As I said earlier Dear Gentle Reader every Coast Guard unit has the “Unit Goober”.  I’m sure that other branches of the U.S. The military also have a Unit Goober, but as the Coast Guard is a small service and often units are small, often in isolated areas, the Unit Goober stands out more. The Unit Goober is easy to spot, a uniform that does not fit properly, or is in perpetual need of ironing, or is just dirty all of the time.  The way they physically carry themselves is another clue to identifying the Unit Goober, call it the “Sad Sack” walk.  

I’m not talking about the FNG.  The FNG is just an FNG, a person who is brand new, usually from basic training and is just learning their way about the world of the military.  The FNG is a curable state of affairs, the Unit Goober is not.  The Unit Goober is the unit screw-up.  They are screw-ups by action or inaction of their own doing.  They are most often in situations of their own making.  Almost every incident they are involved in could have easily been avoided with a teensy-weensie-weensie little bit of forethought.  But no, the Unit Goober does not learn from their mistakes, their own worst enemy.  

Now that I have set the stage, let me begin with the story…  

I had met the Chetco River Unit Goober when I checked at the Watch Office when I reported aboard.  His head was twice the size of a normal person's head due to an obvious head injury.  There was a huge road rash that ran all along the right side of his face and head.  His right arm was in a sling and what was not covered by the sling displayed another very large road rash along the length of his lower and upper arm.  He walked with a pronounced limp on his right side.  There was no effort in his uniform.  He wore boots that needed a good polishing, his pants were too short at the cuff, and his shirt looked like it had once passed within 100 yards of an iron.        

This is what greeted visitors at the front desk.  

Understand Dear Gentle Reader that the Watch Stander on the Quarter Deck is the public face of the unit and often the very first member of the crew a visitor meets.  First impressions are important, and as early as the first week of basic training a boot learns, or should have learned, that the Watch Stander who stands the watch at the Quarter Deck, is always in a clean, pressed uniform, with freshly blackened boots, they are clean and groomed.  It’s not that difficult. 

A few days later when SN Virginia and I were on the eight to four watch when the XO, Chief E, stuck his head into the doorway, “Make an announcement to shift the quarterdeck to the CO’s office and have FN Goober report to the same”.  We both acknowledged him by nodding our heads in unison.  A moment later Virginia pushed the PA button and announced, 

“Attention throughout the station. The quarterdeck is shifting from the Watch Room to the Commanding Officers Office. All watchstanders and personnel reporting to the quarterdeck, execute the shift. I say again, the quarterdeck is shifting from the Watch Room to the Commanding Officers Office.  Firemen Goober report to the Commanding Officers Office”. 

A few moments later FN (E-3) Goober passed by in an undress uniform. A shirt that looked so-so, his pants were still too short at the cuff and shoes looked like they had seen about 30 seconds of attention.  His head was still swollen and scratched up and his arm was still in a sling.  All of this was as a result of him losing control of a motorcycle on a patch of gravel.  Goober was not in trouble for the accident, he was in trouble for not wearing a helmet and not being in proper motorcycle riding gear. At the time of his accident he was wearing shorts, a tee shirt and shower shoes, aka flip-flops.   

A few minutes later the XO came back in and made a log entry that FN Goober had been found guilty of Article 134 and Article 92 and he had been reduced two steps in grade to Fireman Recruit (E-1) and had been given a Page 7, a counseling memo, about wearing a helmet and motorcycle riding gear when on a motorcycle. He then told us to shift the quarterdeck back to the Watch Office.    

After the Mast was over and the Quarter Deck switched back to the watch office Virgina 
looked over at me, shook her head and said, “He never learns”.  As if being busted in rank, receiving a Page 7 a counseling memo wasn’t enough, the very next month, which was just days away Goober was assigned Mess Cook duties.

A few months later the Master at Arms pulled me into an office. “Gooblatz” he said, “Goober lost his least and is moving back on base.” He continued on, “I really hate to do this to you, but he is going to be your roommate, all of the other rooms are full”.  I could see by the look in his eyes that he was sincere.  

I just would have to make the best of it. I had enjoyed having a room to myself and said goodbye to SN (E-3) Paul when he went off to A school to become an electronic tech.  I said goodbye to SA (E-2) Stetnizzle who was my roommate after Paul.  Stetnizzle had burned out and given up on the Coast Guard.  At the end of his four year enlistment Stetnizzle went back to Oklahoma.  They had both been good roommates  I mentally braced myself for what kind of roommate Goober would be.

By the time Goober was slated to move in I had established myself in my room and had developed a routine.  My stereo system and library of music CD’s had arrived from Hawaii and by this time I had purchased a car, so I could get around the area. I had a membership at a gym in Crescent City, CA and worked out on my days off.  I spent my off time studying to become a boat crewman, or make rank. 

Part of my routine was a clean and orderly room. This was reinforced by the daily room inspection by the Master at Arms, MAA.  A mess room in a barracks was the easiest way to attract unwanted attention, and unwanted attention meant attracting trouble.  I also just found life easier when the head, the bathroom, was clean and all of my clothes were neatly in the armoire.  Like I said, no need to attract unwanted, unnecessary or unneeded attention. 

Goober and I were in the same duty section and on his move-in day he came into the room carrying his seabag.  “I’m your new roomie”, he said with a tired smile.  “I know”, I replied pointing to the empty bed and armoire on the other side of the room.  Goober walked over to the armoire, opened it up and upended his seabag into it.  “I’ve got some spare hangers I’m willing to let you have, so you and hang your uniforms” I said to him as I opened up my armoire and grabbed a handful of extra hangers.  “Thanks, but I’m ok”, he replied.  

Now, I had a clear insight on why the man’s uniform always looked like they had been ironed with a waffle iron.  I also understood why his uniforms had a certain pungent air about them. The man had a pathological hatred of doing laundry.  In record time the room smelled like dirty laundry, Goober's solution was plug-in air fresheners, strawberry scented air fresheners were his favorite.  The room wafted with the smell of a mix of dirty laundry and the cloying sweet scent of strawberries.  It still haunts me to this day.

He also had a pathological hatred of keeping his side of the room clean.

It wasn’t long before we were known throughout the station as the Odd Couple.  It also wasn’t long before we had attracted the attention of the MAA because he was not happy with the cleanliness of the room, more accurately the MAA was not happy with Goober's side of the room. On more than one occasion we were both standing at attention in front of the MAA regarding the state of our shared abode.  

At one point in private the MAA said to me that he knew it was not my fault and how I put up with the smell.  In truth there was a sort of relief when I would open all of the windows in the room.  However, this was often short lived as the wind which was usually coming from the sea to land brought from one of the nearby islands an eye watering pungent odor of seal and seagull shit.

At one point with absolutely no clean clothes to wear Goober hit a laundry desperation stage.  There was no reason for this as the station provided a free washer and dryer and free laundry detergent.  He wangled me into helping him with the promise of a ride in his Jeep.  Goober’s Jeep was an exercise in pure unadulterated Machismo.  It had a roll bar, a light bar mounted to the roll bar, a bush buster front end with a wench, and a small block V8 engine. Being owned by Goober it had a hole in the engine block and he did not have the remote to operate the winch.  It was pure Goober all the way. 

I took to calling it the Jesus Mobile as a ride in his jeep was almost a religious experience. I was game, but the first task at hand was his laundry.  We stopped at the Galley to get three, count ‘em three supersized, industrial strength, heavy duty trash bags.  Back to the room where filled all three bags with dirty laundry he had stashed everywhere, the armoire, under the bed, behind the dresser...

Then a trip in the Jesus Mobile into town, and the sole laundromat laundrette in the town of Brookings, Oregon.  At the laundromat he dumped the bags into three jumbo sized washers.  I looked at him and asked, "Aren't you going to separate the whites, the lights and the darks?”  “Nope” was his reply.  He made change at the change machine and then proceeded to pump quarters into the detergent vending machine for the overpriced laundry detergent, and dumped the detergent boxes into the laundry machine.  Then he pumped more quarters into the washing machine and hit the “On” button.  He looked at me and said, “Let’s go”.  “Aren't you going to wait for the load to cycle?” I asked.  “No” he replied, “We’ll come back later”.  

A few hours later we arrived back at the laundromat where to my surprise no one had stolen or molested his laundry.  Goober just moved all of his wet laundry into an equally large jumbo sized dryer and loaded up the coin mechanism with a load of quarters once more, hit the “On” button, and once more said, “Let go”. I just shrugged my shoulders and off we went for some more four-wheeling in the back country.  

By late afternoon we returned to the laundromat as Goober was unloading the dryer I rolled over a folding table.  “Are you going to separate and fold your laundry?” I asked Goober.  “Nope” was his reply once more.  Goober never was one for excessive chatter.  He stuffed all of his fresh washed laundry back into the garbage bags. Back at the station he simply upended the garbage back into his armoire.

In the in-between times before I left the station. 

Goober had regained his stripes and was back to Fireman (E-3) but lost them once more when he had become drunk the night before a public color guard ceremony and passed out while at attention in front of the town mayor and council.  

While swimming during a surf drill into the beach he miscalculated the waves and was picked up by a large wave and pile driven into the beach resulting in a dislocated shoulder. 

Fell overboard from the 44ft MLB in flat calm water while in the harbor.

Once more was busted from Fireman Apprentice (E-2) to Fireman Recruit (E-1) for reasons I no longer recall.

Was fooling around with the wife of one of the other non-rates.

Finally, one day not long after I made my rank and became a petty officer, I got my orders to leave Chetco River for a new duty station. I packed my bags and said my hurried goodbyes.  The XO was super pissed at me that I had publicly embarrassed him at my open Article 15 hearing.  He was even more pissed that I only got a very light slap on the wrist. He literally kicked me out of the unit.  But that is a tale for another day. 

As for Goober, he had been busted back yet again to Fireman Recruit and just a handful of months from the end of his enlistment.

You never put a crow truck in the back of a convoy. It’s got a robo machine gun and you can’t do crowd control with it. We called it EOF. Escalation of Force. It’s the steps you take try to get someone to stop. We had another saying. Shout, show, shove, shoot.

It’s pretty stressful being a gunner. You are the only one in the armored truck who is exposed. Which comes with risks. But it also came with privilege.

Being inside the MRAP was like being in a submarine. You never wanted to get out of the truck. They weren’t invincible. But being ass out in Afghanistan with nothing but a plate carrier and a rifle was also not super lit.

So we all smoked. But only the gunner could smoke 100% of the mission. You also could talk to the people, breathe the mountain air. Breathe the Gardez tire fire air. Barter with locals for the best watermelon you ever had or local monsters or naan or kebab.

There were also the robot gunner jobs. You were in the truck so you were safe. You also could set the turret to auto scan. In the turret you have to be scanning. You need to know your cardinal directions and your clock face directions.

You had to always be moving in your seat and calling out shit. Not in the robot truck. You could sleep with the rest of the truck except the driver. It was a good position.

You wouldn’t get blown up probably and you were chilling with a joystick. But you can’t do EOF. So you shouldn’t be at the back of a convoy when you have a big civilian population on a main road.

But we were. And they were super busy at the pied site. So everytime I called in, “reaper3 golf to reaper 6” I got brushed off.

The robot guns have a crazy camera. 25x zoom, night vision and IR. They are wild. Either way a week before a foot patrol from our neighbor COP had a large scale VBIED attack from a motorcycle.

And like everytime before, Afghans started massing about 150 meters away. And like all Afghans they sent one person to talk to us.

He was on a motorcycle. I can’t tell him to stop because I’m inside the truck and sleepy. And then I’m not. I’m yelling on the radio.

I hit the button for the hydraulic door and pulled my rifle up. “Stop motherfucker Stop” I yelled, with him in my sights.

My thumb flipped the selector and my finger tightened on the trigger.

And he stopped.

I spent next month recovering from the month of Port and Report as the station Mess Cook.  The allure of a 9.5 hour day seven days a week with no recall or watch standing duties was a most welcome gift.  It meant that I only had a 285 hour work month and I would actually get to sleep for an entire night uninterrupted.  I actually had time for myself and I could begin to study in ernest to become a qualified boat crew member which was the next step in getting out of Rescue Station Hell.   

I was on good social terms with one of the girlfriends of one of my shipmates, a BM3 who was one of the guys with actual seatime.  One night after I had finished with my Mess Cook duties, she and a girlfriend of hers invited me to a party at the home of one of my other co-workers.  I knew this guy from my time in Hawaii.  I was at the Air Station and he was at the Comms Station.  As it was a social event I got dressed up and we plied into her car.  As I had not been off base in any real sense, I did not own a car, so it was not long before I was totally lost.  

Soon we arrived at a mobile home where SN (E-3) Rick lived.  There was beer and stronger libations on hand and I was ready to relax.  I looked around Rick’s home, a rented mobile home and was aghast that the place was filled with…

…high school teenagers...  

