Fort Lewis, Washington. Wet. Green. Fresh
If I had to describe this place in 3 words, those would just about do it. I arrived in January 2003 to what I had hoped to be a fresh start. Germany was over and done with, and my girlfriend at the time that I had left there like a jettisoned cigarette butt, was anxiously awaiting the return to Europe after I got out of the Army... this was an intention in theory of course, and like most theories, this never actually solidified into reality. Starting fresh for myself, and I know a lot of other soldiers that think the same way, meant to discard the old, and lay down the pavement for the new.
My hometown would be only 6 hours away, so just a hop, skip, and getting a car down the road would lead me back to a place I had forgotten for the last 2 years. I didn't necessarily miss anything about my hole in the wall home-town. Its a nice place, great for retirement or a raise a family, free from gangs, or shopping malls for that matter. No place in this world that contains human beings goes without a problem now and then, but when its small town problems, usually everyone knows about whatever happened before the news even picks up on the story...
I'll summarize my first two years at Lewis. I arrived to a rag-tag bunch of 'kilo's' that had never seen a tank outside of basic training. The Infantry now ruled this base, and we were stuck in a limbo state as the vehicle that I had been told that I was going to be on, hadn't even made it past the drawing board. Our First Sergeant was still an E-7, and liked to use the company in mass to help setup his churches pot-luck events... Abuse of power? Fuck yeah it was. What was SPC me going to do about it? Suck it up, and setup the god damn tents, that's what.
Its easier to ride the wave, then it is to swim against it. I had a severe lack of balls after being in the 'old school' army of Europe... Ft Lewis and its infantry would help me reach puberty again.
Now, I thought I was hot-shit coming to this place. 300 PT score, awards up the ass, tons of stories about "one time in germany" ... but that was about it. It was a different world here. The brotherhood that I once felt in my old armor unit, wasn't the same here... Each person was out for themselves. Joe was pretty much stuck, in a 20x20 foot barracks cell, with a kid he didn't know, left to find for his own damn self. Germany you had camaraderie, esprit de corps, and this little thing we called Tanks. None of that seemed to exist here.
If I could think of something close to what we had in Europe, I'd say the closest that we had was what I always called.. the "Bash bro's." Gil, Tex, and Strader. These guys were completely fine individually, but as soon as you added alcohol, and 2 or more of these jokers in the same room, you just introduced a recipe for disaster, or chaos, however you'd like to see it. To put things simply, these guys could fuck some shit up. I was the lame lucy. Always the DD, always the one getting picked on, smacked in the nuts, or manipulated in one way or another. I perpetually felt guilty around these guys for no real reason. I admired them, followed them, and wanted to be like them. I found it difficult to abandon all morals and discipline, so I assumed the role I fit in best.
A few months at Fort Lewis, and I had already found a girl that I liked. I wouldn't say that I had a thing for a specific ethnicity outside of white girls, but I think there was something about Asian girls that caught my attention. I think its a woman's eyes. Sometimes you gotta kiss a girl with your eyes open. If you can look into her eyes, and she looks back at ya, those have better be some stellar peepers, or its kinda going to the wind. Asian's have beautiful eyes.
We had a "thing" I guess. She was more into the physical part of the relationship, and being the romantic moron that I was, I read way too much into it. I wrote her a book during one of our month long stints in NTC. Poems, pictures, drawings, you name it... it was in there. She read the first 2 or 3 pages, game me the 'what the fuck is this' smirk, and tossed it into a trash can. I didn't see her again, well, not until a few weeks later I found out she was fucking a buddy in my platoon... yeah, I couldn't have made this shit up. I was devastated, but I think that realizing she was a whore helped me get over it that much faster.
Realizing that chicks dig assholes helped me understand a few things about women and maturity in general. Time is relative, and love conquers all. As many inspirational things as I could have thought to say to myself at that time in my life, I still lost too many hours of sleep over a broken heart.
We received word that we were going to be deploying that year. 2003 was going to be rough. My old unit in Germany had already been sent over, and we'd be part of the second push from 2003-2004 somewhere in Iraq... There were no specifics, and our unit hadn't even been qualified yet. Still fresh out of the bag, this new "Stryker" unit was supposed to be the most elite unit ever in a conventional military sense... I guess the Secretary of the Army REALLY wanted to show us off overseas.
Too bad we didn't have any equipment to even deploy with.
To be continued...
Monday, August 16, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
This one time... in Germany (part 3 of 3)
... Good times, Bad times ...
Its taken me a few days to conjure up the words to put this memory into perspective.
Nobody likes to think back on the hardest times in their lives. Instead, we always do our best to focus on the future, remember the lessons learned, and try to stay as drama free as possible.
Hohensfeld was difficult. Very difficult.
Having only a limited amount of time to bring the tanks back to Friedberg from Graf (read last blog post), repair the multitudes of broken parts or worn out track pads (oh joy!), and get things ready both professionally an personally for another 40 day stint in the field.
Our crew had changed over the last few weeks. SPC Gunter was out of the Army in a few weeks, so they swapped him out with a new guy - SGT Kroetchel (pronounced like Crow-chill).
He took us aside the first day he met us and talked about his experience, what he expected from his crew members, as well as his personal ethos on recommending us for promotion when the time came for such things.
"Call me Sergeant K" - the only thing I remember from his initial verbal counseling...
- a nickname? Holy shit, this guy is pretty cool!
