Our mandatory friday morning company cadence runs. Something.. something... C-130 rolling down the strip... with air borne rangers hitting a rock and doing a 'flip' ...
The guy on the left yells something, then everyone copies what he says...
For those that are military, you know what I'm talking about.
For those that aren't - watch this video, and you'll see what I'm talking about:
So maybe that sound motivates you... however, more than likely if you're IN the Army, and you're not super motivated to run 6 miles at a mind boggling 2 miles per hour foot shuffling pace, struggling to grab and inhale air, the first thing you would LIKE to do is to stop fucking yelling.
Can we just get this stupid ass run over with? Complete with those fat bodied supply guys that quit due to not running the last 4 or 5 months, only to make the entire company suffer when the Commander makes the entire fucking formation turn around... "turn around, pick em up boys"
.... for fuck's sake....
It was the Friday before the field, and here we were mmm good, runnin strong, lookin good, oughtta be, in hollywood... trotting our way around our tiny base, our commander in the lead, looking for ways to extend our run out to 6 miles - yeah, fun stuff. MMMM mmmm GOOD.
Fuck hollywood. I want to go back to bed. I guess a 350 PT score STILL wasn't good enough for these fat bastards...
Death before dismount - That was a Tanker's motto - Then why the fuck did we run like we WERE going to dismount? Answer me that you rejects.
If there was one person you'd single out in the audio of that video (listen closely, and you'll hear him), I would be that one dude that's talking, not yelling, in an explicit effort to express a bit of individualism and NOT be part of this stupid cadence bullshit.
...Soon enough, the run ended, my shins screamed in fucking agony over the throbbing shin splints that half-stride pace had induced.
Fuck... my.... life....
Was it even worth going to sick call (the aid station) and see the PA about it? It felt like my bones were separating from my calf muscle... it made walking nearly impossible...
Fuck the aid station, fuck the PA - The most you were going to get was a shit-bag status no-run profile, a handful of 800mg, horse-pill sized IB Profen, and a prescription of DRINK WATER and Get the FUCK OUT... yeah, that's Tricare right there for you.
Gotta love that Army run health-care.
Fuck it, Friday would be over early and supposedly we were going to just clean up the motor pool, get out Tanks straight, and prep for our 'roll out' on Sunday...
My first Field Rotation to Grafenwoehr (pronounced Graff-IN-Veer).
Gunnery as we called it, but really, the only thing us tank crew members were worried about was the test called the "Tank Table 8."
We had a series of engagements to memorize, study, rehearse, and get comfortable with. We made up study flip cards with these theoretical engagements as they would apply to us in a 'real battle'... Shit, we even went to the Friedberg training area and shot mock-up fake targets with 'laser bullets,' ...sometimes enclosing our crew in an 18 wheeler trailer that was setup with a stone age computer system, with mock-up tank internals and a simulated drivers compartment..
Fake Driver's station
Fake Gunner's Station...
Fake Loaders Station...
... Simulators aside, it was serious business for everyone. I guess I missed that memo...
I don't know what got into me that had caused me to be lacking in the motivation department. I spent more time on my cell phone texting girls that I had met at local bars than refining my skills at gunnery - I figured I was a natural. I'm a loader, how hard could that be? Grab the round, throw it in the tube, sit back, throw the arming handle up, and say "up" . That's pretty a pretty easy job if you ask me.
Details were dispatched to load the company's tanks onto the rail yard. German civilian transport authorities dressed in hot pink outfits would be making sure we didn't fuck things up. Barking random nonsense in german
Our yard was just outside one of our gates from our base, and moving a company from the motor pool, to the rail yard, required a safety brief, a 30 hour lecture from our platoon leader, followed by yet another safety brief before we left the motor pool...
lowest common denominator.
ROGER, got it.
In theory, we're supposed to depart the motor pool, travel to the train station, await the arrival of our transport, and one by one, load the tanks onto the platforms. Once that's finished, put down the chock blocks, put the tank in neutral and let it rock the boat, then lock it down with cables on both sides - that's it - simple, clean cut, to the point...
- Theory doesn't always work out as planned -
Two tanks broke down on the way to the rail-yard, those required tow-bars to be hooked up to each on the back of a 'tow vehicle' (another tank placed in front with bars connected to the dead vehicle), then those were towed ONTO the rail car... yes, it was as complicated and messy as it sounds.
Long story short, 4 or 5 hours later, 13 M1A1's, 3 - 113's (armored personnel carriers), and 2 hummers were loaded up on the flat cards...
