned leg during 43.
45. “E-5s and above, fall out of this formation. Battery, Attention! Half-right, FACE! Front-leaning rest position, MOVE!” every time someone makes their E-5 (or above).
46. Being told, “You’re doing great things for your country,” in an disingenuous tone of voice during any of the above.
47. Being told, “You’re doing great things for your country,” in a genuine tone of voice during any of the above.
48. Being told, “You’re doing great things for your country,” at any time, in any tone of voice, whatsoever.
49. My chain-of-command’s probable reaction to reading this. Yes, sir, I beat you to it.
50. Reward by punishment–while I am flattered that I am so highly thought of, I’d rather that you demonstrate it in a different manner than giving me more work to do.
51. Waking up at 0330, to go to a battery formation at 0400, to go to a battalion formation at 0430, to go to a brigade formation at 0500, to go to a division formation at 0600, to be ready for a division run at 0630.
52. Number 51 being the start of an exciting, fun-filled week filled with mandatory attendance of other team’s sporting events, as well as number 53.
53. Standing at parade rest, while carrying M-4 with bayonet, for over an hour in the hot-ass North Carolina sun while someone who has never served in the division, let alone the military, yammers on about how great we are.
54. Running back after 53.
55. Performing retirement ceremonies for important persons from other units–where the hell are their units, and why can’t they be bothered to march around in a circle for their CO?
56. The existence of Hooah!2O. That is crossing the line in terms of being entirely too full of one’s own propaganda; being a party to that shame is more than any man should be asked to bear, even if the complicity is only by association.
57. I miss my dogs.
58. I have a degree to complete, and no, I can’t complete it to the level I’d like to in the military.
59. I would, at some point in the near future, like to have a long-term girlfriend/lover/wife. Being in the military is not conducive to maintaining such a relationship, especially with the current 15 month deployments.
60. The fact that I can legitimately be questioned, and frequently am, about where I am going to and why I am doing that by people I have never met, have no connection to my unit, and I am unable to respond with the truth–namely, that it is none of their business, and that I resent the fact that I am being delayed in my errand by someone who does not belong to my unit for their own satisfaction– without serious repercussion.
61. Along those lines, being berated for failing to salute an officer who was crowded by NCOs (in a breach of military custom and courtesy, as they should have all been to the left and behind by half a pace) when I could not see said officer’s rank. In a combat zone. By an NCO who was reading a newspaper while walking, and decided that junior enlisted were easier targets to satisfy his ego, rather than correcting a continued breach that caused others to fail to notice an officer walking by. Oh, and said NCO also failed to correct another nearby NCO who also failed to salute, for the same reason that we did.
62. Being mandated to attend ceremonies for people who I have never met, are not in my unit, and otherwise unconnected to me by anything less tenuous than shared military service and proximity to their locale–often made close by their travel to my location from some other base.
63. Being required to respect the rank of an NCO who does not deserve his rank, does not deserve respect as a person, and is wholly incapable of showing anyone who is not his superior any respect whatsoever. Yes, Hall, I’m thinking of you.
64. I am far too available, for far too many people, to do far to many things for them, all the time.
65. I am not a messenger boy, I have not worked as a messenger boy, and I will not seek employment as a messenger boy. Unsurprisingly, I must play messenger boy far too often.
66. If I shoot someone in the face, I will get a medal. If I give someone who I am not married to an orgasm, I can go to jail. Go figure.
67. When I show initiative, I invariably fail to do it the way my superiors envisioned it being done, despite them having no idea that it needed to be done in the first place. This is cause to chastise me and make me do it over again.
68. When I learn the obvious lesson from 67 and not perform tasks without being given explicit directions, I am instead chastised for lacking initiative. Apparently, being right is not part of being junior enlisted.
69. If I am right about something when an NCO is incorrect, said NCO will then begin going through various and obscure “general knowledge” questions until he finds one that I do not immediately know the textbook answer to–which is then used as a pretext for doing pushups or other form of corrective training. The state of being junior enlisted is that of a zero-sum game: NCOs win, Joes must therefore lose.
70. Being told that becoming an NCO will remove the “junior-enlisted blues”. So will getting out, and it will also exempt me from the “NCO blues” and the “I have an idiot Joe, and must therefore get yelled at by 1SG and BC for his antics blues” that will inevitably come the instant that I become an NCO.