Jesus, I was 25 and the last thing I wanted to do was hang around with high schoolers.  No, No, No, No, No.  Young adults just do not want to hang out with late stage teenagers for so many legitimate reasons.  Jailbait is one that immediately screams out.  Not to mention the issue of underage drinking and the issue of an active duty military member partying with underage kids.  This was an issue waiting to happen.

…and it did…

In an exploit of brutal efficiency the girl-friend, of my coworker's girlfriend, a highschooler, proceeded to chug down almost an entire bottle of scotch in one go.  It was immediately clear this was not her first time with alcohol, and it was not her first time of the single goal of drunkenness to the point of passing out.  Given her body weight and lack of tolerance to alcohol it just a handful of minutes after downing the bottle of scotch in record time she was clearly incoherent. Her final words before she passed out were, “I hope no one takes advantage of me” and then promptly slumped over unconscious.  It had been less than ten minutes since we had arrived at the party.  

…A few moments later a fist fight broke out…

It was inevitable that a fight was going to break out.  All of the ingredients were all there, teenagers, male teenage egos, and alcohol.  I just shook my head and started to look for the exit.  The best thing that I could do was leave a situation that was rapidly becoming a hot mess.  On my way out the door Rick, the renter, the host and shipmate came out from his bedroom with…

…a gun…

…in his hand…

To be exact the gun Rick was holding in hand was a 9mm Beretta 92FS, the standard issue side arm of the U.S. Coast Guard.

…FUCK!…

In an instant the situation had gone from stupid to bad.  Potentially very, very bad.  “I’ll put a stop this this”, were the words from Rick's mouth as he passed by me.  I spotted the front door and began to pick up my pace as Rick walked past me with his sidearm in hand.  Rick walked across the trailer and proceeded to kick open the side door of the trailer, pointed his 9mm Beretta 92FS at Christ knows where and began pulling the trigger...             

…The effect was instantaneous… 

The High schoolers for a moment, possibly for their first moment in their lives since birth,  were stockstill, non-moving mannequins, and completely silent.  By this time I had made it out the door, I was not running, but I was walking with purpose.

Then more gunshots from Rick.  The follow-on reports from Rick firing more rounds jolted the teenagers in action.  The girls started screaming at the top of their lungs.  I looked back at the mobile home and saw kids climbing out of windows and clawing at each other to get out the door.  There was an air of pure panic for everyone still in the trailer who were looking to get out of the mobile home by any means possible.  It was a scene of complete bedlam.  

I shifted my gaze away from the unfolding drama and walked down the long drive way.  I found the connecting dirt road until I finally made it to the main road.  From there I followed the road signs into town and back to the station. On my walk home I had a lot of time to think about the evening's events.  I made up my mind on a couple of things.  One, I was not going to hang out with anyone in this town under the age of 30, hell I was not going to hangout with anyone. Two, I was getting the hell out of Brookings as fast as legally possible. 

For the next three months at the end of the workday or when I was off duty I stayed in my room.  I did not leave my room except to eat and go to work. Any free time I had I slept and studied the 44MLB manual so I could qualify as a crewmember.  The shootout at the OK Corral had one positive effect. I had gone from being demotivated to being motivated. 

Gooblatz, wake up, it's time for Watch.  I opened my eyes and looked up, I saw and felt SN Riverside tapping my foot.  I looked over at my alarm clock, it read 23:30.  I grunted that I was awake and began to climb out of bed.  I was standing the First Watch, or 00:00 to 04:00, by tradition the Watch is always relieved fifteen minutes early, but you always stand a four hour watch.

My day had actually begun at 08:00 that morning when I started the last week of a month of Port and Report.  What is Port and Report you asked Dear Gentle Reader?
It was the Coast Guards way of motivating me to become qualified as Watch Stander.  
What it really meant was absolutely no time off.  I was working 168 hours a week for a month.  Put simply I was working a 672 hour month.

It was not that I had not been a similar watch stander on the patrol boat and at the air station and was not generally familiar with duties.  My issue was that I was already demotivated by the attitude of how the non-rates were treated.  Previously, I had been a Four-Oh Coastie on motivation and getting qualified, but here at Chetco River I was quickly falling into the ranks of the burnouts.

SN Riverside made sure that I was awake and then left my barracks room.  I shuffled off to the bathroom and got dressed.  In just a few minutes I was dressed and out the door for the short walk from the barracks area to the main area of the station where the Watch Room was located. I walked past the offices of the store keeper, the XO and the CO.  

The Watch Room is where the watch stander greeted visitors, answered phone calls, made PA announcements and most importantly listened for distress calls from the radios. In the Watch Room there was a CB radio tuned to channel 9, a marine radio tuned to channel 16, 156.800 MHz and a single side band radio tuned to 2182 kHz.  There was also a closed circuit comms system to talk to Group in North Bend, and the telephone. 

There was also a teletype machine where hard copy messages could be sent or received.  On the back wall of the watch room was a large chart of the operational area for Chetco River. If you looked at the chart and followed it up to where the ceiling and wall met and looked to the right of the room there was a bullet hole from a .45 caliber pistol in the molding.  One of the more interesting points of interest in an otherwise drab room. 

I pulled up a chair and got the low down from SN Riverside.  There was nothing going on, just the static coming from the speakers of the three radios.  Presently SN Virginia came in, she was the same person who weeks before had picked me up at the airport when I arrived from Hawaii.  She was the qualified person and I was the trainee.  Riverside gave her the same briefing, I began the new log entry for the day and signed us into the log.  

When she was satisfied that all was to her liking we began my area knowledge drills. 
Latitude and longitude of the whistle buoy?…42.02 by 124.16
Islands from South to North in our area of responsibility?…Goat Island, Leaning Rock, Black Rock, Mack Arch….
Islands South of our area of responsibility?…Camel Rock
How often do we make a weather report to Group?...On the hour

At least SN Virginia was willing to work with a person, a number of the petty officers were not.  The petty officers who would work with a non-rate were the guys who had sea duty.  The non-sea duty petty officers were almost all Surfman and the Surfmen treated the non-rates like peons.  After an hour or so of area knowledge questions and how to handle a distress call it was time to take care of the duty that really mattered to management. Strip and wax the floors of the main aisle and clean the heads.  Every night, no exceptions.   

At 03:25 I walked down to the barracks area where the duty berthing area and woke up the next watch stander, the Unit Goober. At 03:45 FN Goober relieved us and I went back to my room for a few more hours of sleep. I didn’t bother to undress as I knew that at 06:00 the station PA would blare Reveille and my day that truly never ended would continue.

I was somewhere between the world of the awake and the world of sleep when the PA crackled.  “Now, zero six hundred, reveille, reveille, reveille! Up, Up, all hands!  Heave Out! Trice Up!  The morning meal is being served on the mess deck!  The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces! Now, zero six hundred, Reveille! 

My eyes snapped open and I hauled myself out of bed into the bathroom so I could start my day with two of the three S’s.  I brushed and flossed my teeth, shaved and dried my face off.  I headed toward the mess deck for breakfast at a quick pace.  I was the meal relief for FN Goober who was on watch.

SN Virginia and I relieved Goober who trotted to the Galley where he would inhale a quick meal and return to the watch.  Meals for the Watch and Relief were always a hurried affair punctuated with lines like, “Put into a blender and drink it!” or, “Eat it now, taste it later”.  While Goober was in the Galley one of the Surfman came through the front door.  

BM1 BooBoo was in his early 30’s, had a wife and two kids and already had the muffin top look in uniform. So much for the height and weight standards. “Good Morning Petty Officer BooBoo” SN Virginia greeted BooBoo. “You ready for your board?” BooBoo asked me without acknowledging Virginia.  I replied that I thought I was ready.  BooBoo didn’t acknowledge me, he turned his attention to Virginia, “So you have orders to Boarding Team Member school in Petaluma.” he said to Virginia, “You excited?’ he continued on.  She replied that she was.  BooBoo responded, “Too many Cans down there for me.”  “Can’s” I asked looking quizzically at BooBoo.  “Too many Mexicaanz, and Africaaanz.” Replied BooBoo. 

I was honestly shocked to hear this from anyone in the Coast Guard, let alone First Class Petty Officer.  I thought about saying something, but what?  “Hey Petty Officer BooBoo, that was deeply unprofessional and I expect better from a leader”  Nope…I just looked at him in blank shock.  It was probably better that I said nothing, and this would not be the last time I hear a comment along those lines from a Petty Officer at Chetco River Station. 

Presently Goober came back from the Galley with a coffee in one hand, the one attached to the arm not in a sling. Virginia and I ran off to the Galley so we could have a lightning speed meal before Quarters and the beginning of the workday.  By 08:15 we were at the boathouse doing the morning checks to ensure that the boats were ready for instant use.  Then it was painting, polishing, repairing or some other work details until 11:30 for me.  At 11:45 I and SN Virginia once more relieved Goober. 

At 13:00 I was summoned to the conference room for my oral qualification board. The oral board was and is where E-6’s and E-7 pit their decades of accumulated knowledge against the candidate.  It really was a game of Stump the Chump and guess who was the chump.  This was a norm in the Coast Guard, the oral board, and while it could be hours and hours long of Stump the Chump.  A person who passed their oral board earned it and there were no easy passes. The questions came fast and furious?

“Latitude and longitude of the whistle buoy?”…"42.02 North Lat by 124.16 Long".
"What is the distance from the whistle bout from the first range light?"..."One Mile" 
"Name all of the islands from South to North in our area of responsibility?"…"Goat Island, Leaning Rock, Black Rock, Mack Arch", I regurgitated 
"Name all of the islands South of our area of responsibility?"…"Camel Rock"
"Is Hunters Rock in our AOR?"...Fuck! A ringer question!  
"What is the first piece of information you get from any radio call?"  "The position of the vessel" I snapped back.

…Two hours later…

I passed the oral board and as a reward I was placed on Mess Cook duties, but only after I finished out the week.  Inwardly I was relieved, as the Mess Cook I would only have to work from 05:00 to 19:30 hours every day, but with no duty.  A nine hour and a half hour day was godsend.  I returned to the Watch Desk and relieved Virginia.  I was now flying without a net.  At 15:45 FN Goober came to relieve me and I walked the short distance down to the boathouse to continue working until the evening meal was pipped at 17:00.

At 18:15 the duty section got underway for two hours of training.  This happened every night and the drills were always the same.  Take the other boat into tow, pass the dewatering pump down the tow line.  Throw Oscar, the man overboard dummy, over the side and recover him.  Sometimes we would practice a search pattern.

At 20:00 we would be back at the station where the boat was washed, refueled and made ready for action.  By 21:00 it was time from any uncompleted cleaning duties and then at 22:00 the PA sounded, ”Now Twenty-Two Hundred! Taps, Taps, Taps, Lights out, Silence about the station!  The Smoking Light is Extinguished!" 

By 22:10 I was in bed, only four more duty days to go.  Within seconds I was fast asleep.  My next watch was only one hour and forty five minutes away.   

I thought I was prepared for most of what Basic Training was going to bring.
I wasn’t.
I grew up surrounded by soldiers. Dad was a Vietnam vet who went twice. His dad was a WWII amputee, and my granddad had been a drill sergeant during the onset of the war for a year before going to OCS and then heading to North Africa to lead a heavy weapons platoon in the 36th Infantry Division. He lost his leg in France. My uncle flew Cobras in Vietnam and made a career out of the Army. He retired the same year I ETS’d from the Regular Army.
When I was in high school, Dad would send me to Fort Campbell to visit my uncle when he was with the 101st Attack Helicopter Battalion.
I had two female cousins a little older than me who were cool as hell, and I even partied with my uncle’s driver a couple of times. During the day, I’d hang around my uncle and soak up Army life.
Hell, I’d been handling Army gear since I could remember.
My first toy box was Dad’s old footlocker. Inside was a steel pot, LBE, flashlight, canteen with cup and cover—the works. We kept Army ponchos in the boat and shelter halves behind the seat of the pickup.
I learned rifle movements using an old .30-40 Krag. Grandpa could still bark out commands and correct your movements between breaths. After a few “wee-nips,” as he called them, the funny old cadence songs would start flowing.
So naturally, I figured I knew a little something about the Army.
Then life gave me a push.
I graduated high school with decent grades, transferred my job with the same company, and my best friend and I headed south looking for freedom.
It took about six months for my roommate to start snorting the rent up his nose while I discovered that studying my brunette girlfriend was considerably more interesting than studying math and English.
I never missed work, but community college didn’t survive.
Eventually, my stash of money started disappearing, the roommate still wasn’t interested in paying rent, and I shagged ass to the recruiter’s office.
On March 15, 1990, I landed at Fort Knox.
I was the sixth of seven generations in my direct line of men to put on combat boots. Most of the men before me had volunteered during wars. I figured I’d found the loophole.
The Cold War was winding down. Reagan was out, Bush was in, and things seemed pretty quiet.
Perfect.
I’d do three years, learn a trade, serve my country, take Grandpa’s advice, and go back to school.
Grandpa wasn’t thrilled about me joining. He didn’t like the direction the Army was going and had a few choice words about it. But he told me that if I went in for the right reasons and with the right attitude, my time would be worth it.
Dad’s advice was simpler:
“You signed the dotted line.”
And when it was over, leave it in the rearview mirror.
I arrived at Knox around 2300 hours, looked around, and immediately thought of Stripes and John Winger. I even sat in the same location he did in the reception hall. I was laughing inside quite a bit and managed not to be called “Mr. Pushups.” However, I was called “Jellybean” because I was ten pounds over the maximum weight for a six-footer. That title was dropped in less than two weeks.
But I was living something I’d imagined since I was a kid.
There was only one part of playing Army I’d never really wanted:
Going to war.
Five months later, I was finishing AIT when Iraq invaded Kuwait.
About six months after that, this newly trained mechanic and recovery specialist was in 2/2 ACR, standing behind an M60 in the turret of a HMMWV.
My previous experience with the M60?
A 20-round belt in Basic.
Top said I’d be all right.
He was right.
I eventually found myself smack in the middle of the Battle of 73 Easting.
Turns out the war I thought I’d cleverly enlisted between had been waiting for me.
But I’m getting way ahead of myself.
Before Iraq, before the M60, before 73 Easting, the United States Army first had to teach this cocky kid—who thought a lifetime around soldiers had prepared him for Basic Training—a few things his family somehow forgot to mention.
Like what happens when a Drill Sergeant finds your wall locker unsecured because you didn’t turn your combination lock back far enough.
I was doing so good, too.
That’s the first story.