I remember being impressed with his initial talk, but - there was something about this guy I didn't like. I was still a PFC, so really, it didn't matter what I thought - I had no say in any matter - just shut the fuck up, stand at parade rest, and listen.
Things deteriorated rapidly in the days leading up to Hohensfeld.
I had a constant conflict with my driver since he never let me conduct maintenance. Not doing anything made me look like ass.
Just standing there while someone else does all the work would make ANYONE look like a shit bag.
I understood the tasks at hand, but was left sidelined because new guys were rarely trusted with doing the more complex tasks during maintenance. I remember getting so pissed, I would blow up on people - get so frustrated that I would climb into the turret and sit there - for hours - waiting for my name to be called... God I hated that shit.
Thursdays were the worst - Sergeants time - the time where your sergeant would give classes on whatever he decided upon. Sgt K couldn't teach for shit, and most of his info was all prejudice non-standard experience information. Nothing he taught us was out of the books, and that even showed up until the day we left for the field...
Another rail-load followed a few weeks later, and off to Hohensfeld we went. It was mid spring, so everything was in bloom. The weather was turning hot and humid, and the rain was coming and going as was the warm sunlight between breaks in the clouds. It rains all the time in Germany.... All the time. Period.
Hohensfeld seemed like a small outpost next to a huge expanse of uncharted forest. We had temporary lodging with crowded rooms filled with bunk beds, a Papa-Johns greasy ass chicken diner down the street, and the token shopette that was only open when units began their field rotations. We would stock pile our 'poguey bait' which constisted of as much shit as you can fit into your remaining bag space without compromising your mission essential gear... crackers, cookies, candy, soda, whatever you could get in there.
3 days of preparation, and off to the field we went, or more commonly known as "the box".
Whoever coined that nickname couldn't have been more right. It was 30 days of pure boxed up frustration and agony. Every day was hard-earned, and the weak in your unit would be exposed, regurgitated, and flipped upside down.
The box would turn you into a man, or so we were told. Whatever THAT means.
The first week was uneventful. We left out armed to the teeth with fake small arms ammo, and a full compartment of hoffman simulators (1/4 sticks of dynamite, meant to simulate the main cannon going off).
We were rolling out battle ready, with laser beams and blanks for bullets. We were issued laser detector belts and 'halos' - small circular devices lined with IR detectors meant to fit onto your helmet/kevlar which would signal us being shot if the detector was triggered by a direct hit from another laser simulator.
Most of the time in the field was a blur. Days ran into night time, followed by an hour long guard shift at an observation post at 2:30am in the morning, followed by maybe another hour worth of sleep, followed by a 0530 stand to where all the tanks in the company would turn on at the same time... "short count" ... 3... 2... 1... a unison whir of turbines would kick on, supposedly tricking the enemy into believing that we only had one tank in the area... yeah, would have fooled me. (sarcasm)
When it rained, it poured. If you were lucky, it would rain during the day, and stay dry at night. We didn't have tents to sleep in, we slept in on, or around our tank. The Box was full of big hungry boars - complete with razor sharp tusks and a bad attitude... those fuckers were everywhere... but you'd never see them until they were right up on you. Fuck those things were big.
By the end of the first week, our crew was demoralized, physically beaten down from hours of maintenance and countless missions and guard shifts... and we still had 2 weeks to go.
Sgt K, our gunner, in all his infinite wisdom, had cost us hundreds of hours of unnecessary maintenance. His true colors were coming through. He dipped long cut Copenhagen non-stop, and used the sub turret for his spit reservoir... not to mention, his butterfingers dropped an entire can of dip inside the turret.
The smell inside the vehicle was awful to say the least... Dank wet mold, Chewing Tobacco, dip spit, MRE farts, as well as foot funk or whatever else my gunner could find to stink the hole up a bit more hit your nostrils like a kick to the face...
We had flipped track 3 times, broken 2 sprockets, and leaked out around 300 gallons of fuel across the German countryside. You see, the fuel incident stemmed from Sgt K pissing off the mechanics back at the yard so badly, that they disconnected our return fuel line to our engine pack.
Now, as I learned in my military career in combat arms, there are a few support elements you do NOT want to piss off...
These are one of those elements you do NOT want to piss off...
A few hours later getting the proverbial thumbs up from the mechanics we rushed back to the line to join the rest of the company. We departed, in the lead, on the new company mission - motivated, ready to kill -
We headed up a steep hill at full tilt, 12 main battle tanks behind us, only to hear a call over the net about 'something leaking out of the back of our tank.'
"fuck it - its just water..." Sgt K crackled over the internal comm's... there was no fucking way this was happening..
... a few minutes later, smoke, then fits of fire shot out from the back of the tank... then the realization from the tank crew behind us that the water wasn't water... that shit was fuel.
"Red 1, stop now, STOP NOW, Get the fuck out, and check your shit, you're spitting fire and smoke out the back..."
We stopped immediately, dismounted, fire extinguishers in hand, ready to tackle whatever was going on...
Settle tried to kill the engine, but the tank wouldn't shut off, it just kept running and running...
Smoke continued to pour out the turbine, making a cloud a few hundred feet high, fuel was EVERYWHERE...
"Emergency shut down!!!" Tried it... didn't work... Nothing was working...
"FUCK, OPEN THE PACK, Disconnect the Master Power Cable!!"
- Son ova bitch! - ok ok, just open up the battery panels, as quick as possible and disconnect the master disconnect... pray to god that this thing and all 300 gallons of fuel left doesn't explode with me on top of this thing.