71. There is more to medicine than Motrin and water.
72. If it is comfortable, then it obviously is not military wear, nor is it authorized for wear at any time.
73. Being told about the “college option” for re-enlistment. I have a better college option–it’s called getting out.
74. Room inspections. From my personal experience, it is frequently an excuse to find something wrong with someone, and then berate/smoke/counsel them.
75. Legal extortion in the form of “voluntary” associations/charities, such as the 508th association, AER, and CFC–except that not contributing/joining results in, at the minimum, several stern lectures about supporting your unit, followed by a negative counseling statement. One would have thought that men in their thirties and forties would have grown out of taking the lunch money of those smaller and weaker to them.
76. Most places will fire you when you screw up sufficiently. Not so the Army! They will make you work more for less pay. This isn’t hard to avoid happening to you, but that isn’t really the point.
77. Stop-loss. When the previous 76 reasons kept someone from re-enlisting, the Army finds a way to make them stay in. You know, to piss them off.
78. Stop-move. This is even more fun than the above. See, it happens when someone decided their unit was crap quite some time before deployment orders came down, and then took appropriate action, including re-enlistment, to guarantee that they are not part of that unit. Then the Army says, “Too bad. Stay with them for another 18 months,” before laughing evilly.
79. “There is only one standard–the ARMY standard!” is a blatant lie. This wouldn’t be so bad, but it really applies to things like time off and leave/pass policies, where it seems some parts of the Army are geared to making the lives of their soldiers as miserable as possible on a division-wide scale.
80. The tendency for the aforementioned units to make their soldiers so in love with them that they desire nothing more than eternal servitude with them. It’s like battered wife syndrome.
81. The fact that the above 80 reasons are actually used by people to stay in because they love it so much. Do you really want to work with someone who enjoys absolutely everything you hate about your job?
82. The fact that the division to the left of this sentence has turned me into someone who actually has incorporated 44 into his being.
83. IRR recall as a means of coercion for re-enlistment. Yes, I have had several NCOs tell me that I was going to be recalled anyhow, so I may as well re-enlist. If that doesn’t make you love the Army, nothing will.
84. The Army will teach you valuable skills for life is a blatant lie. Well, unless sweeping rocks and parking cars in perfect lines are valuable skills.
85. Military logic is as follows: in the PX at Salerno (and others in Afghanistan) there is more Sergeant Major rank than there are Sergeants Major in Afghanistan–similarly with Colonels and CW5s, not to mention Major General. One can find no specialist rank. Not even a slot for them. You know, because that would make sense.
86. Keeping in line with the above: General order 1-A states that any sex outside of marriage during a deployment to the CENTCOM AO will result in UCMJ action. This is fine. What is not fine is that they then proceed to stock large quantities of condoms in the PX.
87. Another actual occurrence with the above: in the Jalalabad PX for a period of not less than a full week, there were the following items: three sizes of envelopes, two types of file folders, four types of paper, paper shredders–but not one pen or pencil.
88. Somehow they managed to find space to stock vehicle cell-phone chargers.
89. Being awoken less than two hours after I go to sleep after a 12 hour night shift to perform a detail that, and I quote, “won’t take long.” That phrase is a lie. If it wouldn’t take long, then why the hell are they waking up the night shift to do it when there are day shift guys sitting on their asses? Oh, and it did in fact, take long.
90. The Army Times is the Army propaganda magazine. This is not the problem. What is a problem is that, increasingly so, it is showing how the Army is failing soldiers. If your own propaganda machine cannot make you look good, it makes one wonder just what in the hell you’re missing that would make them look really bad.
91. Health and Welfare inspections: the reality of these is that they are not about the health and welfare of the soldiers. They are intended to catch someone doing something wrong. That is it. Things that actually affect the health and welfare of soldiers are a distant second. This includes decrepit barracks rooms in buildings that charitably should be condemned (see the Ft Bragg barracks incident. Also note that I live in one of those barracks). Catching someone with more booze than regs allow is more important than getting soldiers into decent housing.
92. Continuation to the above: married personnel are apparently exempt from this, as are senior enlisted personnel.