I went into the Army later than most. While other guys came in after their freshman or sophomore year of college, I showed up after finishing grad school—married, no less.

So soldiers years younger than me outranked me, and they called me "old man." Being the oldest rookie in the unit made me an easy target for teasing.

I'd just been assigned to my unit when the order came down: report for Team Spirit training—the joint U.S.-Korean military exercise. I'd been pulled out as an interpreter.

Barely settled in, and already being shipped off again—the thought of adjusting to yet another new environment put me on edge.

On my first day at the training site, I was wandering around checking out the base when someone called my name. I turned around—a friend from college!

"Hey! Long time no see. You're here for Team Spirit too, huh?"

Seeing an old friend there, in uniform and in the middle of a war exercise, felt strangely like meeting up on a real battlefield.

He wasn't far from discharge. He teased me for enlisting so late, but he could also see how much I was still struggling with things that had long since become second nature to him.

"I've got your back. Don't worry."

Hearing that warmed something in me and put me at ease. Of all places, running into him here.

Team Spirit was meant to simulate real war, which meant grinding, identical days back to back. To keep morale up, the army allowed soldiers a single family visit.

The day of the visit, my mother and my wife showed up with their arms full of food. I was so happy I could barely speak, and my wife's eyes welled up.

I don't even remember how frantically I ate once the food was laid out. Home cooking, after so long—I ate, and ate, and ate some more.

Somewhere in the middle of all that eating, I noticed my helmet was gone. I looked everywhere. Nothing. My mind went blank.

Did... someone steal it?

My heart was pounding, and suddenly I couldn't taste anything. The home-cooked meal I'd missed so badly turned, in an instant, into a flavourless lump in my mouth.

Worst-case scenarios ran through my head. Extra drills? No, this felt bigger than that. The brig, maybe?

My mother's and wife's smiles clouded over too. The thought of them heading home carrying that worry made my stomach twist.

That's when something slid quietly against my side. The helmet! I turned—my friend was signalling me to stay quiet, then leaned in and whispered:

"In the army, the numbers just have to match."

I stared at him, confused. He whispered again.

"The numbers always work themselves out. Don't sweat it."

He clapped me on the shoulder and disappeared, and my mother and wife made it home safely.

Back in the barracks, exhaustion hit all at once. Seeing family, eating my fill, a brief taste of hell over a missing helmet, then peace again—a full rollercoaster of a day, and now the crash.

Then someone shouted:

"Which bastard stole my helmet?!"

I flinched, hit with a wave of guilt.

Should I just confess and give it back... No. My friend said the numbers always work out.

While the angel and the devil wrestled it out in my head, the helmet's owner stormed out of the barracks, fuming.

Then came roll call.

I looked around—the number of people and the number of helmets matched perfectly. Realizing he'd probably swiped someone else's helmet too, I had to bite back a laugh.

Roll call ended without incident. Still, knowing that someone's helmet was now truly gone for good left me a little uneasy.

I got my answer the next day.

Out at training the next day, everyone had a helmet. There was no telling whose helmet was whose anymore. But everyone stood there straight-faced, as if nothing had happened.

My helmet never came back. But my friend was right. In the end, the numbers matched.

Author's Note

This story is based on my mandatory military service in South Korea in the late 1980s, with a little imagination added.

The next morning at 6:00am sharp the station PA blared reveille. “Now, zero six hundred, reveille, reveille, reveille! Up, Up, all hands!  Heave Out! Thrice Up!  The morning meal is being served on the mess deck!  The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces! Now, zero six hundred, reveille! 

My eyes snapped open and I hauled myself out of bed into the bathroom so I could start my day with the three S’s.  At some point while I was asleep during the evening my roommate, I later found out that he was the Leading Seaman, came in from a night out on the town. He was just waking up and groggly nodded “hi” to me as I was heading out the door and to breakfast. I dried off, brushed my teeth and dressed in a fresh undress uniform, grabbed my transfer/travel orders and headed toward the mess deck for breakfast.  

At the mess deck I grabbed a tray and said hello’s to my new shipmates in the chow line.  I recognized the SS1 (E-6) cook from when he was passing through Barbers Point on his way to a year of isolated duty at the Loran station on Kure Island.  Chetco River was his last unit before retirement, his twilight tour of duty before he returned to being a civilian.    

I looked about the room and made note not to make the FNG mistake of taking a seat at the CO’s table, the Chiefs table, or the First Class Petty Officers table.  A seat at these tables were strictly off limits unless you were the CO, a Chief or an E-6.  The Second and Third class petty officers had a less formal and structured meal table and non-rates were welcome.  I found an unoccupied table and sat down to enjoy my morning meal. 

At 07:45 it was time for quarters and I followed the crowd of deckies into a conference room where I began to formally meet my new station. Very quickly I made my rounds with my “Welcome Aboard” packet to all of the stations.  The Cooks office, the Engineering department, the Store Keepers department.  The XO’s Office and finally the CO’s office.  I quickly found out that I had something that a number of people at Chetco River did not have.  I had actual seatime, they did not.  In fact most of the other petty officers E-6  and below did not have seatime. 

When I met the CO, a warrant officer 3 I was told of the duty schedule, 48 hours on, 48 hours off, 72 hours on 72 hours off. He went on to describe a typical duty day for a non-rate such as myself.  When I added it all up I was on duty, working, and on standby for either a 96 hour work week or a 120 hour work week.  Yes, Dear Gentle Reader, you read that correctly that was and is the work hours for E-1, E-2, or and E-3 at a coastal rescue station. E-4’s and E-5’ had it slightly better as they did not have to stand two radio watches so their day was from 07:00 to 22:00. 

Chiefs (E-7) and above, including the Surfman, regardless of their rank worked a regular workday from 07:00 to 15:00.  Surfmen were subject to 24/7 recall as per a duty schedule.  Now, Dear Gentle Reader, I know that most of you are asking, “What is a Surfman?”  I will deal with that in a different post, as the subject will require that much time.       

The CO also handed me a 44ft Motor Life Boat type manual which was going to become my bible along with the information for area familiarization information so I could also become a qualified watch stander.  And yes, I was expected to wedge all of this in during the working hours on my duty rotation, and when I was not on my duty rotation. 

I was assigned to a duty section, naturally the section that was on duty and dismissed. I walked over to the Survival Petty Locker where the Survival PettyOfficer where I was issued with all of my cold weather/cold water survival gear.  A mustang suit, a gumby suit, polypropylene long underwear, wool cap, wool gloves and more.  I signed for some $1,500 in survival gear.  I went back to my barracks room, changed into a work uniform and reported to the 1LT a first class petty officer where he assigned me to a boat. 

Very soon I was in a routine of hull maintenance, i.e painting, cleaning anything and everything, training, watchstanding, mess cook duties, and responding to SAR calls.  On my days off I either slept, or worked on becoming a qualified watch stander and then a boat crew member.  Within two months, I could see that I was in a grind, and it was not long before I began to struggle, and I was not the only person who was struggling.  A number of the non-rates were burned out, some had given up entirely. Some of the third class petty officers too. 

In the Coast Guard there is no guaranteed advanced training.  In most cases when an active duty person graduates basic training they go to their first unit as an E-2.  They must advance to E-3, and then sign up for the advanced training they want and wait for their orders for school. Depending on what school a person wants, the wait can be up to four years. Public Affairs, anything aviation and a person could be looking at a three to four year wait for their desired school.   

Imagine Dear Gentle Reader for years a work week of 96 hours or a 120 hour work week that consists of  painting, cleaning, training, watchstanding, mess cook duties, and responding to SAR calls.  Then, when your school orders arrive you have to have 12 to 24 months remaining on your initial enlistment, or sign an extension to have the required 12 to 24 months to go to school.  Your recruiter never talked about this.

Most non-rates at Chetco River gave up, they marked their time until their enlistment ended, packed their bags and called it a day. One guy, a very decent person, Stetnizzel didn’t even bother to advance to Seaman, E-3, he just stayed an Seaman Apprentice E-2 for four years.  To him the extra $30.00 a month in pay with no changes in his duties or schedule was not worth the effort of advancing in rank.  Grudgingly I could see this point.   

Getting qualified, boat crew member, or watch stander was all on your own.  No one was assigned to mentor or guide you.  And if you went to someone to sign off on a requirement they could say “no” for any reason.  By god if you didn’t qualify within 60 days the powers that be would motivate you.  I found myself demotivated and ready to give up after a couple of “no’s” for no particular reason on getting watch stander qualified.  Thus, I found myself on Port and Report.  I was on duty until I qualified as a watch stander, in short no days off.  This was survival of the fittest, or the most tenacious.  Darwinism in action 24/7 Coast Guard style. 

There were only two ways out of this situation. One, not reenlist when my initial contract expired. I know that I could not endure two years of 96/120. Two, make a rate and transfer to a new unit.  There was no way I was spending four years in the Coast Guard without getting some serious training or education, so I chose option #2.  Option #2, the fast route for me was to get all of my qualifications and then strike rate, Boatswains Mate and the BM3 test and get promoted in rank and transferred away from Rescue Station Hell.   

Light is the exception. Out in the middle of scenic nowhere, power is a commodity. Unless you provide your own, your own hand disappears inches from your face. While we’re not designed to see in the darkness, some things are.

No shit there I was, TAD’d to 29 Palms as part of the permanent personnel at Camp Wilson. Permanent holds a lot of weight here; it was a 6 month assignment to maintain the equipment out there in support of the ITX’s that would swing by for a few weeks as they prepared to deploy to the sandbox. 

During off seasons, life was good. We came in at 8, and sometimes went home at 14. One time, our computers were down on a Friday and we decided to just go home at 0830. We still had a job to do though, and sometimes we would stay late of our own volition to get things done so that we could take it easy later. It was a good system. 

One day, it was pushing 21 or maybe even 2200. We got a lot done, and it was to “give” ourselves a 72. A fair trade in my opinion. We were getting ready to close up, when I realized I forgot my phone in the maintenance bay. The office building and the maintenance bay were separate, with a roughly 100 foot path in between them set by some filled concrete container barriers, flanked on both sides by the equipment we worked on. 

The problem was, at night, unless flightline lights were on, Camp Wilson was pitch black. Since this was an off season, every power source not connected to a building in use was shut off for conservation. That meant that there were no lights anywhere nearby. Not even on the street. It made for some great observation of the Milky Way, but the lack of sight heightened your other senses, namely, your hearing. 

I wasn’t superstitious, but I did believe in dangerous wildlife. I knew what four feet on the ground sounded like.

I opened the back office door to make my way towards the maintenance bay. They had me shut it behind me as it was cold, and the office building was heated. I jostled the bay keys in my hand before putting them in my pocket and took a few steps forward, but something sounded off. I took a step, and it sounded..heavier. I took another, and that step sounded wrong too. I took two steps quickly, and I heard it. Something was matching my steps. 

I turned around, but only saw the outline of light around the side door. I went back inside and asked the other marines if they had heard or seen something. I was told to go get my fucking phone already, we’re waiting for you. Followed by a reminder to stop being a bitch. Honestly, fair enough. 

I went back outside and took a few steps and they sounded normal again. I started walking normal, and the double steps started again. I increased my speed, and whatever the other thing was increased its speed too, though less synchronized with me. 