Steel hinged panels went flying - heavy or not, adrenaline didn't care - finding the connector and a few clicky turns on the cable and the turbine choked off its power supply... winding down like a jet just being shut off...
Disaster adverted... phew.
The LT jumped trucks to another vehicle, leaving us with a mess behind... Looking down the hill, it was an environmental disaster... hundreds of gallons of JP8 on hard pack roads trailed off into the distance... 12 hours later and hundreds of gallons of fuel dug up, pick axe in hand, and we were back in business. This time we checked our shit before leaving the maintenance yard.
- Every battle or engagement there after became routine -
The company begins its movement, we meet an obstacle, we bypass or breach the obstacle, then the enemy kills us. In a nutshell, rinse, repeat, and try again.. and again... and again.
Dust was a killer on your lungs. Tanks beat the shit out of hard pack roads, and this fine dusty mist would be everywhere... Huge bugs would come out in the heat of the day, and eat you alive. The rain would come, and turn everything into mud, only to turn into dust a few hours later... there was no happy medium.
... One particular evening, after a long day of missions, details, and late night briefings, our crew decided to bed down somewhat early - if you can call 11pm early - so we could get up early to confirm our virtual boresight...
(boresighting is a long complicated process, basically, its aligning your gun tube with your optical sights so you can shoot stuff accurately - one shot, one kill)
I had my sleeping area at a pre-designated location on top of the turret, laid across the two blast panels in a funky configuration that was by no means comfortable.
Think of a lazy boy made out of spackled coated steel, then sleep on that for a few hours and you'll know what I'm talking about.
... the rain started to come down, and it was freezing outside... water leaked in my 'waterproof' poncho from all sides, soaking my cotton sleeping bag, my clothes, boots, everything. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't think...
Ice cold water started dripping down on my forehead. Fucking chinese torture...
I did all I could do to not think about this moment, take your mind off of things, go elsewhere. This isn't real, you aren't here, its just a bad dream, and you're going to wake up...
But I didn't wake up. I was there. Dirty, freezing cold, soaking wet, on a tank in the middle of the woods, playing GI Joe and shooting invisible lasers and blank bullets at an enemy that kept handing us our asses. My mind went nuts... This shit did not make sense at all... What the fuck did I get myself into... I started shaking out of control - I felt like I was dying.
I had nothing, absolutely nothing left.
My teeth chattered so hard I couldn't sleep... There was nothing warm, no hope, nothing. I gave up. I didn't give a fuck anymore. I could have died from hypothermia right then and there, and I wouldn't have cared less...
I was - hopeless.
I shed tears thinking about my family back home, my hopes and dreams in a disillusioned theory of greater things for the future were just hopeless thoughts in passing...
- from there on out, I was in pain, sheer agony... This was the hardest thing I have ever EVER done in my entire life. There was no god to help me, there was no more happy place to run to inside my head, there was no mommy to feel sorry for me ... this was real. This is your life - welcome to your own personal hell... Time that passed by at light speed during the day time now slowed to a screeching halt. If I was going to get through this, I needed to toughen up. and be a fuckin man...
... I'm not sure if I passed out from exhaustion, or if I had cried myself to sleep, but what I do remember is the sensation of warm light on my face... sunlight. The sun broke through the clouds, and I made it... I was still alive. That bright orange ball never looked so god damn good... every last millimeter of warm sunlight felt like a million bucks... life giving warmth.
For a second, I thought it was a cruel dream, only to hear my crew mates waking up, yelling at Settle to crank the turbine up so we could dry our clothes and sleeping bags in the exhaust.
I had never been through anything like that before, and since then, nothing has challenged that moment as the most difficult incident in my entire lifetime... and probably, nothing will ever compare.
....
FUCK the god damned box.
....
Hohensfeld was over soon after, the days following seemed like a blur. Of course there were additional mis-steps on account of my gunner, and I had gotten in trouble as all new guys are prone to do... Its a natural step in your military life. Get in trouble, learn your lesson, don't do it again.
...
Shortly after returning to Friedberg, I was sent up to the S3 (command and control) office because my good-old-friend Settle, had recommended me due to my 'computer skills' ... Of which, I had none. He wanted me off the tank because I made him look bad.
I met people in that place that I am still friends with today. I cherish those friendships, as well as the memories made from my travels throughout Europe with 'Globe-trotting' Dan... My estranged America hating room mate. We had a rough start, but ended up getting along rather well - taking 4 day weekends to explore 7 or 8 different countries...
Fuck the Barracks, and fuck getting plastered every night - there was SO much to see in Europe.
The last year I was in Germany passed by at a blinding pace..
I received orders for Fort Lewis, Washington (State) 12 months before I was scheduled to leave... So I knew long before I was going to leave, where I was destined to be going... that was a rare thing to receive orders that far out...
... I had made friends with higher up officers, and NCO's. I had a good work ethic, and I did what I was told... I was actually motivated to do my job. Things around a positive working environment made sense. Although there were still people that hated life, and hated me, and would make life miserable in everything that I would do... I pushed on, kept living... destined for bigger and better things.
Fuck the haters, fuck the doubters, and fuck the people that have nothing better to do than to make other people's lives miserable...
