Archive for the ‘LT Ronald’ Category

There was a chill in the air as the soldiers of the 876^th EN BN loaded up for their logistical ground assault convoy. The weather here in Iraq had dipped down from the 140 degrees that most soldiers experienced when they had first arrived, medic to a frosty 65. Our mission was a night move, shop our purpose logistics, drugs and the reason was to gain some of the excellent equipment being left for us by our state’s outgoing Guard units: Task Force Dragoon.

The final pre-combat checks and inspections were complete; everyone was talking via the radios, weapons were given their functions checks, and the route was deemed clear according to the latest intelligence. I gave the final safety brief, reminding all of the participants of the places that we would travel past during our trip. Upon leaving the gate it was ”Go Time”. Our crew-served weapons gunners scanned their sectors, the drivers focused on the road laid out ahead of them, the passengers scanned the sides of the road for possible IEDs, and I kept constant communications flowing with our air support who was watching our progress from the sky.

We were making great time as we passed by Fallujah, one of the apexes of the Sunni Triangle. You could see the walls and towers of the Abu Gharaib prison complex as we passed Abu Gharaib. Once we reached Baghdad we got turned around on an onramp, but quickly righted ourselves. We were passing through the second of the Sunni triangle cities.

As we passed by Camp Taji and its high walls my thoughts passed to my brother who is stationed there, and reflected momentarily that even though I am thousands of miles from my home, that a person with whom I had lived under the same roof with for fourteen years of my life was only a mile away. My thoughts quickly returned to the duty at hand as a call came up on my radio. A convoy ahead had been hit with an IED. This served as a grim reminder to maintain my focus. EOD was on the scene, and the area would be cleared by the time we made it to that area.

A quick stop by Camp Anaconda for fuel allowed us to stretch our legs and prepare for the final leg of our journey. We would bypass Balad next, and then Sumeria. Coming up to Tekrit we saw that the road was blocked off entering into the city of Saddam Hussein’s birth. We knew that this was coming and took the detour around the third corner of the Sunni Triangle. Soon we were able to take the bypass of Bayji, where we were warned not to go because “there are bad people there”. Eventually we arrived at our final destination; Camp Sumeral. I looked at my Global Positioning System (GPS), and noticed that we were very close to the city of Mosul, and the countries of Turkey and Azerbaijan.

We had made great time, arriving two hours ahead of schedule. With the exception of the Baghdad turnaround, it was a flawless convoy.

On the way back we were also making great time. Because of this I allowed my soldiers time for Pizza Hut or Burger King at Camp Anaconda. They had performed exceptionally and this was a reward that they could not receive at any post near Ramadi.

This turned out to be a good choice because as we prepared to depart Anaconda I was informed over the radio that an IED had been initiated on a convoy just south of Anaconda on the route that we were to take. Had we not allowed the extra time for pizza it would have been our convoy hit with that IED. The return trip back was thankfully uneventful.

Thank God for lifesaving Pizza.

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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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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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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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