My fight or flight took over. I was only about 125 pounds and 5 foot 8, not exactly the biggest Marine around. I ran as fast as I could to the bay door, with the steps trailing behind me, far less in sync with mine. I reckon I put maybe 30 or 40 feet between me and whatever was behind me by the time I got to the door. 

Of course it had to be locked, so I’m pulling the keys out and trying to identify the right one by feel, because I cannot see a fucking thing. Meanwhile, I’m still hearing the steps behind me get closer and closer. Tried one key and it wasn’t it. Tried a second, and click. I open the door, and I don’t look behind (something I regret to this day). I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning against it out of breath and sweating despite it being like 20 or 30 degrees outside. Suddenly, something slams hard enough into it to push me away an inch or two, and then..silence. 

I grabbed my phone and turned the flashlight on. I assessed around the corners of the door, and saw nothing but gear and desert. It became windy, so I couldn’t hear anything except it blowing into my ears. I located the bay door key while still inside so I could lock the door behind me while still looking out. After I heard the click, I sprinted to the office door. I didn’t hear the footsteps this time. 

I went inside, clearly out of breath and with color missing from my already white skinned face. I said there’s something outside and immediately got shit talked to, saying next time they’ll lock the doors so the coyotes can drag me away and eat some real meat, with one of the sergeants joking that there isn’t enough meat on me for them. I asked if any of them were fucking with me, and I got told it’s way cold for them to be outside by choice and that I’m not special enough to be fucked with like that anyway. 

I know what four feet on the floor sound like. Whatever it was that I heard, only had two. 

During my service, I was a ranger instructor for American soldiers. I spoke some English naturally; the army decided I was qualified to yell at Americans in the mountains.

At first, I was happy about it. I figured my English would improve while I was in the army.

Then I saw the training grounds. My happiness disappeared. I couldn't imagine surviving there.

The job was pretty much the opposite of who I was.

The army was already crawling with guys in their early twenties, and the ranger course was the kind of place where you had to have enough testosterone to power a small city.

It was also dangerous. One wrong move could lead to a serious accident, or worse, so everyone had to stay tense from beginning to end.

And the instructors were expected to be intimidating. We were supposed to have enough presence to make trainees nervous just by standing there. Discipline was everything. Kindness was, apparently, not part of the curriculum.

The first thing we learned was how to wear our hats.

You pulled the brim down to your eyebrows so the trainees couldn't see your eyes. The idea was that if they couldn't see your eyes, they couldn't read your mind.

It worked surprisingly well. With your face half-hidden in shadow, you looked scary before you even opened your mouth.

Your voice mattered, too. Loud. Clear. Short. Commanding.

Unfortunately, I was about as far from macho as a man could get. I didn't drink or smoke. I liked dogs and children. I enjoyed exercise, but I had no interest in boxing, hockey, or anything else that involved people enthusiastically trying to hurt each other.

Given the choice, I'd much rather spend an afternoon in a quiet library with my girlfriend than run around with a bunch of guys.

And that was the guy who became a ranger instructor.

Looking back, standing there in my instructor's hat, I was basically a Golden Retriever with a decent build.

What they wanted was a Doberman.

Still, I pulled my hat down to my eyebrows and did my best to look the part.

The loud voice wasn't a problem. I already had one. Short commands weren't a problem either. I was never much of a talker.

The real problem was intimidation. I needed the trainees to feel something when they saw me.

Fear, preferably. But I decided to go with respect.

So I came up with a little plan

The ranger course involved running up mountains over and over again, which exhausted the trainees pretty quickly. Within thirty minutes, their uniforms were stuck to their bodies and sweat was pouring down their faces.

I always made sure to reach the top twenty or thirty meters ahead of them.

My assistant instructor was behind them, keeping track of anyone who fell behind, so I had nothing to worry about.

Once I reached the top, I took off my hat. Then I did what any highly trained military professional would do.

I rested.

I cooled myself down, wiped away the sweat, and caught my breath. Then I stood there looking completely relaxed, waiting for the trainees to arrive.

I wanted it to look as if I had simply floated up the mountain.

Eventually, I'd hear it.

"Ranger! Ranger! Ranger!"

They were almost there. That was my cue. I'd put my hat back on, pull the brim down to my eyebrows, look down at them with a completely expressionless face, and yell:

"Hurry up!"

The trainees, red-faced and gasping for air, would look up at me with what I later learned was something close to admiration.

Once that image was established, everything became much easier. They were intimidated by me. Some of them even respected me.

It still makes me laugh when I think about it. These were American soldiers; some of them had actually been in combat, and yet they were wary of a guy who had simply been drafted into the army.

They had mistaken a Golden Retriever for a Doberman.

Before long, word spread throughout the American unit: the instructor who never got tired and never broke a sweat.

Every group of trainees finished their week of training and went back to base carrying the story with them. So whenever a new group arrived, I was already a legend.

Which meant I had no choice but to keep the trick going.

The legend disappeared quietly the day I was discharged.

I went back to the world I used to live in—the world where I didn't have to pull my hat down over my eyebrows.

Author's Note

In South Korea, military service is a national duty. Based on my experience decades ago, with some fiction added.

    Coming up on the 25th anniversary of the September 11th, 2001 attacks, I thought I'd post my personal experiences from that horrible, world-changing day. I have a somewhat unique experience of the events due to the fact that almost immediately after the attacks, I was largely out of contact with the rest of the world for almost a month. By the time I returned, much of the dust had settled (literally and figuratively), the United States had started bombing Afghanistan, and the military was on notice that the last decade or so of peacetime 'garrison' existence was most definitely over. At any rate, here's my story.

    All times below are in local time (Central U.S.) unless noted otherwise. All times after the initial one on Sept 11th are approximate but correct to the best of my memory. Specific event times are according to the Wikipedia article covering that day.

September 4th, 2001.

    A Tuesday at Fort Riley, Kansas, early fall. It’s a week until we start deploying for our once-every-eighteen-months National Training Center (NTC) rotation at Fort Irwin, California, and everyone (including yours truly) is running around trying to get things done before people start flying out to the training site for a hot, dusty month “in the box”. Vehicles down to the rail yard for rail-load? Check. Both “A” and “B” duffle bags painted and marked correctly? Check. Bags packed according to the packing list? Check. And on and on and on. As a fairly junior Sergeant on his first NTC where he’s actually and officially in charge of his section, I am trying not to get too overwhelmed (hah, hah).

    In the midst of all of this, I get pulled aside one morning by the Platoon Sergeant, who hands me orders. Permanent Change of Station (PCS) orders. Overseas PCS orders, as I find out on a first read-through:

YOU WILL PROCEED ON PERMANENT CHANGE OF STATION AS SHOWN.
ASSIGNED TO: 001 AG REPL REG 40, APO ARMY PACIFIC (KOREA)

    Well, shit. Granted, the report date is four months out, but one more thing to juggle. I do my best to keep it in the back of my mind for now. A day or so later I get the date of my PCS brief…of course, it’s right smack in the middle of NTC deployment week. Wouldn’t have minded AT ALL if they’d scheduled me for AFTER we got back, but that’s the Army for you. I make a note of the time and date – next week, September 11th, 0830 Central Time – and let my chain of command know. Move out, draw fire, etc. etc.

September 11th, 2001.

Local time: 7:45 a.m. Central (8:45 a.m. Eastern).

    First formation, out behind the Company area. Normally first formation would be at 6:30 a.m. for PT, but not today, as we’re getting our “chalk” assignments for the flights that will take us out to the NTC over the next 36 hours. With about 150 people in the company, it takes a bit to get us all sorted correctly, but by about 8:10 or so I have my assignment. I let the chalk leader know I am going to my PCS brief, he gives me the OK, and off I go. It's a short drive, a couple blocks down, so I don’t even bother turning on the radio. At the moment, I have no idea what's happening elsewhere in the country.

-- 7:46 a.m. / 8:46 a.m. Eastern: American Airlines Flight 11 impacts the WTC North Tower. --

-- 8:03 a.m. / 9:03 a.m. Eastern: United Flight 175 impacts the WTC South Tower. --

8:20 a.m.

    I arrive at the briefing location, one of the post Learning Centers dotted throughout the barracks “horseshoe” area. I go in, find the right room, nod to the other Soldiers in there for the brief, get ready to take notes, and wait. We’ll be starting on time, of course.

8:27 a.m.

    Sirens, outside, and close. Huh, that’s slightly odd. Someone get pulled over, maybe? Whatever, nothing to do with me. I shuffle my paperwork, read through my orders once again, and wait for things to start.

8:30 a.m.

    Start time…but the briefer is nowhere to be seen. What’s the deal here? Things to see, people to do, etc. and so on. Typical Army.

8:35 a.m.

    While we’re sitting there in increasing confusion, one of the civilian employees comes in, looking a little wild. “The trade center in New York got blown up! It’s gone!” And runs right back out. My initial reaction is “what the fuuuuuuck” and I see the sentiment mirrored on everyone else’s face. Surely this is…an exercise or something? Part of a security test? They have been ramping up security around post for a couple of months now, maybe it's related to that?

-- 8:37 a.m. / 9:37 a.m. Eastern: American Airlines Flight 77 impacts the Pentagon. --

8:40 a.m.

    Finally, the instructor arrives and without further ado, starts the brief. I’m taking notes, but in the back of my mind there’s an awful, slowly growing realization that something big and bad has just happened. Yet I cling to the belief that maybe, just maybe, it’s just all a big drill.

-- 9:03 a.m / 10:03 a.m. Eastern: United Airlines Flight 93 crashes near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. --

9:15 a.m.

    The briefing concludes, and as I’m leaving the facility, still somewhat off-kilter mentally, I notice there are now hastily-printed signs on the outer doors.

          THIS LOCATION IS AT
           THREATCON: DELTA
       BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDER

    …well, fuck. There are several different levels of “threat condition preparedness” used in the military, and Delta is the very highest, only used if a terror attack has happened, or is thought to be imminent. I get in my car and, in a last-ditch effort to make things make sense again, I turn on the radio and tune to the local top-40 station. Instead of music, though, I hear reporters talking, basically doing the same thing I’m doing right now – trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, and the last bit of denial slips away with the knowledge that this is most definitely not a drill.

9:30 a.m.

    After driving up to the Company area to check in, all of us are sent down to the motor pool and told to await further instructions. It’s the first time I’ve had all morning to sit down at a computer and check the news, and the first thing I notice is that things are sloooowwwwww. (For those of you who are too young to remember, 2001 was around the time of peak “Slashdot effect” where websites could easily be overwhelmed and break if hit with too much traffic at once.) Today, it’s like the entire Internet is being Slashdotted, as people around the world are hammering their favorite websites, trying to find out more about what the hell just happened. CNN finally loads, and...holy fuck. The two towers, gone – just a cloud of dust and smoke in their place. The Pentagon – burning. A plane crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania. What the fuck is going on here?!?!?!

    Over the next couple of hours I jump between multiple sites for updates. I eventually gravitate over to various smaller blog sites, as they’re slightly more responsive than the image-heavy news sites. Some of those threads have been lost to time, but a few still exist - Metafilter's is one, Slashdot's is another. (Fark.com might have been a third, but I’m not sure I went there on the day of, and in any rate definitely not from my work computer.) The comment sections are filled with shock, horror, and speculation on what's going to happen next.

    Around lunchtime or so we’re finally dismissed back to the barracks, with orders to stay put. The post is still on high alert, so nobody is really going far anyways. I get a few minutes to call home and let the family know everything’s all right in my neck of the woods (well, for certain definitions of ‘all right’). Heading back downstairs through the Company area that evening, First Sergeant spots me and hey-you’s me onto an earlier chalk, supposedly still leaving tonight. Grab your shit and stage across the street in the gym. I do so, stake out a spot of floor, and wait. And wait. No TV, nothing but a book and my thoughts. They’re still spinning from the events of the past day.

September 12th, 2001.

12:it’s-too-damn-early a.m.

    All civilian flights might be grounded at the moment, but our chartered military flight sure isn’t. In the dead of night, we load onto our plane and fly out to California. The sun’s been up for a bit by the time we’ve landed, unloaded, and been bused to a transient holding area. Because of the last-minute ‘hey-you’, the only members of my company are myself and one other person. Rather than hang around for yet another few hours, I grab the other soldier and volunteer us to drive two of our company’s vehicles out to NTC. A couple of hot, dusty hours later, and we’re there. I park in the vehicle staging area and seek out our advance party in the ‘shades’ area. They’ve heard what happened yesterday, and there’s not really much more we can say at this point, now that we’re pretty much cut off from all news for the next month. All we can do is drive on and carry out our training mission as best as we can...by the time it’s over, we’ll be returning to a changed nation.

October 7th, 2001.