The entire company loaded up onto the personnel cars towards the front of the train, and a long cross country train ride ensued. Random games of spades, the smell of a cooked MRE, and the clank clank clank of the railway underneath... You really saw the entire length of the German country side. In tow, enough firepower to destroy a Russian battalion of tanks...
... gotta wonder what the civilians thought about that as we passed through their towns, with a dozen + war machines taking over their railways...
We'd arrive at the train yard just outside of Vilseck, await the shuffling of the tanks to be front loaded to the docks. In the mean time, you head to the bretzel shack and pick up a nice cooked meal - courtesy of the bretzel-meister... these fuckin Germans know how to cook...
Another road march took us to Graf (Grafenwoehr for short), and after parking in the assigned motor pool, we'd head to the barracks where we'd be living for the next 4 weeks or so.
My crew was unique. I had a Gunner who's name was Specialist Gunter. He had a kid and a wife overseas, and had alot to prove. He was a goofy guy, with intentions of getting out. Our company was short on Sergeants at the time, so they kicked over Specialists to be gunners in the mean time... The Army was hurting on people. Gunter had a stutter, a bald head, and a goofy mentality. He was sharp, but not Gunner material. He fucked up every time we trained or conducted rehearsals, and wasn't overly 'outstanding' at anything he did... whatever, he got the job done.
Now, my driver, Private First Class Settle, was the most evil son of a bitch on earth. I'm not sure if it was the non-stop requests to 'poke me in the butt,' or the constant backstabbing he'd do behind just about everyone's back... but this mother fucker was ... well, you could say he was... ruthless.
Regardless of Settle's moral-compass, he did have an awesome work ethic. Jemel wouldn't let anyone touch his tank without his supervision, and he knew how to work the system like no other... Although, seeing him kiss ass always rubbed me the wrong way. I never kissed ass, and did my business without needing higher up's go ahead.
My vehicle commander was also the Platoon Leader. First Lieutenant Stenzel. He was a tall dude, still breaking out in zits from his teenager years, scrawny like me... but was very sharp, and learned quickly. He let Gunter do his thing, and he worried about the bigger things under his map - namely, the platoon... The PL or LT as we call em, was always being sidelined by our platoon sergeant, and naturally he should be until he learns how the Big Army works... Although me and him had quite a few conversations about the reality of being in the Army, I wouldn't connect with LT until later in my career in Germany..
Our crew was about as sharp as rusty razor. We had an 'edge,' but everyone in our crew was brand new at this game, and we hit snags during just about every 'preparatory' range on the road to tank table 8.
Table's 1 - 7 were a hit or miss... some we did, some we didn't, and I never really understood until later what the fuck all the 'tables' meant... some were for your machine guns, others were for moving targets, another one was a crew station engagement... sheesus, just send me to table 8 and get it over with already...
By the time we got to table 8, 2 weeks into the gunnery, my arms were bruised, my fingernails were missing on 2 fingers from smashing my hands between the breech and a 40 pound training round, and my body was sore all over.
This loading shit was hard work. Between each range, you'd go back to the loading dock, load more rounds, grab more coax, then go back on line just to run over and over and over again... hoping that your tank didn't develop some crazy maintenance problem along the way...
Time wasn't going by fast enough...
We qualified, barely, providing me and my crew proper authorization to wear my 'tanker boots'... boots that you wore as a tanker that lacked normal shoe laces... instead, they're replaced by leather straps that wrap around the boot, securing it on your foot. Why do we get to wear these? Fuck if I know, but they did look damn cool...
...if only the pair I was issued actually fit my damn feet...
Now after gunnery was complete, the long, drawn out process of cleaning off our tanks, and reversing the entire process of packing up everything was underway. 3 days after the last round was shot at a fake target, our tanks were ready... back on train track, and headed back home...
... spring was in full bloom by the time we headed home - a huge change in scenery had occurred across the country-side... Trees that were barren and riddled with bone-like tree limbs, were now exploding into color... pink flowers, giant green leaves, and assorted shapes and sizes were all over the place.. it smelled... goood.
It smelled like freedom... but that beautiful smell of freed would be very short lived.
2 weeks later...
We were back on that train, headed back out to another field rotation.
It was called Back to Back rotations, something akin to daily doubles in football, but without the reach around... you know you're getting fucked, and you can't do a damn thing about it...
One month in Grafenwoehr, and the other in Hohensfeld, with a 2 week break in between. In this next rotation, there wouldn't be any real rounds, only blanks. We'd shoot invisible lasers at one another, with fake explosions and simulators called 'hoffmans' - equal to a quarter stick of dynamite, and just as capable of blowing off your hands as well... fun stuff.
We all knew Hohensfeld as... the other nightmare in Germany...
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