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No Shit there I was, Ramadi Iraq 2005, actually wait….. Back up. I can’t say “no shit” for this story as it’s central theme is just that.

I don’t know about your tours to the desert, but from my experience, H20 was never in short supply. It was located in huge bottles, on massive aircraft pallets located all over the FOB. It sat in the 110+ degree heat, and was like drinking fresh McDonalds lawsuit coffee only without the delicious coffee taste, and foamy clumpy shits that followed.

Ice in coolers did not hold up on three hour convoys, and the massive 2 liter water bottles took up way too much cooler space.

Gatorade was never plentiful, and was considered a rare treat when we could get our hands on it. One day the mess hall received three connexes full of grape flavored Gatorade in the 20oz bottles.

My Armorer, Young Specialist Wesley Green, whom you may or may not recall from my back scratcher story from a few weeks ago, took it upon himself to wheel and deal for a pallet of this grape-flavored nectar of the Gods. It cost us a broken Nautilus ab cruncher (but we had two in our gym and one was not on the property books).

This pallet was enjoyed by my orderly room staff exclusively for nearly a week.

That is when a few of my guys started noticing that their fecal matter color was changing. Bright hues of florescent green and yellow began to fill our Job Johnnys. Then one day our NBC Private, PFC Powell, whom you may remember as not being the smartest of privates, whom mistakenly purchased a douche for a female medic on my orders, decided to mess with Top, and try to get some free time off. He took a green chem light and a turkey baster (where in the hell he got a turkey baster in Iraq I have no clue) and inserted glowing green chem light juice in, on, and around his latest drop.

He came in and asked Top to take a look at the glowing pile of nuclear waste shit, and asked if he could be excused from duty to see the Medics and get some “bed rest”. Top was one of the brighter First Sergeants that I have dealt with, and made PFC Powell scoop out his creation to take with him to the medics. Since the medics hadn’t been aware of the tactically acquired Gatorade they were in for quite a shock when PFC Powell came in with his glowing sandwich baggy of poop. They immediately called the PA and the FOB surgeon. It was only when they were preparing to order an emergency Medivac did Top step up and say that his troop was simply sandbagging, and that the poor dumb bastard had just drank too much Gatorade, and added chem light juice. For some reason these Medics, the PA, and FOB Surgeon were all of the mindset that my young PFC had grew up in Chernobyl or discovered Saddam’s secret stash of WMDs. It wasn’t until Top, just through his “Top Glare”, made PFC Powell admit to what he had done that the FOB Medical staff relented.

What form of perverse punishment that Top gave PFC Powell eludes me at this time, but I’m sure that it was fitting. It does roll downhill after all.

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story by Donny, abortion written with help by skippy

One bright spring day our platoon was tasked with some combat training. specifically we were assigned to attack a fake village that would be populated with other soldiers pretending to be third world residents. Our goal was to neutralize HVTs. For the benefit of the non-military readers an HVT is a High Value Target. In other words the guys that we want to do bad things to.

The training village was a cluster of six buildings, illness ranging is size from a small single room dwelling to a large 2 story house. This building was practically a mansion by the standards of the other buildings, shop with several interconnected rooms. There was even an escape tunnel leading out of the village.

These buildings, like all urban combat simulators were constructed with thick slabs of concrete, to create a maximum of durabilty with a minimum of cost. Which are two desirable features for a building if you plan on letting soldiers run amok without any serious adult supervision.

My squad was the main effort, and so the large two story building was our target. We dismounted our Bradleys, sprinted to the building, and entered through a window. As we climbed the stairs we encountered light enemy resistance, which we quickly and professionally put down.

Once on the second floor, we began clearing all of the rooms. Within a short period of time we had swept through the area, and had already captured or killed every HVT except for one. And we only had one room left to check.

So my squad stacked up and I got the be the breacher. Again for the non-military types here, a breacher is the guy who gets the break the door down. As soon as he does that everyone else runs in, the goal being to put as many soldiers through the door as quickly as possible.