I made my Specialist 6 months before I was scheduled to leave. I was dating a girl in a neighboring town, and stayed there during the weekends. I took the morning train to work, and the evening train back... I spoke decent German, and could read, and understand full fledged German conversations. I learned how to blend in, and how to steer clear of the mass groups of soldiers that would walk drunkenly downtown, or through the train cars. The hated commodity from the host nation inhabitants...
You can't miss a soldier in a crowd ... Tennis shoes, jeans, t-shirts (or a collared T-shirt)... Their buzzcut haircut, or a "high and tight" fade, all with Army HOOAH bullshit tatoo's lined accross their shoulders...
In a foreign country, soldiers stood out like a swollen busted up thumb, complete with a nasty ass hangnail... Soldiers travel in packs - Mostly in part because none of them spoke any german, and going in numbers meant your odds of winning a random fight, if one ever broke out, were greater the more people you had with you.
... I left Germany with a broken heart, and a will, full of ambition.
I hated the Army, but I loved where it took me, and always, I looked for bigger and better things in life...
In my selfish travels through Europe, I had forgotten about the past, remembering only the good times, and the lessons learned. My parents received only a handful of phone calls during my tour overseas... most of which were in the first 3 home-sick months I was there.
I grew up there, I experienced life, and I had become much wiser because of it.
Little did I know how things in the Army were only to get more complicated as time went on...
Homeward bound...
Its taken me a few days to conjure up the words to put this memory into perspective.
Nobody likes to think back on the hardest times in their lives. Instead, we always do our best to focus on the future, remember the lessons learned, and try to stay as drama free as possible.
Hohensfeld was difficult. Very difficult.
Having only a limited amount of time to bring the tanks back to Friedberg from Graf (read last blog post), repair the multitudes of broken parts or worn out track pads (oh joy!), and get things ready both professionally an personally for another 40 day stint in the field.
Our crew had changed over the last few weeks. SPC Gunter was out of the Army in a few weeks, so they swapped him out with a new guy - SGT Kroetchel (pronounced like Crow-chill).
He took us aside the first day he met us and talked about his experience, what he expected from his crew members, as well as his personal ethos on recommending us for promotion when the time came for such things.
"Call me Sergeant K" - the only thing I remember from his initial verbal counseling...
- a nickname? Holy shit, this guy is pretty cool!
I remember being impressed with his initial talk, but - there was something about this guy I didn't like. I was still a PFC, so really, it didn't matter what I thought - I had no say in any matter - just shut the fuck up, stand at parade rest, and listen.
Things deteriorated rapidly in the days leading up to Hohensfeld.
I had a constant conflict with my driver since he never let me conduct maintenance. Not doing anything made me look like ass.
Just standing there while someone else does all the work would make ANYONE look like a shit bag.
I understood the tasks at hand, but was left sidelined because new guys were rarely trusted with doing the more complex tasks during maintenance. I remember getting so pissed, I would blow up on people - get so frustrated that I would climb into the turret and sit there - for hours - waiting for my name to be called... God I hated that shit.
Thursdays were the worst - Sergeants time - the time where your sergeant would give classes on whatever he decided upon. Sgt K couldn't teach for shit, and most of his info was all prejudice non-standard experience information. Nothing he taught us was out of the books, and that even showed up until the day we left for the field...
Another rail-load followed a few weeks later, and off to Hohensfeld we went. It was mid spring, so everything was in bloom. The weather was turning hot and humid, and the rain was coming and going as was the warm sunlight between breaks in the clouds. It rains all the time in Germany.... All the time. Period.
Hohensfeld seemed like a small outpost next to a huge expanse of uncharted forest. We had temporary lodging with crowded rooms filled with bunk beds, a Papa-Johns greasy ass chicken diner down the street, and the token shopette that was only open when units began their field rotations. We would stock pile our 'poguey bait' which constisted of as much shit as you can fit into your remaining bag space without compromising your mission essential gear... crackers, cookies, candy, soda, whatever you could get in there.
3 days of preparation, and off to the field we went, or more commonly known as "the box".
Whoever coined that nickname couldn't have been more right. It was 30 days of pure boxed up frustration and agony. Every day was hard-earned, and the weak in your unit would be exposed, regurgitated, and flipped upside down.
The box would turn you into a man, or so we were told. Whatever THAT means.
The first week was uneventful. We left out armed to the teeth with fake small arms ammo, and a full compartment of hoffman simulators (1/4 sticks of dynamite, meant to simulate the main cannon going off).
We were rolling out battle ready, with laser beams and blanks for bullets. We were issued laser detector belts and 'halos' - small circular devices lined with IR detectors meant to fit onto your helmet/kevlar which would signal us being shot if the detector was triggered by a direct hit from another laser simulator.
Most of the time in the field was a blur. Days ran into night time, followed by an hour long guard shift at an observation post at 2:30am in the morning, followed by maybe another hour worth of sleep, followed by a 0530 stand to where all the tanks in the company would turn on at the same time... "short count" ... 3... 2... 1... a unison whir of turbines would kick on, supposedly tricking the enemy into believing that we only had one tank in the area... yeah, would have fooled me. (sarcasm)
When it rained, it poured. If you were lucky, it would rain during the day, and stay dry at night. We didn't have tents to sleep in, we slept in on, or around our tank. The Box was full of big hungry boars - complete with razor sharp tusks and a bad attitude... those fuckers were everywhere... but you'd never see them until they were right up on you. Fuck those things were big.
By the end of the first week, our crew was demoralized, physically beaten down from hours of maintenance and countless missions and guard shifts... and we still had 2 weeks to go.