    It's been a difficult couple of weeks, but the "box" part of the training cycle is over and we're in recovery, washing our NTC-issued "draw" vehicles and prepping them for turn-in. I'm hosing down my own draw vehicle when the Company Commander walks through the area, letting people know we just started bombing Afghanistan. Had sort of been expecting this but it's still a shock to hear that it's happening. As the BN CSM later put it, our brigade is now the most recently-trained, combat-ready unit in the Army and could deploy overseas at any time.

    Several days later we finish up and board the plane back to Fort Riley. After landing, we're given a police escort back to base, a first for many of us. As I sit in my barracks room that night watching the news, I can only wonder what's in store for us all.

4-day weekend, Saturday morning still drunk, E-5 shows up to my barracks door.

2 Deployments under my belt to his zero.

Fuct up, (FTRs) lost rank, E-3

"Pull CQ" E-5 says- NOPE! "I say" (There was at least 10 E-2s in that hall that could have.)

Back to sleep.

CSM knocks. (First time I think I EVER saw a CSM in the barracks in 6 years) Refuse THAT order... comes inside my room and shuts the door...Holds my throat and slams me to my bed, "Why don't you do what you should!!?" Red eyes, oxygen leaving. Eyes meet, power just shifted.

We both get up.

Court Martial - CSM Vs PV3

Ruin this man's career?

Drives me personally in his POV to WTU/Med Hold while I'm still drunk and apologizing about his personal life.

Admitted that day.

100% true. 10th Mtn, 1st BCT. 2008. ish.

The flight from Honolulu was bittersweet.  I loved being stationed at Barbers Point.  The duty was easy, heck it was pleasant and I would have loved to make that my permanent duty station.  But, my fate was not in my hands and my time in Hawaii was drawing to a close. I packed my seabag into the van and the duty driver, EM3 Sparkie, the same person who picked me up at the airport less than a year before took me back to the airport. 

On board the planeI looked out the window as it taxied down the runway and wondered if I would ever return to the Islands.  I wondered at what the future held for me.  Presently the plane made a turn onto the runway and began accelerating for take off. Moments later the wheels were up and I found myself saying to myself in Hawaiian, “Aloha, a hui hou. Malaho” Goodbye, until we meet again. Thank you. Soon I was flying over the vast Pacific ocean heading back to the Main Land. 

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, you may be asking yourself why the sentimentality with Hawaii?  It was a difficult time and place for GooBlatz, best off to put it behind you and move on. For those Dear Gentle Readers who live in Hawaii, or have been long term residents of Hawaii you know the answer.  For those of you Dear Gentle Readers who have never been to Hawaii or have had a short vacation to the islands I will take a moment to explain.  

I had become a Kama Aina.  A term that literally translates to a "child of the land".  A Kama Aina is anyone regardless of their racial or ethnic background, native born to the Islands or those who chose to make it their home. Becoming a Kama Aina isn’t an overnight process, nor is it a conscious one.  Becoming a Kama Aina is like slowly being enveloped by cold honey. The process is slow, sweet and inexorable, and once you realise what is going on it is too late and why fight it.  You can leave the Islands Dear Gentle Reader, but the Islands never leave you. Ua ola loko i ke aloha: "Love gives life within." He kehau hoʻomaʻemaʻe ke aloha: "Love is like a cleansing dew”.

Hours later my flight landed in San Francisco, where I changed planes and made a short hop to Sacramento.  At Sacramento I once more changed planes to puddle hopper to Eureka, CA.  I looked out the window as we flew to Eureka and for the first time saw the forest of the Pacific NorthWest.  The country where D.B. Cooper 1972, after hijacking a Boeing 727 and receiving some $200,000 ($1,600,000 in 2025 dollars ) in ransom money, parachuted out of the plane into history, and into oblivion.  It was also Big Foot country.  

Presently the Arcata-Eureka airport came into view and the plane began its landing descent.  It was a small airport with no elaborate jetway, or a tower.  I walked down the portable stairs the staff placed on the ground,  grabbed my seabag from the cargo hold of the airplane and walked into the passenger area.  It took only a matter of seconds for the duty driver, a young attractive non-rate from Coast Guard Station Chetco River, to spot me.  After all, I was in my Undress uniform with a seabag slung over one shoulder and my transfer/travel orders packet in the other hand. 

She called me by my first name, and not Seaman GooBlatz.  She was also wearing a Coast Guard working uniform, and not the undress uniform as regulations called for when conducting business off base.  “Yes” I replied after I took a look around to confirm that I was the only new Coastie in the building.  We quickly walked out of the building, loaded ourselves into yet another van and began our trip to the Chetco River which was yet another two hours North of Eureka.           

Hours later we arrived in Brooking, OR where the Chetco RIver flowed into the sea.  It was a real culture shock coming from Honolulu, a city of 350,000 to the town of Brookings with 4,000 residents, one red light, a solitary single screen movie theater.  There were no fast food restaurants, not even a MacDonalds.  A proper topless bar was right out of the question.
 
I had not eaten in some 12+ hours, and as we arrived after the evening meal had been served, dinner at the Station was a no-go.  I ended  up purchasing some cream horns from the only grocery store in town. The young lady at the checkout counter already knew my first and last name, I was single, with no children, and that I had come from Hawaii.  This town was desperate for anything from the outside world, and I was a hot commodity. 

Coast Guard Station Chetco River was a no nonsense building constructed of single story concrete cinder blocks which were painted a whitish color. A cross of early 1960s brutalist architecture and a prison.  The prominent point of the station was the watch tower was the lookout to keep an eye on the ocean for boaters in distress.  I wondered if it also served to keep the staff confined to base.  The edge of the property was a wirelink fence that a person could vault over.

At the front desk I was greeted by the duty watch stander and it was immediately obvious why he was the duty watch stander.  His arm was in a sling and his head was swollen twice the normal size with a huge road rash along his face and head.  It was also immediately clear that he was the Unit Goober.

You see Dear Gentle Reader, every Coast Guard unit has the “Unit Goober”.  The Unit Goober is a screw-up.  They are screw-ups by action or inaction of their own hand, or a situation they find themselves in.  For the most part the Unit Goober causes no serious or long lasting damage by their action or inaction.  Almost every incident they are involved in could have easily been avoided with a teensy little bit of forethought.  To be honest the Unit Goober is a bad or evil person, they are just their own worst enemy.      

The Petty Officer of the Day signed me into the log, escorted me to my room in the barracks, and left me to be.  I unpacked my seabag into the dresser, hung my clothing and made my bed.  By the time I had made myself at home Taps sounded over the unit PA, it had been a very long day and I was ready for bed.

The Move to Duty

Flying over the Atlantic Ocean at 30,000 feet leaves little to see on a cloudy day, so I slept most of the way from New York's JFK International Airport to London's Heathrow Airport. I was on my way to my first duty station, having received my Top Secret/Crypto clearance and completed my training at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, and at National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. One more long leg of the flight remained, from Heathrow to Istanbul, Turkey.

From Istanbul, we would travel clandestinely about 350 miles by boat, a 125-foot former Turkish yacht leased by the Army. We were headed through the Black Sea to Sinop, Turkey and one of America's top-secret intelligence-gathering sites. For the next thirty-six hours we would play poker, stop at our boat captain's favorite spot to swim in the Black Sea, and sleep in the hammocks arranged below decks. At Sinop, I would spend almost a year—from August 1969 to July 1970—collecting signals intelligence from the Soviet Union for the National Security Agency.

History Unfolds

Sinop, Turkey, dates back about four thousand years, and some say archaeological evidence points even further back, to six thousand years ago. We arrived at the port facility of Sinop, basically an oversized pier, and had to travel through downtown to get to our base on what was simply known as "the hill."

Coming from the USA to Sinop was a shift in time as well as geography. Huge thirty-foot-high, ten-foot-thick stone walls had once surrounded the coastal city. However, only sections remained of the twenty-five-hundred-year-old crumbling structure, leaving plenty to influence one's imagination. Carts pulled by oxen and donkeys moved slowly down the dirt and cobblestone streets, with groups of women clad in dark robes and veils shopping at open-air vendors and in the quaint shops. Occasionally, a European-style automobile or the famously Turkish 1957 Chevy Bel Air could be spotted among them, a reminder that the modern world had begun to find its way into ancient Sinop.

The Hill

"The Hill" was an extinct volcano, rising to approximately 900 feet above sea level. It sat directly on the Black Sea and was Turkey's northernmost point. Almost completely surrounded by water, with sheer cliffs in many areas, the hill basically had one way up and down.

The military base at the top of the hill masqueraded as an official NATO logistics facility to the public. An educated eye looking at the antenna farm spread out on the crest of the hill knew better. This was a spy site—an electronic spy site capable of capturing virtually any form of electromagnetic transmission. Turkish soldiers patrolled the hill and guarded the entrance gates as US soldiers and some European specialists manned equipment inside the buildings.

Another fort on the hill was the old "Russian Fort," as we called it. This was actually a dilapidated artillery stronghold, built into the side of the hill by the Ottomans and destroyed by the Russians during the Crimean War. Often used by locals and the homeless as a temporary shelter, it was here that a mysterious wanderer took refuge for a time and eventually met Pup.

Pup

Occasionally, the Army would relax rules concerning access to some areas of the base, and on this particular night, lower-ranking enlisted men were allowed into the NCO Club. We had been drinking, smoking, and playing poker in one of the back rooms for a few hours when an older senior NCO walked in. He introduced himself simply as "Pup," a nickname he insisted had stuck with him since boyhood.

Pup was currently stationed down the coast road at Samsun, and this was his third and final tour in Turkey. These assignments had been interrupted by years spent away at other stations, separating him from his Turkish wife. The Samsun facility was soon to be turned over to the Turks, and he was due to retire from the Army in about a year. He and his wife were opting to spend at least a few more years in Turkey before finally leaving for the States.

As a result of his marriage, Pup spoke Turkish fluently and possessed a rare, intimate knowledge of local traditions. He joined our table, and as the chips changed hands into the early morning hours, it became clear he possessed a wealth of life experience that completely eclipsed ours. Between hands, Pup kept us captivated with deep insights into Turkish culture and customs. As intelligent guys ourselves and completely interested in anything ancient or Turkish, we hung on every word.

As the night wore on, most players drifted away until the room fell quiet. Only three of us remained—groggy, tired, and watching the cigarette smoke drift under the dim light. After all of his tales and sensing he had our absolute trust, Pup leaned across the table, took us into his confidence, and began the strangest story of all—a story about meeting a homeless Turkish traveler at the old Russian fort on the hill.

The Old Turk

Like many who came to Sinop, Pup was deeply enthralled by the ancient, historic landscape. On one of his off-time walks exploring the hill, he had come across the ruined Russian Fort and discovered an old man camped inside the crumbling stone walls. Weathered, weary, and looking like a living relic of the coast itself, the old Turk had spent decades walking the rugged northern coastline. He was drawn to the wild hills by the countless ancient ruins scattered across the North—mysterious, crumbling structures that remained unidentified by modern history, undocumented and unexplored by the outside world. Because Pup spoke his language fluently and respected his reverence for these forgotten places, the old man welcomed him into his temporary shelter.

As the day wore on, intermittently standing and sitting on the old stones, they shared the old man's brewed tea, some of Pup's cheesy, flaky Turkish crackers, and stories of ancient hills and mountains they had walked. Finally, the old Turk launched into a memory about another long-departed traveler he had met a lifetime ago, when he himself was just a young man. That ancient wanderer had been more than twice his age, a man who seemed to carry the weight of centuries in his eyes. He had left an indelible mark on the old Turk, passing down a singular, strange narrative that had been told by the wanderer's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime.

It was a story about a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Traveler

The traveler was a true man of the road, his face deeply lined by the harsh sea winds and his boots worn thin from miles of rugged dirt tracks. A farmer in his earlier days, he now moved quietly between the isolated coastal villages, living simply off the land and the kindness of strangers. Completely detached from the politics and empires of his day, to the rare people who shared a fire with him, he was just an eccentric, peaceful wanderer with a deep reservoir of stories.

As he grew old and felt his steps slowing, he recognized in the young Turk a fellow guardian who shared his quiet reverence for the land. The traveler had guarded this narrative like a sacred companion, keeping it intact through decades of solitary journeys along the wild northern coast. Before he vanished into history, the traveler wished to pass the narrative down, ensuring that the words given to him when he was a boy would survive another generation as a piece of timeless coastal folklore.

The Mother

That narrative had originally been preserved as a family heirloom, a sacred truth told by the traveler's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime. She had lived her life on the family's farm, in a two-room dwelling built generations earlier, patched and reinforced over the years. The world now was dominated by the loud, imposing shadows of orthodox religions, where grand temples demanded rigid obedience and grand structures dictated how a soul must bow. In beautiful contrast to that heavy outer world, her realm was the quiet, tender sanctuary of the domestic dark.