So I forced the door and watched my squad storm in to the sound of gunfire. As I tried to join them in the assault I collided with a team-mate who was standing in the doorway laughing. Despite the clear presence of an armed hostile my squad instead of opening fire, was doubling over with laughter. Feeling disgruntled I shoved my way into the room while shouting “What the hell is so funny?”

And then I saw.

Remember how I mentioned the nice thick walls in this place? Well aside from being durable thick cement also blocks sounds. And so the nice Sergeant who was playing the role of enemy combatant had not heard the raid starting. And having been left with some privacy for a while, he decided to conduct a private “weapons inspection”.

He was in fact rather enthusiastically in the middle of said inspection when my squad, rather rudely, broke the door down and barged in.

Now to his credit, he was able to change gears, and weapons, rather quickly. He dropped his gun, grabbed his rifle, and began what could under the circumstance only be referred to as a valiant last stand.

Unfortunately for him he had been caught with his pants down, red handed as it were.

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No shit there I was, because that is what all good army stories begin with.

So there I was, Camp Shelby MS. Pre-Mob OIF-IV. Soldiers of my unit were on “lock-down”, meaning they could go nowhere. After three and a half months of training the soldiers were given a two-day pass. Many had family make the 16 hour drive or three hour flight to come visit their soldiers.

This was no different for the unit armorer, we’ll call him young SPC Wesley Green. His brand new wife came down to visit, and they rented a hotel room to go and do the things that young married peoples do.

When he showed up at the orderly room to sign out, the First Sergeant was in a corner scratching his back with a wire coat hanger. “Specialist Green,” he intoned while still scratching, “It would behoove you to give us some contact information for your room, in the event of some sort of Armorer related emergency over the next few days. Am I clear?”

He was, and the Specialist ran off with his pass, eager to see his wife.

Now Young SPC Wesley Green was a conscientious soldier, and wanted to ensure that his First Sergeant could get a hold of him if he needed to. So, as soon as he got to the hotel room, he called back to the company orderly room and asked for “Top”. Top Toven put down the wire coat hanger that he was scratching his back with, and the conversation went as follows:

YSWG (Young SPC Wesley Green): Hey Top, I made it to the hotel, if you’re re..ady to wr-wr-wr..ite down the info, I….I’ll give it to you.

Top Toven: Glad to hear it, hope the hotel is nice, go ahead with that info.

YSWG: It it it…. The Best Western, on Bufford P.P.P.ike, the numb..er is, is…. Oh God, Where’s that number.

Top Toven: (in a very low and exasperated tone): It’s probably on the phone Wes.

YSWG: Oh that’s a good, ohhhhhh so gooood, idea, the number is 812*******.

Top Toven: Wes are you getting a blowjob, while talking to me?!?!

YSWG: ………. (sheepishly) Yes Top.

Top Toven: (screaming) Why you little Son of a…. I’m gonna kill you when you get back, I will PT you to death! *Slams down the phone!*

On the day that the troops returned from their pass, I was standing there watching. Top Toven was standing there as well, with that “Top look” on his face. I’ve seen 40 year-old men run from this look. This is the same guy that created the “fourth Army answer”. There are three generally accepted Army answers: “Yes”, “No”, and “I don’t know at this time, but I will find out and report back to you”. Top Toven created the fourth answer that only First Sergeants can use: “I don’t know, but I have a mother-fucking Frag Grenade, now get the fuck out of my orderly room, before I pull this fucking pin!”

Strolling up from the bus stop is Young Specialist Wesley Green, his head down, like a dog that knows it’s gonna get whipped. First Sergeant Toven, 6’4″, black belt in Tae Kwon Do, with his “Top Look”, now turned into a “Top Glare” was still waiting. As Young Specialist Wesley Green approached Top, he quickly produced a fine wooden, souvenir backscratcher, and said “Backscratcher Top!”

They say that First Sergeant Toven’s heart grew three sizes that day in Whoville, as all he did was snatch the backscratcher from Young SPC Wesley Green’s paws, clicked his heels in an about face, and marched off saying “I’ll take it!”

Attention to detail saved the day!