Sgt K, our gunner, in all his infinite wisdom, had cost us hundreds of hours of unnecessary maintenance. His true colors were coming through. He dipped long cut Copenhagen non-stop, and used the sub turret for his spit reservoir... not to mention, his butterfingers dropped an entire can of dip inside the turret.
The smell inside the vehicle was awful to say the least... Dank wet mold, Chewing Tobacco, dip spit, MRE farts, as well as foot funk or whatever else my gunner could find to stink the hole up a bit more hit your nostrils like a kick to the face...
We had flipped track 3 times, broken 2 sprockets, and leaked out around 300 gallons of fuel across the German countryside. You see, the fuel incident stemmed from Sgt K pissing off the mechanics back at the yard so badly, that they disconnected our return fuel line to our engine pack.
Now, as I learned in my military career in combat arms, there are a few support elements you do NOT want to piss off...
These are one of those elements you do NOT want to piss off...
A few hours later getting the proverbial thumbs up from the mechanics we rushed back to the line to join the rest of the company. We departed, in the lead, on the new company mission - motivated, ready to kill -
We headed up a steep hill at full tilt, 12 main battle tanks behind us, only to hear a call over the net about 'something leaking out of the back of our tank.'
"fuck it - its just water..." Sgt K crackled over the internal comm's... there was no fucking way this was happening..
... a few minutes later, smoke, then fits of fire shot out from the back of the tank... then the realization from the tank crew behind us that the water wasn't water... that shit was fuel.
"Red 1, stop now, STOP NOW, Get the fuck out, and check your shit, you're spitting fire and smoke out the back..."
We stopped immediately, dismounted, fire extinguishers in hand, ready to tackle whatever was going on...
Settle tried to kill the engine, but the tank wouldn't shut off, it just kept running and running...
Smoke continued to pour out the turbine, making a cloud a few hundred feet high, fuel was EVERYWHERE...
"Emergency shut down!!!" Tried it... didn't work... Nothing was working...
"FUCK, OPEN THE PACK, Disconnect the Master Power Cable!!"
- Son ova bitch! - ok ok, just open up the battery panels, as quick as possible and disconnect the master disconnect... pray to god that this thing and all 300 gallons of fuel left doesn't explode with me on top of this thing.
Steel hinged panels went flying - heavy or not, adrenaline didn't care - finding the connector and a few clicky turns on the cable and the turbine choked off its power supply... winding down like a jet just being shut off...
Disaster adverted... phew.
The LT jumped trucks to another vehicle, leaving us with a mess behind... Looking down the hill, it was an environmental disaster... hundreds of gallons of JP8 on hard pack roads trailed off into the distance... 12 hours later and hundreds of gallons of fuel dug up, pick axe in hand, and we were back in business. This time we checked our shit before leaving the maintenance yard.
- Every battle or engagement there after became routine -
The company begins its movement, we meet an obstacle, we bypass or breach the obstacle, then the enemy kills us. In a nutshell, rinse, repeat, and try again.. and again... and again.
Dust was a killer on your lungs. Tanks beat the shit out of hard pack roads, and this fine dusty mist would be everywhere... Huge bugs would come out in the heat of the day, and eat you alive. The rain would come, and turn everything into mud, only to turn into dust a few hours later... there was no happy medium.
... One particular evening, after a long day of missions, details, and late night briefings, our crew decided to bed down somewhat early - if you can call 11pm early - so we could get up early to confirm our virtual boresight...
(boresighting is a long complicated process, basically, its aligning your gun tube with your optical sights so you can shoot stuff accurately - one shot, one kill)
I had my sleeping area at a pre-designated location on top of the turret, laid across the two blast panels in a funky configuration that was by no means comfortable.
Think of a lazy boy made out of spackled coated steel, then sleep on that for a few hours and you'll know what I'm talking about.
... the rain started to come down, and it was freezing outside... water leaked in my 'waterproof' poncho from all sides, soaking my cotton sleeping bag, my clothes, boots, everything. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't think...
Ice cold water started dripping down on my forehead. Fucking chinese torture...
I did all I could do to not think about this moment, take your mind off of things, go elsewhere. This isn't real, you aren't here, its just a bad dream, and you're going to wake up...
But I didn't wake up. I was there. Dirty, freezing cold, soaking wet, on a tank in the middle of the woods, playing GI Joe and shooting invisible lasers and blank bullets at an enemy that kept handing us our asses. My mind went nuts... This shit did not make sense at all... What the fuck did I get myself into... I started shaking out of control - I felt like I was dying.
I had nothing, absolutely nothing left.
My teeth chattered so hard I couldn't sleep... There was nothing warm, no hope, nothing. I gave up. I didn't give a fuck anymore. I could have died from hypothermia right then and there, and I wouldn't have cared less...
I was - hopeless.
I shed tears thinking about my family back home, my hopes and dreams in a disillusioned theory of greater things for the future were just hopeless thoughts in passing...
- from there on out, I was in pain, sheer agony... This was the hardest thing I have ever EVER done in my entire life. There was no god to help me, there was no more happy place to run to inside my head, there was no mommy to feel sorry for me ... this was real. This is your life - welcome to your own personal hell... Time that passed by at light speed during the day time now slowed to a screeching halt. If I was going to get through this, I needed to toughen up. and be a fuckin man...