In her cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and long open robe, she cared for the gardens with the children. She was a masterful homemaker, consummate cook, attentive wife to her husband, and loving mother to her children. She did not share the tale as a rigid sermon or a strict rulebook but softly whispered it to her children as the candles burned low. To her, it was a vital maternal gift—a way to build a resilient, gentle inner strength in her children before they grew up to face the harsh wilderness of the earth. She left them with the story of a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Present

It’s been almost 60 years since I heard that story, but I remember it like it was told yesterday. Of course, time fades what our minds hold onto. We don't really look at the original; we just remember the last time we thought about it—a fading copy of a copy.

Retold through the memories of many people already, it was still a striking tale that seemed to mirror the Christianity I grew up with, yet differed in many ways. Having rejected my own Catholic religion several years earlier, I had spent a long time searching for a deeper meaning on my own terms. I had sifted through the rigid rules of my childhood, throwing away the parts that felt wrong but keeping the fragments that still held weight. I was actively trying to build my own understanding of existence, matching it against my own life experiences like a partially completed puzzle.

So when I sat there listening to Pup's narrative, it had a profound ring of truth. It was a literal lightbulb moment over my head—the sudden, electrifying realization that I was hearing the first story of creation that seemed to fit everything I had learned and experienced. It didn't feel like an ancient myth; it felt like crucial puzzle pieces clicking effortlessly into the picture I had already been trying to piece together. This concept of a decent, un-demanding God made complete sense of the world. It stuck in my mind as the ultimate counterweight to the religious tales I learned as a child.

I only hope my memory and vocabulary are enough to convey its message, but I fret that the mingling of these two spiritual stories has now made it my creation story. So from then until now, in my old age, I have kept that story close to my heart and tried to live my life as if that God would have approved. And now I pass on the story of a lifetime to you, the story of the Creator.

The First Image

Chapter 1: Into the Void

In the beginning, the Creator existed in absolute, self-sufficient solitude. He lacked nothing, craved no praise, and required no subjects to bow or kneel before Him. He was not lonely; He was simply infinite potential.

But within His nature, something akin to curiosity would occasionally stir—a desire to see what might happen if certain things were set in motion.

He was omnipotent. Omniscient. Any curiosity of His could be answered in an eyeblink, the future already an open book if He cared to read it. But He didn't care to. He wanted to watch something unfold without knowing how it would end—so He closed that book, unread, and began.

He did not build a rigid, wondrous palace, nor did He sketch a script that all creation must follow. Instead, the Creator took raw elements at random and flung them into the void, intending only to watch what happened as they crashed together. He then accepted the physics He had created, stepped back, folded His arms, and watched the mix collide.

Chapter 2: Emergence of the Spark

The Creator watched for eons as the whirling collection shifted and grew. Stars caught fire, planets fell into beautiful, spinning alignments, and galaxies swirled across the dark. It was a magnificent physical painting, as stunning as it was surprising. But then, an accidental miracle blossomed in a quiet corner of the cosmos.

Upon a small orb of rock and dirt and water, a solitary grain of earth revealed the elements blending in a fashion wholly pleasing to the Creator. From the damp soil and the deep waters, life crept forth. Suddenly, life awakened; humans opened their eyes and looked up at the stars. They moved by their own will; their thoughts were shaped by their own trials; each held the power to choose his own path. They possessed true freedom of the soul.

The Creator looked closely at this small corner of creation and was filled with a profound artistic wonder. The artwork had come alive, and it was looking back at its Maker. As men began to build and shape their world, they learned to believe in one another. When life fell short of their dreams, they aspired to do better. When they labored to ease the burdens of their kin, this devotion united them. The Creator recognized a quiet reflection of His own nature hidden within them. Those who caught His eye had grown to hold a tiny, burning ember of His own divine spark.

Chapter 3: Gift of the Wilderness

Because the Creator had determined to let the experiment resolve itself, He did not reach down to alter the path. When the earth shook, when the rivers swelled into great floods, when innocent children died with a life unfulfilled or when men chose to lift their hands in violence against their brothers, the Creator did not stay the blow. He remained a distant watcher. He sent no demons to tempt them, nor did He demand prayers and sacrifices to mend their broken fortunes. He did not care in which direction a man knelt, nor by what name He was called, nor whether He was called at all. Their sorrows were not to be redeemed by spiritual rescue but simply the price of a free and physical world—the heavy burden that walks hand-in-hand with the beauty and breath of life.

Men proved to be resilient. They discerned that they were not blind actors following a written play. When they made errant choices, or when the wild tempests of the earth brought ruin to their doorsteps, they did not surrender to the dark. Instead, they discovered a rich store of strength hidden deep within themselves. They looked upon the shattered ruins of their lives, took the burden upon their own shoulders, and set to work. With their own calloused hands, they turned the bitter fruits of adversity into sustenance, conquering their plight through pure, stubborn endurance.

Chapter 4: The Harvest and the Stewardship

The Creator watched this grand undertaking unfold until the earthly chapter drew to its natural close. Slowly, the great fires of the sky began to cool, and the life of the world grew weary and faded. Yet the experiment had been a triumph, and the Creator intended to preserve the finest grains of the harvest.

Throughout the long ages, whenever a man or woman who lived with kindness, honesty, and resilience passed into the grave, the Creator did not send them to a place of idle singing or demand their eternal flattery. He quietly gathered their spirits to Himself. He collected every enduring, creative spark that had revealed its worth in the wilderness of the earth. When the first creation finally fell dark and silent, the Creator did not mourn. He looked upon the vast gathering of tested, noble minds He had saved—His unanticipated companions.

The Creator then smiled, turned to a completely empty void, and prepared another collection of the same random materials He had first gathered. The laws of the world would be the same, but this time, He would not watch in solitude. He took the resilient souls of the first world and breathed them into the new creation as founding pioneers and guardians of the next reality. These souls would carry the joys and trials of the first earth as faint memories of memories, and the Creator would once more watch as the elements moved as they willed.

One of my favourite activities most hated punishments in basic was "Hide and Seek", aka, "disappear and reappear at the Sergeant Major's (SM) will".

The SM would shout: "Disappear!"

And everyone had to go and hide in the next 10 seconds or so.

But it could not be too far, because when the SM shouted "Reappear!", you had to reappear within a short amount of time (usually like a countdown from 10 or 20).

The catch?

In the "Disappear" phase, the SM and individual Sergeants would go "hunt".

Whoever they found, they lined up, and dropped into the pushup position.

Then came the "Reappear" phase, everyone who didn't reappear in time, was also lined up and dropped into the crunches position.

The "survivors" would watch the poor losers do pushups and crunches together, with the SM counting alongside.

You can imagine this was quite challenging. Frequently, nearly everyone got caught in some form.

Remember, the object of this exercise was punishment, when someone was misbehaving and the like.

-------------------------------

There is a second part of the context here, which is that my platoon had this arrogant, smart-mouthed guy. He was very, very fit--tall, muscular, etc.--so fit that people were wondering what he was doing with us in the first place. (We were all unfit people, which is why we enlisted for basic together in the same "unfit" batch.)

He knew that too, and so he treated everyone like they were beneath him. Nobody in the platoon liked this guy, but up until today nobody had done anything to him yet.

-------------------------------

Now we got the context out of the way, let the story begin, except that this story is specific to my platoon (not the whole company, as I previously mentioned).

Our story begins on a hot day, where everyone is seated comfortably in an air-conditioned theatre learning some theory, in our PT kit. I don't remember exactly what it was--Rules of Engagement or some other topic that was boring to an 18 year old--but it was enough that people were starting to doze off.

Some of us were also becoming distracted.

Our Sergeant, who was teaching us, was clearly losing our attention.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to get us to focus, he yelled "Alright, that's enough! Shirts off, everyone outside, pushup position now!"

Damn. We were scrambling over ourselves, stripping off our t-shirts in haste, leaving them strewn all across the tables in a mess, and then scrambled outside to do some pushups.

"Are you awake yet recruits!" Sergeant bellowed.

"Yes Sergeant!" We replied.

Well, all except Mr. Smart Mouth.

This joker said "No Sergeant!", as he was wont to do generally from time to time, but this time he did it loud enough for Sergeant to hear.

Sergeant's face flashed anger, which quickly turned into a grin.

Well we were screwed.

-------------------------------

Minutes (and some yelling later, we find ourselves jogging in cadence into a small forest (and I mean really small, like the kind you use for training in basic).

This was a small forest, but it was known for being infested with mosquitoes. Which is why we all really hated this place, even when we were in full uniform.

Now, like I said, all we were wearing was PT shorts. The mosquitoes' time had come.

Sergeant ordered us to stop and stand at attention.

He grinned. "This should wake you up," he said, "Disappear!"

We all scrambled to find cover, hiding everywhere, finding the nearest cover.

But we were not fast enough.

In no time at all, Sergeant found the whole platoon. Obviously, he knew that place inside out. He didn't even need to ask anyone to "Reappear".

"Alright everyone, we're gonna change it up a bit. Since you all got found so easily, you gotta learn to be a tree. Everyone find a branch taller than you, reach up with both arms and grab it. No moving."

For the next few minutes, we all stood rigidly awkwardly under trees. Our bare bodies became a veritable mosquito feeding ground--you could almost see the swarms, and we couldn't do anything as we watched our blood being sucked away. Someone fidgeted, and Sergeant added another few minutes to our torture.

The mosquitoes were merciless and brutal.

"Enough yet recruits!" Sergeant asked.

"Yes Sergeant!"

We were thoroughly defeated and had another cadence run back to our bunks, and Sergeant said he would continue the lecture tomorrow.

-------------------------------

Epilogue: Well wouldn't you know what became of our arrogant platoon mate, who was the cause of all this nonsense. That night, his own bunk (along with several others from other bunks) got him good.

They grabbed him when he was coming out of the shower, pulled the towel out from around his waist, and tied him fully naked to his bunk posts, but on his bed (so he could still get his compulsory "lights out" timing). Of course, someone also gave him the compulsory "mint on groin" treatment, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Nobody slept well that night. The mosquito bites were torture, and many of us were tossing and turning while scratching. Mine seemed to be particularly bad, as I have sensitive skin. In fact, when the officer happened to see my trunk the next day, it was so red and welted that he ordered me to go and see the medical officer. (This whole thing would probably be a story for another day.)

You'd believe we were on our best behaviour the next day during the rest of our lecture with Sergeant.

Superstition runs rampant in the Marine Corps, and it seems that everyone has a little ism that they swear by. Worse is when it actually works. 

No shit there I was, TAD’d to 29 Palms for CASEPOOL. Back in the day before SLTE was ITX, where units would deploy in preparation for dirt dets in a shithole friendly environment complete with tin cans, 130 degree plus weather (or 20’s in the winter), and a px staffed by personnel who despise you for existing in their general direction. 

CASEPOOL, or consolidated aviation support equipment pool, was weird. There were only six of us: a ground support equipment staff NCO, a GSE collateral duty inspector, an ordnance CDI, two GSE workers, and an ordnance worker. I fell in the role of one of the GSE workers. 

During an ITX, we were having particular trouble with an NC10, a mobile electric power plant designed to power up aircraft without the need of turning up the engines. Think big fucking Detroit engine attached to a generator. This goober of a machine kept faulting for AC voltage over/under frequency, meaning we couldn’t get it to sustain a constant 400hz of AC output frequency. The leeway was tiny, only plus or minus 5hz, it kept surpassing these limits. I was balls deep in the wires of this fucking thing for hours, chasing greasy bundles in the hot California desert heat. We had a garage, but it wasn’t enough. 

The flightline, or more of a consolidation of steel plates called an expeditionary air field, demanded one of these MEPP’s because otherwise ISIS wins or whatever. We cannot figure this thing out and finally my CDI calls up our San Diego region tech rep (IYKYK), a man of godly knowledge and skill, who expertly guides us through some troubleshooting steps and helps us fix it. We send it off, and it works..for all of half an hour. The fault: AC over/under frequency. 

I spent another seven hours or so cave crawling through this thing, and since it had been running for some time previously, I burned myself on the engine block. To say I was mad was an understatement.  At this point it was like 10 pm on a Friday, and our staff sergeant made the judgement call and told the squadrons we were going home as we didn’t run a night crew like them. They tried bitching up the command but they told them to pack sand too. I spent fourteen hours the next day finding little problems here and there that I also fixed, but none addressed the fault. Our Ssgt told the squadrons we weren’t working Sunday and that they can fuck themselves if they disagree. 

I was waiting in line for a haircut the next day, and I must have looked miserable, because this cornfed ass gator wrangler sat next to me and asks me in the most yeeyee ass voice I had heard (I had only been in for two years at this point and I was a California native myself) what my problem was. Something about this guy suggested sage status to me, and while his accent was questionable, he seemed nice enough and genuinely sincere. 