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When I was going through the Army LPN program at Ft. Sam Houston, pharm part of our course requirements was doing clinical rotations on the various floors and sections of the hospital. Most of the job was becoming familiar with doing complete patient assessments, buy charting, medic and basic procedures; ie: dressing changes, moving the patients, etc. One of my classmates whom I was paired with one day, learned a very valuable lesson.

My partner that day (who I will refer to as PFC Mybad) was taking care of a young man on a medical/surgical ward. That means all the serious problems he had were treated and he was now recovering. The morning routine was pretty simple: go in, greet the patient, do a physical assessment, change the linens if necessary, and ask if there’s anything they need prior to morning medication rounds. Unfortunately, Mybad forgot one key element at the beginning of this encounter. She failed to read the man’s chart to get a history of his current condition.

The physical assessment is essentially a rundown of check on the body’s major systems; musculoskeletal, cardiac, pulmonary, integumentary, etc. She did all of these very cheerfully and professionally, the whole time chatting up the man and his wife who was at the bedside. Then things went wrong. When checking muscle strength, a routine test is to hold your hands out, palms up, and ask the patient to press down on your hands with his as hard as he can. When she asked him to do this, he just kind of stared at her, bewildered.

That’s when the wife softly said, ”He’s a quadriplegic, dear.”

PFC Mybad turned beet red while the patient, his wife, and I went into near hysterics laughing.

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Story By Jayson, with help by skippy.

Once upon a time, in a far away land called Korea.

Well, the rest of the world calls it Korea.

We called it “Land of the Not-Quite Right”. We being the troops in the 4/7 CAV, who were stationed in what appeared to be the worlds largest flea market. This was a little town called Sonjuri that only had 3 crappy bars, and was near the DMZ.

I was a young, high speed-low drag, arrogant Bradley gunner in Alpha Troop. Our troop commander had always talked about wanting a goat as a unit mascot. As any regular reader of this site can guess, this was probably not the wisest life-choice he had ever made.

One night, most of the unit was out drinking. As sometimes happens when a bunch of soldiers are out drinking, we hit upon a really good idea. In this case we decided that to demonstrate how much we appreciated and respected him as both an officer and a gentleman, we should acquire him a goat mascot of his very own. And thus I found myself with a small group of highly motivated troopers, preparing a night infiltration operation against a local dog farm. In case you are wondering what a dog farm is, it is exactly what it sounds like, and you probably don’t want to know anything else on the subject.

Utilizing our highly trained stealth skills, natural sneakiness, and a near lethal BAC, we made it into the dog farm. Shortly after that we made positive contact with our target. We then subdued our four legged friend, and promptly headed back.

So, we started off back to camp, sneaking through the back streets and alleyways. We had made it about halfway back to our camp, with the goat fighting us the entire way, when the goat executed a counter-measure that we had not anticipated.

It pissed all over the guy carrying it. And the guy next to him.

Cursing our luck (and the goat) as we turned onto the next alley, we encountered three old Korean women. We faced off, looking as innocent as you can while covered in urine and carrying a goat. The women started yelling and chasing us. Even drunk and carrying a goat, we were faster and made it back to the gate well before them.

Now all that remained was the rather trivial task of sneaking a live goat past the guards. Our guard shack had a main room, where the guards were, and a corridor for people who entered to show their ID through the Plexiglas.

So all we had to do was get the goat through the corridor without the guards seeing it over the counter, and out the other side.

“This should be easy,” we thought as we set our plan into motion with the kind of confidence that can only be accomplished with heroic amounts of alcohol, and struggling livestock.

So, we have one guy start talking to the Korean guard who was outside, and the rest of us open the door to the shack and just kind of pushed the goat in. Unfortunately that’s when the three old women caught up and started shouting. Once inside the guard shack, the goat took off like crazy and ran out the other door, into the camp.

So we forget about the animal for a minute and join the three way argument between us, the guards, and the elderly ladies who are claiming that the goat is theirs. Now it might not have technically been ours. But we didn’t steal it from them, and damned if we were going to give them the goat which we had stolen fair and square.