... I'm not sure if I passed out from exhaustion, or if I had cried myself to sleep, but what I do remember is the sensation of warm light on my face... sunlight. The sun broke through the clouds, and I made it... I was still alive. That bright orange ball never looked so god damn good... every last millimeter of warm sunlight felt like a million bucks... life giving warmth.
For a second, I thought it was a cruel dream, only to hear my crew mates waking up, yelling at Settle to crank the turbine up so we could dry our clothes and sleeping bags in the exhaust.
I had never been through anything like that before, and since then, nothing has challenged that moment as the most difficult incident in my entire lifetime... and probably, nothing will ever compare.
....
FUCK the god damned box.
....
Hohensfeld was over soon after, the days following seemed like a blur. Of course there were additional mis-steps on account of my gunner, and I had gotten in trouble as all new guys are prone to do... Its a natural step in your military life. Get in trouble, learn your lesson, don't do it again.
...
Shortly after returning to Friedberg, I was sent up to the S3 (command and control) office because my good-old-friend Settle, had recommended me due to my 'computer skills' ... Of which, I had none. He wanted me off the tank because I made him look bad.
I met people in that place that I am still friends with today. I cherish those friendships, as well as the memories made from my travels throughout Europe with 'Globe-trotting' Dan... My estranged America hating room mate. We had a rough start, but ended up getting along rather well - taking 4 day weekends to explore 7 or 8 different countries...
Fuck the Barracks, and fuck getting plastered every night - there was SO much to see in Europe.
The last year I was in Germany passed by at a blinding pace..
I received orders for Fort Lewis, Washington (State) 12 months before I was scheduled to leave... So I knew long before I was going to leave, where I was destined to be going... that was a rare thing to receive orders that far out...
... I had made friends with higher up officers, and NCO's. I had a good work ethic, and I did what I was told... I was actually motivated to do my job. Things around a positive working environment made sense. Although there were still people that hated life, and hated me, and would make life miserable in everything that I would do... I pushed on, kept living... destined for bigger and better things.
Fuck the haters, fuck the doubters, and fuck the people that have nothing better to do than to make other people's lives miserable...
I made my Specialist 6 months before I was scheduled to leave. I was dating a girl in a neighboring town, and stayed there during the weekends. I took the morning train to work, and the evening train back... I spoke decent German, and could read, and understand full fledged German conversations. I learned how to blend in, and how to steer clear of the mass groups of soldiers that would walk drunkenly downtown, or through the train cars. The hated commodity from the host nation inhabitants...
You can't miss a soldier in a crowd ... Tennis shoes, jeans, t-shirts (or a collared T-shirt)... Their buzzcut haircut, or a "high and tight" fade, all with Army HOOAH bullshit tatoo's lined accross their shoulders...
In a foreign country, soldiers stood out like a swollen busted up thumb, complete with a nasty ass hangnail... Soldiers travel in packs - Mostly in part because none of them spoke any german, and going in numbers meant your odds of winning a random fight, if one ever broke out, were greater the more people you had with you.
... I left Germany with a broken heart, and a will, full of ambition.
I hated the Army, but I loved where it took me, and always, I looked for bigger and better things in life...
In my selfish travels through Europe, I had forgotten about the past, remembering only the good times, and the lessons learned. My parents received only a handful of phone calls during my tour overseas... most of which were in the first 3 home-sick months I was there.
I grew up there, I experienced life, and I had become much wiser because of it.
Little did I know how things in the Army were only to get more complicated as time went on...
Homeward bound...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
This one time... in Germany (part 2 of 3)
I believe there's a commie stuck in my sprocket...
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...
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...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
This one time... in Germany... (part 1 of 3)
We got started off on the wrong foot, my First Sergeant and I...
The first two weeks of being in Germany as you're told in basic, was to get settled in, meet your future platoon-mates, and attend the Army mandated 'Head-Start' program.
This would be 2 weeks of getting your TA-50 (for your non-Army folks out there, your standard 'holy-jesus that's a shit-ton of gear' issued items - gloves, flak vest, winter boots, sleeping bag, etc.), receive your basic German language courses (which really you didn't learn a whole lot besides a few choice swear words), obtain your NATO driver's license, and basically fuck-off for the remainder of the time on the bus rides to and from where the classes were held...
...in my case, the bus ride was about 40 minutes away from my base. We had to travel to a bit larger base in Geissen (pronounced GEESE-IN).
Trips to and from Friedberg (where I was stationed) were always interesting... Looking out the bus windows I got my first glimpse of my first European culture -
The small ass cars these people drove, the strange clothes they wore, and especially the funky ass architecture that was all over the place...
Friedberg Castle -
German architecture -
_Stadtkirche.jpg)
Cobble streets were are all over the place -
I wasn't aware of it at the time, but my First Sergeant wanted to see me that same day I was supposed to head up to Head-Start at 0600 in the morning -
That doesn't leave a whole lot of time for me to report to the guy. I'm a fucking private Top ('Top' is our shortened nickname for first sergeant), I didn't know my ass from my elbow, so how am I supposed to read minds as well?
If someone says be here, or "be fucked" - I'm going to be there. Getting screwed didn't sound too attractive.
So my first official day - spit polished boots, pressed BDU's (battle dress uniform - the older, dark green/black/brown foliage camo uniform that USED to be the Army standard), and a clean 'high and tight' haircut... I arrived back to the barracks around 1830 (6:30 pm for you civilians out there) after a full day of briefings, classes, and toting around 20 tons of gear...only to find a guy named Specialist Gunter waiting for me near my barracks room in a half-assed attempt to chew my ass out... It didn't work.