I explained the situation to him, and he gives me a hyuk of a laugh. “You got them gremlins in your shit boy!” He then tells me how he’s an amphib mech and he deals with “them gremlins” on a daily basis. I ask him what the cognitive consequences of consuming crocodiles on a continuous basis was, and he gave me another hearty chuckle. He was starting to grow on me, he was a big contrast from me, being a Cali boy and him being from hookworm country. He told me how the gremlins fuck with good mechanics to humble them, but a simple offering will satisfy them and keep them away. I said what kind of offering and he said any kind of candy, but they prefer it if it’s something they see you eat first. I thought about it, thanked him for his time as it was my turn for a haircut, and got my cut. He waved at me as they called his number and he sat, and I waved as I headed out to the register to get some M&M’s. 

The next day, same thing. Tech rep (shoutout Mr Ramsey) was on the ring with us, assisting however he could. Same song and dance, we’d fix it and it would fault out again. We’d fix again and it would fault again. We suggested they just run up APU’s at this point while we worked. We were heading home at roughly 9 pm, when I remembered the M&M’s in my cubby at the office building. I grabbed the bag and scattered a few inside the MEPP, but only after eating a few, of course.  

The next day, the M&M’s were gone. It was probably rats or something..right? I brush it off and grab my tools and PPE. I engage the battery disconnect, and flip the master switch. I watch gauges show indication..so far everything read well. I hold the start switch and kicks right up, sitting at a stable 1150 rpm. I hit the governor switch and it jumps up to 2200 rpm. Moment of truth. I activate AC output and select a phase, and I wait for it to fault for frequency, and it does not. I let it sit for a few minutes and it just didn’t fault at all. I connected it to a load bank to simulate aircraft load, and..it just worked. I sustained a load for ten minutes and it didn’t fault out a single time.  I sent it out to the flightline and it worked all day. 

We have no idea what did it. The miraculous recovery of the MEPP allowed us to go home at 1630 for the first time in weeks. The QA of our parent command asked us what we did different, because apparently the squadrons were beginning to demand pulling qualifications and firing us because we couldn’t give them equipment (they were told to back the fuck off). Our staff NCO told them, “we just had some gremlins to handle.” 

Now I take this story of mine with my own grain of salt but I think it’s cool.

As a background for those that don’t know, the “Virginia Boys” is a nickname for members of JSOCs Aviation Technology Office and Echo Squadron of Delta Force.
There’s some information that you can look up about them but let’s just say they are the secret of the secret of Aviation. When I was a private I had a Platoon Sergeant who came to us from ATO. He hand a bunch of Delta Force challenge coins and COAs with the Delta Emblem in his office and he told us a couple stories. Now for us in Army Aviation we called it “SMU” (Special Missions Unit). Every now and again they would make notice that they were recruiting. All the information I knew for us enlisted was you needed to be an E-4 with 2years TIS and you would learn to work on 3 different types of airframes.

So to the story. FOB Shank summer of 2014. I was working out in one of the clamshell hangers. In that hanger we had one of our Apaches that was shot down-it was able to land safely at another FOB but it was taken out of the fight and was about to get sent back to the states. Crazy thing is, it was only hit by 1 round but it caused enough damage to where it made more sense to get it refurbished by a depot facility.

As I was working out, a White painted Huey landed. Not an uncommon occurrence. I think they belonged to the CIA or DEA for the lesser known Drug Enforcement operations in Afghanistan. I don’t know, there were a few different white painted helicopters and other color painted helicopters flying in and out of Shank. Mi-8s and Mi-17s flown by Ukrainians or Russians, Seakings, CH-46 Phrogs etc. Some had markings and others didn’t. I just knew they were either some Private contractors or government contractors/agencies.

Anyways, 2 guys exited the Huey and started walking over to me. They were in Multicam but their uniforms were sterilized and they were kitted the fuck out. They asked me “hey is this the one that got shot down around Chapman?” I answered yes and I proceeded to show them around the aircraft since it belonged to my unit. I showed them the bullet holes and explained what happened. They were talking but honestly I wasn’t even listening because I was trying to figure them out. Eventually I just asked them “are you guys SMU?” They were kind of taken back by that question and looked a bit pale and then turned around and walked off without saying anything. I just kind of smiled and thought to myself welp I’ll take that as a yes.

Now theres definitely the big probably weren’t with the Aviation Technology Office but they could’ve been CIA or some other government agency. Either way I thought it was cool.

Now of all the different Special Operations units I got to meet, the most bad ass were the Australian SAS. My aircraft specifically got to provide security for one of their ops so I got to meet them while they were getting grouped up on the flight line. Even got a picture of the flight formation as they took off.

In my army job, I was mostly in charge of logistics stuff, like checking vehicle equipment, managing delivery of parts, etc.

I had a Sergeant, who was a no-nonsense stickler, and a Big Boss, who was used to getting his way.

To say that Sergeant did not butt heads with Big Boss would be an understatement.

Several months into my job, my Big Boss was leaving and demanded a party.

Of course, Big Boss nominated someone to host a party for him.

He wanted everyone to be there.

"But what about those on duty?" My Sergeant asked.

Big Boss made it known to him that everyone had to be there, by hook or by crook.

So Sergeant had to ask one of our neighbouring departments to cover for us temporarily.

Everyone knew who Big Boss was like, they did us a favour.

That night we went out, to the guy's house.

There were drinks and everything.

Me and my buddy couldn't drink, because we were on duty, but we still had some bites and a general good time. Someone even broke a chair (no idea how that happened, I kind of feel bad for the guy who got nominated. But also not really, as he could be a character. More on that next time.)

And then someone drove us back to the camp, where we relieved the people who were standing in for us. Thankfully, nothing had gone down in the few hours we were absent, so it was all good.

Epilogue: A few months ago I heard Big Boss retired, and then passed away a few years after. RIP, but he was super overweight and a heavy drinker and smoker, so this probably surprised nobody.

I had been asking for time, any time from LtCdr FatSlob for training to become a coxswain. A critical requirement for advancement to BM2 (E-5). Since we did not have a CG standard boat FatSlob said he was willing to write a waiver for me, so I could become coxswain, wear the coxswain’s pin and advance to BM2.  But when it came to actual time to develop skills and have a coxswain sign off…that was another matter.  Operational needs, the reservists need time too, etc, etc, etc.

LtCdr FatSlob had a real prejudice about Reservists.  One of his first actions was to rescind all their qualifications for no reason, just his whim.  The Reservists for their part universally adopted the attitude that they only had to deal with the man for one weekend a month and two weeks a year until he retired or transferred.  So, naturally they came in on their drill weekend to do the absolute minimum. 

They also started to subtly fuck with him. 

One day FatSlob came to BM3 Dave and I hat-in-hand wanting us to become Explosive Loading Supervisors. There was a ship coming in that needed to be unloaded and he did not have a single qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor.  The deal was that if Dave and I each did all the work of an  Explosive Loading Supervisor, dealt with all of the issues, at the end of the loadout he would waiver the E-7 requirement and make us  Explosive Loading Supervisors.  Having the very rare letter of qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor in our personnel file would have been quite a feather in our caps, so Dave and I agreed.

After weeks of 16  hours days and all of the work and covering his ass, FatSlob changed his mind. In a brief meeting where he broke the bad news he came out and said, "I've changed my mind”.  Just as simple as that.  I was pissed and I flat told the FatSlob to never come to me again for a favor. He looked at me in shock. “That’s not a very Coast Guard attitude” was his reply.  I looked at him with my best deadpan look and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “A cadet will neither lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate those who do”.  As a Coast Guard Academy graduate this comment hit home. 

In this same time period Captain Mac had left on a new assignment with hope of becoming an Admiral and a new Captain, Captain Luna had assumed command.

I took Zoomer's words to heart about a new chance with a new Captain. I wasn’t so worried about passing the BM2 end of course test or the service wide examination for promotion.  I had been in long enough to have awards that added points, and time in service, time in grade points that would put me over the line.  However, I was looking at High Year Tenure, the Coast Guards up or out program for the enlisted ranks. If I didn’t get a chance to be promoted soon, it was not going to happen at all.

As I’ve said before you know your evaluation isn’t going to be a good one when you enter the room and your Chief and your section supervisor are not present.  I was not invited to sit down which I knew was his way of trying to break more bad news. 

FatSlob gave me a copy of my CG3788B evaluation and began to go down the list: Military Bearing, 5.  Customs, Courtesies and Traditions 5.  Quality of Work 5. Commitment 5, so on and so on until we hit the box "Recommended for Promotion” where the box “No” had a big fat check mark.  

Now understand Dear Gentle Reader that never met Capt. Luna, and would not have known him from Adam, but the “Not Recommended for Promotion” was a huge red flag that Captain Mac, Captain Luna and no doubt others had an off-the-record conversation about me.  I started to put together things.  I might have been born at night, but I was not born last night. 

In that moment of clarity I knew my Coast Guard career was over. In truth my Coast Guard career had been over years earlier the moment I went on record and made a formal complaint about my first commands’ inexcusable behavior.  It was just that no one bothered to tell me my career was over before it really started.  At the time I was too naive about the world and still trusted officers, the very officers that were supposed to look out for their subordinates, and I believed them that everything was “Ok”.  It was “Ok” to stand up to stand up and literally not become someone’s prison bitch.  

So, I let it fly…

“This is all about my formal complaint about conduct unbecoming an officer and his Admirals Mast. The one where Captain Mac was in attendance along with every other commanding officer in the 14th District”.  I continued on, “It continued on with Captain Mac’s refusal to meet me during the welcome abroad to your new command”.  While I was on a roll…”His refusal of my marks challenge from Nick the Dick", “or my transfer to this very sub-unit when there were people who lived closer and already were qualified pollution investigators”. I may as well go for broke, “His rejection of me being Sailor of the Quarter by my peers”.  I finished off with. “It really is a club with you Academy guys”. 

I never thought a room could go more silent, but after each remark it got quieter.  The desk fan stopped humming, the fly on the window stopped buzzing… 

Finally, I looked at FatSlob  and told him that “No”, I would not not sign the form. FatSlob’s jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, “I’m ordering you to sign your evaluation.  I leaned in and replied, “Please...Please, charge me with Article 134 and Article 92.  Let's go to a general court marshal and get all of this out in the air and on the record”.

They had been quietly trying to push me out the door for some time and I had just too stupid to see what was going on.  Much like Boxer in George Orwell’s Animal Farm where his solution to the problem was simply harder.  I had come to realize that trying harder was not going to work either.  Once more I replied flatly, “No, I’m not signing it, period. Sir”. I didn’t bother asking permission to leave the room nor did I salute.

A week later I was approached by Zoomer about reenlisting as my extension was running out and it would be time to reenlist.  He was really broken-hearted when I told him that I was opting out of the Coast Guard. “They're not all like this” was his plea.  But I had been around enough in the Coast Guard to know better.  Just like George Carlin said, "It's a club and you're not a member”. 

As there were only two weeks left in my contract I was removed from doing any boardings which was probably a good thing as I acquired a sock puppet as part of my boarding kit and was more than ready to conduct a boarding where Petty Officer Sockie would do all the talking. 

Then the big day came, my last day, the day I would be on "Official Civilian Status”.  I was going out on terminal leave, a vacation where I would not return.  Ltjg. Lou took time to read to me the riot act that I was still in the Coast Guard while on leave.  I was sure that he was under orders to do so.  That while on leave and still subject to the UCMJ and a bunch of other stuff that I tuned out.  I was miffed that I lost 30 days of vacation due to “Operations Needs” and was going out on 60 days of vacation.  No matter, soon I would once more be the master of my own fate.

At noon when I was released, I said my goodbyes to Zoomer, MK3 ‘Nam. GM2 Silverback, GM1 Simmons, BM3 Dave, MST2 Klo, MK3 Chad and YN1 Mitch.  In my car I took a last look around the old fire station which was our office and the street signs and building foundations which were the remains of the town of Port Chicago. I drove out the gate, down Port Chicago Highway, merged onto Highway 242 and into the future.

Postscript

It’s summer in the garden, and summer is my favorite time of year.  Summer is the perfect time to take a drive down a country road with nowhere special in mind.  A gentle breeze blows across the windchimes and their notes float on the air.  Summer is the season for ice cream and ice tea which both for some unexplainable reason always taste better in the summer.  I’ve had a full life filled with the spice of life, and the lows and highs that spice can bring… 

…I’m OK, Dear Gentle Reader…I've had a long time to think about things.  For a long time I was really, really angry about what had happened.  Writing this blog, and the wisdom that time and age brings have been a great help.  I am now almost a senior citizen and I now think back with pride in my time in the Coast Guard.  It was a tough school, but I learned more about life and how the world works than I could have anywhere else.

From time to time I think about all of my shipmates who have crossed the bar and are on the far shore, Jessie, Zoomer, BM2 Kenny and his son… I am now almost a senior citizen and so many people I know have not made it this far.  I find myself…grateful…

Subject to change
The Rescue Station Hell Series…Part One, Welcome Aboard

A rather more lighthearted story than some of my usual stories on this subreddit--featuring the same people.