Finally the sergeant of the guard has had enough. He tells us to go retrieve the goat and give it to them, regardless if it’s theirs or not. So we start off onto camp and start looking for the goat.

Now, this is a small post. Only about 500 Soldiers live there, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find this thing. After all, how much trouble can one unattended goat get into in a military encampment late at night?

Well a few minutes later we tracked it down to the lawn of a house.

Which turned out to belong to our Squadron Commander.

So, now we have our Squadron Commander standing on his porch, watching us and wearing the kind of expression that can only belong to a man who has experienced the joy that is “Surprise Midnight Drunken Goat Rodeo”.

We finally manage to get a grip on the damn thing, and take it back to the guard shack. We give the goat to the guards, and they give it to the old women. And we head back to the barracks for some beer. But first a shower because two of us smell like goat and the other two smell like goat pee.

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When our replacements arrived to spearhead OIF III, our medical unit in Kirkuk decided to hold a clinic-to-ramp mortuary affairs practice. I’m sure, in the TOC, it sounded like a very prudent idea. My NCO came over and told me I was volunteering for something. Having been on call in the lab the night before, I was exhausted, and the only thing I cared about was the fact that he said I could take a nap during the detail. I was immediately suspicious, but the promise of a nap, even in the middle of the duty day and even in full rattle, outweighed my concerns. I was to report to the LT, who told me to don my ABE and Kevlar with all my magazines and lie down on the litter in the expectant area. I had just tilted my K-pot to cover my eyes and began my little desert siesta when a flock of medics, new troops and seasoned vets, crowded to the area. My doc, a Major, began the lesson by demonstrating how to pronounce death in the sanctioned Army fashion (which, oddly, included very few acronyms).

[Begin heebie-jeebies.]

He found my ID tags and began filling out the necessary paperwork. It had my actual information written on it. That completed, I was hoisted and loaded into the FLA feet first (after 15 years in the civilian EMS world, that was more significant than almost anything else that happened that day). The medics checked me and removed all my UXO, and decided I was Episcopal (I’m not, but it was probably because the battalion chaplain was both Episcopal and present). She got about 6 words into the Last Rites, and I sat up. “Chaplain,” I said, “We’re training. Can’t you just say blahblahblah, amen? Seriously.” She laughed (I didn’t) and said, with all the solemnity she could muster, “Blah, blah, blah, amen.”

I rode with a medic to the Guest House, which was (conveniently) across the street from the Chapel, and was transferred to an odd sort of table with deep channels running down either side. My ‘ick’ factor was kicking into overdrive. This is the part where the MA enlisted got to train. They very carefully and precisely logged all my pocket contents (6 LifeSavers candies, colored 2 red, 3 pineapple, and 1 green- I’m not kidding) and put everything into a ziploc baggie at my feet. Then one E-2 started filling out the toe tag. Because he used the paperwork that accompanied me, and because my Major had used my dogtags to fill it out, the toe tag had my info on it. I shut my eyes to pray or something, anything to warn off the WAY bad juju, when the crack-head tied it to my boot and walked away. I LOST IT. I started screaming for the E-6 in charge, and when he arrived I grabbed him by his lapels and told him he’d better get that f-ing tag off my f-ing boot, and other choice words that I fortunately didn’t get in trouble for. I had just begun to calm down again when I heard the transfer case opening up behind my head. I leapt off the ‘yucky table,’ swore at everyone, yelled “train like you fight, my ASS,” practically flew out of the Guest House, and smoked an entire pack of local cigarettes (NOT the smooth American kind) in about 20 minutes, all while hysterical and barely coherent. I didn’t speak to anyone for days. I don’t know whose idea that was, but I was only 3 weeks from going home. With all of that bad juju floating around, I never wanted to leave the heavily-reinforced clinic. I was braced for something to call in that jinx all the way to Kuwait.

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Here is another user submitted story by one of the rarest creatures on the planet. A fun officer.

Here is one of those, “You just can’t make this shit up” stories.

No shit, there I was; Camp Shelby Mississippi, pre-mob training for an OIF
deployment. One of my medics, SPC Nancy, was playing “victim” during a STX
lane, and ended up with her arm caught in the closing ramp of an M113 APC.
Needless to say her arm was black and blue, and up in a sling.