I wasn't threatened by a Specialist, no matter what position the dude held... He was just a modified private - with his "Sham-Shield" as we called it - Not enough rank to really lead, but enough rank to keep himself out of the more laborious 'details' us privates would have to take part in.
Top wanted SPC Gunter to write me up a 'negative counseling' since he was my Tank Gunner... A slap on the hand since I had failed to report to him the first day I was in the unit...
What the fuck? What the fuck did I do?
That shit didn't make sense at all...
I talked my way out of it, luckily, through a bit of negotiation and explanation of the situation of being a new-comer, and having my head up my ass since landing in the area.
I was a bit of a smart-ass, and I hinted that "SPC Gunter should have been there as my sponsor upon arrival (and for all intents and purposes, I was right), and he did know that I was coming to the unit, but had neglected to properly "set me up for success" (probably one of the most ridiculous statements coined in the US ARMY).
... So head-start finished 2 weeks later - a mixed up memory of drunken soldiers failing to report when the bus stepped off, garbled German language courses, and a few tours downtown Giessen...
I moved in with the platoon, and met my first sergeant and commander for the first time.
Needless to say, it was a sobering experience...
Both of which were old-timer SOB's, and were plagued with what I called 'no-war disorder' .. They had their own unique twitches, hypothetical training excuses, and this insane 'HOOAH' mentality of over-motivation... I never really understood it, but whatever got their rusty old bones going in the morning.
Top hated new guys, and openly admitted to it. He had been in a day shy of 30 years (probably more like 18 years or so), and just looked, shit, abnormal. He was latino, rubbed his hands together profusely, had a strong spanish accent, his left eye twitched when he was really pissed off, and always walked with his stomach poked out... He always wore this weird unamused look on his face - reminded me of the back stabbing drug lord guy from movie 'clear and present danger.'
TOP -
Joaquim de Almeida - Felix Cortez from "Clear and Present Danger" ... but with twitchy eye.
Every unit had a name, always spelled after your corresponding phonetic letter, with a theme or mascot based upon your Battalion's name. Our battalion was named after the Dukes of the old age, or Iron Dukes, knights of the old. We were Charlie Company, so Crusaders was our emblazoned theme.
Iron Dukes - (no that is not me in the T-shirt)
"Psst... HEY.. new guy"... someone whispered my direction during my first formation with the company...
me: (in a normal loud voice...) "YEAH, whats up..?"
"SHHHHHH ... what the fuck man.."
" shhhh... dude, quiet down"
"ay, shut the fuck up back there..."
(its morning formation, its pitch black dark out, and we're already standing at parade rest, waiting for Top to call everyone to attention.. Guess we're supposed to keep our mouth's shut eh?)
... ay, dumbass, when they call us to attention, we sound off with 'CRUSADERS' ...
me whispering back: "Thats kinda gay..."
... immediately everyone in my platoon turned in my direction and gave me a blank look.
Fuck. There I go for speaking my mind....
"COMPANY!" ... Top yelled... - everyone snapped their eyes forward, "preparatory command"...
"ATTENNNSHUUUN" ... we all snapped to attention...
(Top Squeeked the SHUUN part when calling the company to 'attention' like a kid squeaking his voice into puberty ... I cracked a smile and did my best not to laugh...)
a second later... in unison, 90 men shouted to the top of their lungs...
"CRUSADERS!"
... pretty cool, but it still sounded gay...
Platoons branched off into crews, a four man team, led by one sergeant... We would go running every morning from oh dark thirty (6:30 am), til the sun rose (7:30 am) ... Push-ups, sit-ups, sprints, and the occasional Friday sporting event, which was usually a mud-ensuing battle against another challenging platoon...
Sports of course, were always banned after someone busted their ankle or sprained a knee.. Anything that presented an injury was taken off the schedule of events. Yeah, we're a hard core Army alright - Stub your toe and you might get discharged - Ask me if I'm joking - I'm not.
I hated PT for the most part. I never failed a PT test (a combination of timed push-ups, sit-ups, and a 2 mile run), and always scored the highest in the company, so I never saw the purpose in forcing the mass group to suffer for that one dude that was always overweight, always fucked up... your proverbial "Blersch" If you know what I mean (see my first blog to get more details).
There was one thing that took my mind off of the hate, and that was release runs... A moment of solitude, where I could jettison my slow fucking comrades like a parasitic drag creating chute, and really open up my stride...
We would run downtown Friedberg, in our goofy neon green reflective belts, and newly issued (and much contested I might add) PT uniforms...
I can still smell the fresh bakeries cooking away as you ran past... school girls giggling as you passed by them, books in hand, bundled up from head to toe - giving them a cute smile, a wave, and managing a wheezing 'guten-morgen' ... man those German girls are hot hot HOT! ...
Cobble glazed roads stretched in front of you, keeping you on your toes... shop workers placed their gazebo's filled with merchandise out in the streets, and the bahnhof (train station) offloading the masses of people as they scattered like ants to the next bus station. You'd pass by fellow soldiers, some would be just walking, some would be puking as their Sergeant yelled at them for doing so... probably drank the night prior - way to go genius.
Each morning was a breath of fresh air, only to return to the PT entrance gate, re-assemble into platoon formation... and resume that same old bullshit that I had already grown accustomed to hate...