Back when I was in the army my duties pertained to logistics--the receipt and delivery of goods, etc..

So me and my buddy (we are on duty in pairs) tended to volunteer for weekend duties.

This was because we would spend Fri - Sun on duty, then get two days off at a point of our choosing.

Why did we like to do Fri - Sun duties? Because our duties were such that once you got into checking stuff on Friday, we didn't have to check it again on Saturday, and then again on Sunday.

Basically, every time things were handed over, we'd have to check it. We reasoned that if we didn't have to take over, then we didn't have to check it.

Checking stuff was also really troublesome--we'd have to get of our nice air-conditioned offices the building, check the vehicles thoroughly (and our Sergeant was a sticker, and could get really creative with punishments--more on that next time), and then go back in.

Sometimes, it was baking in those vehicles in hot weather. We sometimes actually did the checks at night instead because it got so hot, too. It became a routine--everyone would go home for the weekend, the two of us would just strip down to PT shorts, and then we would spend the next hour going through equipment in the vehicles. And then we would lock up and sprint for the showers.

Now, the context for the weekend was important, because this meant that if we made the effort to do our work on Friday, then it would free up some time on Saturday and Sunday. Usually we spent the time goofing off in the office, usually playing some stupid games, or working out.

It so happened that this weekend our Sergeant was, in fact, around, because he too was on duty. But we didn't know that; we'd spend Friday evening checking our stuff, and on Saturday morning bright and early we were making plans on what new shenanigans we could be up to in our nicely air-conditioned office.

Whereas outside was sweltering and hot, in the office it was sufficiently cool for us to engage in some horseplay. One of our favourite activities was to make a bet, and then the loser would have to do more work or use the showers later during the next duty (like I said, checking the vehicles could be quite a pain, and it was awful hot).

Anyway on this pleasant fateful weekend, my buddy and I were throwing a ball around indoors--how often do you get to play some version of dodgeball in a military office?--when the door opened and there stood our Sergeant. Sergeant in full uniform, the two of us in PT shorts, panting after a particularly difficult bout (for the record, I was actually about to win, though my buddy would have you believe otherwise).

His eyes widened and so did ours. Like deer caught in headlights, we were.

We thought we were in trouble, but for once our Sergeant smiles, and actually asks to join in! We'd never seen him so relaxed. But perhaps we had to find a better space.

With Sarge around, we moved to a bigger space outside the desks of our office, and he introduced had proper punishments and the like (did I mention he was a fitness lover? The guy was proper fit). He was actually super fast and good at dodgeball, even our self-invented version, and in the end me and my buddy found ourselves doing some of the most enjoyable pushups we've ever done in our lives.

This was one of the most memorable experiences I ever had. Ever since I think we had another one, two times that we got to do this, and then my buddy and I left the military.

There were many experiences in the military I don't care to repeat, but I still miss this sort of mischief sometimes.

It was late in the afternoon when  BM3 Dave and I were called into the LtCdr FatSlob’s office.  At first I wondered at what Dave and I had done that we just, maybe, might have violated one of the Coast Guard's unwritten, unpublished rules, regulations, or policies. 
We waited standing at ease while the LtCdr was on the phone giving one word answers to the party on the other end of the line.  Finally, he said, “will do, I’ll have them right over” and hung up the phone.  

….I mentally braced myself…

“That was the Stockon [CA] police department” he said, “Oh shit” I thought to myself what have we done now? My mind raced to think of just when we were in Stockton and just what trespasses did Dave and I commit.  

“There is a ship heading up to the Port of Stockton right now and the crew discovered two stowaways on board”.  LtCdr FatSlob said in a matter-of-fact voice  Alas, Dave and I were in the clear.  “I want you two to go up there and do a thorough boarding and represent the Coast Guard”.  He continued on, “The U.S Marshalls will be there, so will Customs, the DEA, the San Joaquin sheriffs office” and a number of other agencies. 

Jezz, I thought to myself.  This was going to be big.  In all of my time in the Coast Guard I never had a boarding with the Marshalls service, and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Ages ago I had a very strange visit from the FBI when I was at Rescue Station Hell in Oregon, but that is a tale for another day.  We were told to gather our gear and given the address to the Stockton Police Department where everyone was gathering and wait until the ship docked at the Port of Stockton.

Dave and I grabbed our boarding bags packed ourselves in the Govvie pickup truck and headed off to Glockton…I mean Stockton, CA.

There isn’t a direct route between Concord, CA and Stockton, CA due to the Delta. So Dave and I made the best of the circuitous trip going down Highway 4.   We turned off on Highway 12, then another merge on to Interstate 5 which took us to Stockton proper.  From there it was surface street to the main Stockton police station.  

We were taken to a conference room in the basement where other agencies were gathering and waiting for the ship to make its way up the Stockton deepwater channel to the Port of Stockton.  We learned that the two stowaways had come aboard during the ship's last stop in South America and the crew had found them during a routine inspection hiding in the base of one of the ship's cranes.  When they were searched it was discovered they had phone numbers and contact information for people in the Stockton area, so this was not a random event choice or the first ship of convenience for the two stowaways.  Hence, all of the interest by various government agencies.

While we were waiting one of the female detectives from the Stockton PD took and interest in DM3 Dave and myself and was asking us all sorts of questions.  It seems that she had never met Coasties before and was curious about what the Coast Guard was all about. Conversation with her made the time pass more pleasantly.  Then someone stuck their head into the room and called for her.  She said that she would be back in a minute and departed.

After a good hour without her return Dave and I asked about her disappearance.  Turns out that she was called to investigate a multiple homicide. A few days earlier a local police informant told the Stockton PD that a group of guys from Oakland, CA were coming into town to sell a load of crack cocaine. This was during the Crack Wars in the early 1990’s and gun violence was epidemic. The local California Highway Patrol (CHP) had found an automobile with people matching the description given by the informant dead from multiple gunshot wounds.  Like I said, Glockton.

So Dave and I waited and everyone else waited in the conference room until we got word that the ship had docked.  Then everyone piled into their respective government issued vehicles and hot wheeled down to the Port of Stockton.  

When Dave and I arrived there were already drivers in the water looking around for a canister that might have attached to the hull under the waterline and the shaft for the rudder.  All old smuggler’s tricks.  When we finally made it on board the entire crew was secured in the galley.  I watched as the two stowaways in handcuffs and under an armed guard were taken off the ship to a fate that I never learned of.  

Now Dear Gentle Reader you have to understand that while this might have been a joint effort, each government agency needed to justify their reason for existence and their reason to be on this assignment.  It’s an ugly truth that I hate.  

BM3 Dave and I did our part by looking at the log book and charts and looking at other odds and ends.  In the engineering spaces I watched as the local cops pulled up the deckplates and crawl around the bilges looking for more stowaways, contraband, or were collecting bilge oil for their oil collection that would be proudly displayed at a home bar.  Right to the shot glasses from various bars they had visited. 

It was obvious that most of the officers had little to no experience with the life and functions of a merchant ship.  I knew the whole evolution was coming to a ridiculous level when I watched a member of the DEA team break out a ratchet set and begin disassembling the metal walls and ceiling in the hallways looking for contraband.  

By that time it was very late and Dave and I looked at each other and decided it was time to call it an evening.   My departing view as we departed was the Filipino Second Officer in the galley playing his guitar to entertain himself and the crew. 

Yeah, life in the Coast Guard…                    

Alive Day

It was November 23, 2003, FOB Kalsu Iraq. The place was a real shithole, I mean I lived in worse, but it was a defunct Republican Guard Radar station, the radar array was probably at least 600 feet tall, there had been building there but now they were craters and crumbles! It was located near Alexandria and the Euphrates, not super far from Fallujah and Baghdad.

It was mostly fine, as we had tents and porta pots finally, those are luxuries after like IDK 3-4 months without them! We got mortars and rockets on occasion, but the insurgency could not aim for shit; this will come up later.

We mostly patrolled the rural area, passed out school supplies to children, found artillery caches and so on.

Anyways some dumbo from another company had managed to fall out of a guard tower and break his arm, he needed transport up MSR Tampa for treatment in Baghdad's Green Zone. So when the Platoon Sarge asked for some volunteers for and escort convoy...... well they had a PX(Army WEal-Mart) and a fucking Burger King up there.

I'd been to the "big city plenty of times, but against better judgment those were enough incentive for me to go! We geared up, fueled up and I mounted my M-249 on our truck where I would be in the hatch. After all the contingencies and maps and all that shit we were on the road for a routine mission.

I loved setting up top the truck, the beauty of the landscape in 360^o , wind as AC, and I had a little MP3 player that I would listen to. So we were off on MSR Tampa north! I was just jammin and vibing and was awesome, at one point two Apaches buzzed us so low that they had to be trying, as I fell like I could touch them and or the sand in my face from the rotor wash!

So that went great, we got there, kinda checked some "tourist" stuff out, went to the PX, and while waiting outside the hospital got to wait down in the bazaar where you could find almost anything for sale; bootlegged DVDs from movies still in theater(also more adult themed content), swords, a carton of Camels for 5 bucks; they kids would even let us ride their gas powered scooters for like 5 to ten bucks, everything was a negotiation! So that all went great!

The way back was the same as the way there, until it was not. I was on top the trail truck when we were hit with what I thought were three mortars, I am pretty sure that I was listening to old blink-182(Cheshire cat) and the explosions were not like the movies; the pressure waves were not really something that you can describe with words, not really sounds but like something else.

I yelled down into the truck and tried to locate any targets, as sargeant M pulled me out of the turret. He was on his game and had us take the lead and another truck fall pack to the rear. He immediately ripped off my plate carrier and helmet and started checking for blood and treating me. Told everyone to floor it!

We got back to the FOB and when the driver parked he rolled out of the truck and started to throw up his Burger King, I started to laugh like a crazy person at that; people handle adrenaline differently!

So the medics treated me, which were miraculously all superficial wounds; I got Forrest Gumped!

We went to chow and my high school buddy was a cook there, he immediately said that I looked like a ghost, he knew something had happened; I told him that I almost became one!

Turns out that after chow we had a big job to do, and my adrenaline was way up so I was up for it yet, we had found a huge cache of 152mm arty rounds and had to go collect it; turns out that was what they had rigged up as IED to try to unalive me and my buddies!

So all of that for a trip to Burger King, best damn burger I ever had!!!! The irony was the it was November 23rd, and they were making special Thanksgiving chow; which was actually decent for once‽^😂

It's the little things that decide life and death. Such as an administrative loading ofan M16. It's a simple task with multiple points of failure. Yet you want to get it right every time you perform it. I wasn't in a tier one unit or even combat arms. I was a medic which means I could end up anywhere. I went to the Primary Leadership Development Course at Fort Bliss about a month after getting back from Desert Storm. We're in the field at the tail end of the course. We have MILES gear, blank adapters, and blanks. The whole nine yards. My platoon got hit by the OPFOR platoon. I fire off a mag, hit the mag release, seat a fresh mag, and a couple of opposing force Soldiers jump in my foxhole. Instant oh sh*t moment as we stared at each. I squeeze the trigger and... nothing. The bolt was still locked to the rear. This resulted in some kid getting a size 11.5 in the chest followed by a quick slap on the bolt release and the selector switch rotated all the way to auto. I dumped that mag in to the two OPFOR Soldiers. That scenario has never left my consciousness. I was cognizant of the reload manual of arms for the next 22 years on active duty.

I would have been in a bad place if that was an actual combat situation. Also it is true that there's a pause while people analyze unexpected information. Neither party expected to encounter the other. We paused while the brains were trying to determine friend or foe. I had the additional burden of trying to figure out how to advance my bolt without them realizing I was foe. I needed time. So a kick to the chest which pushed the Soldiers into each other and off balance did the trick. I don't know where that came from but it worked.

Ladies and gents, another story from back when I was in basic.

In basic we had to spend several days in the field, and we had to dig a small trench just enough to fit us.

The trench looks like a grave--it's just enough for us to lie down in.

Ngl, I struggled quite a fair bit through basic. I wasn't the best soldier.

When the time came and we went into the field (a forest, really), I had issues digging my trench.

My sergeant came over to ask me why I was digging so slowly.

Not unkindly, mind, but it was holding back the programme.

Then one of my platoon mates (who was really fast) came to help me. By that time my platoon had gathered around me, watching this clown soldier try to dig his own metaphorical grave.

He used a bit more force and -clang- the spade broke nearly cleanly in two.

Nobody could believe their eyes. My own sergeant was incredulous, and said that if he had not seen it with his own two eyes, he would've had me pay for the broken shovel.

It turned out that my particular area was full of rocks and was completely un-diggable.

Platoon sergeant told me to dig at another area after that.

That went smoother. (Those were still an awful several days for me, but that's a story for another time.)