Since this was pre-mob training, our unit was on “lock-down”, meaning no one
went anywhere, but to the gym, PX, or post theater. The night after SPC
Nancy’s accident, was a “Wal-Mart Night”. “Wal-Mart Nights” meant that the guys
could put on their shiny shoes, and the girls would tease their hair, because
“Oh Baby, we’re going to Wal-mart tonight!” It meant that the Joes could wear
civilian clothes, and take a bus ride to the local Wal-mart.

Because of SPC Nancy’s injury, she was just not up to going to Wal-Mart. Being
the kind, caring, and compassionate CO that I am, I took $20 and handed it to
PV2 Powell and told him to get that young lady a hot water bottle to put on
her arm when he went to Wal-Mart. Now PV2 Powell, who, by the way, is not the
smartest of privates, took the $20 and his best buddy PFC Lewis, also, not
the smartest of privates, and went to Wal-mart on a mission.

After searching for a hot water bottle for over 10 minutes to no avail, PV2
Powell went to the cosmetics counter and asked the lady for help finding a
hot water bottle. The lady saw the look of confusion, and purpose on PV2
Powell’s face, and asked him if the product was for a woman.

“Why Yes, Yes it is for a woman!” said PV2 Powell.
“Oh, okay honey, come with me.” Said the woman.

She pointed them down the aisle, and when PV2 Powell read the carton “Hot Water bottle/ D – O – U…. What’s a Douche?” he asked PFC Lewis, to which PFC Lewis replied “I think that’s French for ‘hot water bottle'”. (No Shit! It actually is.) “I’ll take it!” said a very proud PV2 Powell.

Upon return to the company area PV2 Powell presented the gift to SPC Nancy
and told her “Here, the CO thinks that you should use this.”

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Regular readers will probably remember that I recently asked for readers to submit any any funny military stories they had.  Well my new friend Sam has submitted one that I think is pretty good, and so I have allowed him to post it up here.

When I was stationed at Fort Sam Houston for nursing school there was a brand new facility opening as part of the hospital. For those non-military, the hospital in Fort Sam is the top dog of all Army medical centers. The new building was called the “Center for the Intrepid” and is a rehab facility for all the amputees coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. The grand opening was a big to-do, canine-equestrian extravaganza with guest speakers/performers like Hillary Clinton, John McCain, John Mellencamp, and Rosie O’Donnell. I get the first three: major political figures and a celebrity who made very large contributions to build the facility. I never did understand why Rosie was there. But, then again, there’s a lot of people that don’t understand why she is here.

Needless to say, all the equipment in this building is state of the art and beyond anything I had ever heard of, let alone seen. My squad was lucky enough to be part of a tour through the facility about 2 weeks before they started receiving patients. The tour guide was a Captain and was showing us the various high-tech gadgets for treating the amputees and helping them cope with their new prosthetics.

One of the facilities in the building was installed on a concept so simple that I never would have thought of it. It was a fully furnished apartment.
The object was to allow the amputees to get used to doing routines chores like laundry, making dinner, vacuuming, etc. with their new prosthetics. And this apartment was NICE; a very plush pad indeed.

At this point the tour guide mentions that the whole building and equipment cost around $55 million and then asked if there were any questions before we moved on. Being the resident joker/smartass of my squad I raised my hand and asked, “So, what’s the rent go for on a place like this?” OK, kinda funny; a few people laughed until I decided to follow up. You know that voice in your head that’s supposed to inform your mouth when you’re about to say something really stupid? Well, that voice apparently was on vacation that day. Now, in my head, it was just the first metaphor for the money spent on the facility.
The follow-up statement was, “This place must cost an arm and a leg!”

Unfortunately, as you can imagine, it was NOT received well. The guy was a full-bird colonel next to me who, if looks could kill, would have cut me in half on the spot. All I could think about was how that’s not what I meant and I feel so small right now they won’t have to open the door as I could walk underneath it. Of course, my whole squad, who knows my sense of humor, thought I did it on purpose so I had to explain again after we got outside that I really didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. I never did live that one down.

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