PT in the morning, followed by breakfast chow, then morning maintenance formation and inspection, walk to the motor pool, un-tarp the tanks (which included a complex standard folding of the tarp procedure), conduct maintenance on the Tanks, go to Lunch chow at 1200, then back to the motor pool at 1300 (1 pm), then work until told otherwise...
usually at around an hour before we got off, we'd park the tanks back online, then sweep the motor pool "line" (your space in front of, next to, and behind your tank) clean...
Every fucking day... sweep, sweep, sweep. For some God Damn reason, I don't know why... Brooms always seemed to dis-a-fuckin-peer... MAN that shit was annoying... Other companies would steal your brooms, sand off your company "branding" markings on the broom head, or hide them so you couldn't use em.
Now you were left with 2 football fields worth of track pad rubber, dust, and debris, and only 2 brooms for 50 or so privates... you learned how to become REALLY efficient with the alotted time you received with that broom... or you'd stay there past Close of Business (which was 5 pm) til the job was done... Never mind Fridays - you weren't leaving until the line was clean enough to eat off of .. although I'm here now, and I never saw a damn person eat off of our line.
I would have paid money to see my Platoon Sergeant eat a boiled egg off the motor pool pavement...
...Lastly, we'd tarp up the tanks and head up to the barracks for yet another 'final formation'...
We'd be released, then it was back to the barracks, tearing off your BDU's along the way, racing up the stairs, getting into your room, changing into normal clothes, and cranking up the sound system... Beer flowed like water, and everyone had booze.
Standard for your room was pretty simple - Two guys per room, one fridge, and two twelve packs each. You could have a bottle of liquor of choice in the freezer, but no drinking during duty hours, at least, don't get caught. Really, we didn't follow the rules in regards to how much alcohol we were limited to -
A twelve pack MIGHT have lasted an hour... Beer was sold in bulk from the PX (the Post Exchange, or in lamen's terms, a large 7-11 open 18 hours a day that sold electronics) - 24 packs of Corona were pretty standard issue. Those that didn't give two shits less about taste would get your bud light, busch beer, or whatever was the cheapest - bang for buck - beer on the shelf...
Most guys would set their alarms before they started drinking - that way, when they passed out from alcohol induced inebriation, they would still awake on time for morning formation...
I for one, didn't drink, didn't party, didn't do shit for the first three months I was there... I hated everything about the place... I was so stuck on this religious fucking guilt trip, I wouldn't allow myself to enjoy anything at all.
I missed home, I missed my parents (well, mostly just my mom), I missed my dog Jake - Shit, I even missed that bitch of an ex-girlfriend that ditched me in basic... I even missed my brother and two sisters. I missed everything.
I called home almost every other day - Calling anyone that would be awake during whatever time it was that I called... I talked with my mom probably more than I had in my entire 4 years of high school combined. I fucking hated my life... and I made it very clear that everyone back home knew that...
- BEER -
At about the third month, I convinced myself that I was going to stop bitching, and actually make some use of my time overseas. One of my buddies I had graduated basic training with was in B - company, and had convinced me to try drinking... regardless of my religious views, or excuses for not trying it. It wasn't illegal here, and you could do what you want.
Fuck it I thought..
- I slammed that first cool, sweaty, green bottle of Heineken beer with a fucking vengeance -
All those years being forced to stay at home, never being allowed to go party during high school, being told that I'd basically fucking die if I drank a beer... all the while my parents drank in front of me... beer from a fucking glass.. How tasteful... like drinking out of a glass justified drinking or made it any more classy.
They weren't alcoholics by any means, but god damn, why not let me have a glass or two - FORCE me to drink that nasty ass Old English 40oz malt beer that my dad always picked up... years later realizing that Old English is the NASTIEST fucking malt liquor ever made...
why the HELL did my dad like that shit?
That bitter nasty fermented Green Beer hit my taste buds and bubbled up in my stomach...
...Beer was goooood!
Shit Started to make sense...
I didn't drink because I was depressed. I didn't drink because I was sad. I drank because that shit made me feel GOOD!
After trying a few micro brews downtown Friedberg, it became a hobby of mine... and what a place to have that hobby...
Every single town in Germany had its own brewery. There were THOUSANDS of different types of beer, and each season, there was another flavor that came out... a different recipe of hops, and spices, and herbs... The possibilities are fucking endless ...
OH, and get this shit... They had this festival, maybe you've heard of it, its called Oktoberfest, and yeah, maybe you've heard that there's a SHITLOAD of BEER there...
... So, now there was motivation to have at the end of the day - something to look forward to. Everyone drank, and everyone had a good time.
I called home less and less. Pretty soon I stopped calling altogether. I had made friends in my platoon, gotten situated in a better room, and had started seeing things in a new light...
... Well, good times were to be had - up until our turn to head out to the field came up...
Nobody liked the field.
And I do mean NOBODY.
You heard rumors about it, nightmares even - ever since you were in basic... That 7 day field training exercise in basic training didn't have SHIT on Germany field time...
Words from my Drill Sergeant: "Germany is fucking awesome ... but holy shit does the field suck... haha, boy does it fucking suck" - yeah, that was quoted DURING the field in basic...
Your career hinged on your performance in the field... all those days of maintenance, hours preparing with your crew, hundreds of hours of instruction & training that you learned in basic training would be put to the test...
You, your crew, and your tank would be broken, over and over and over again...
In the field, your tanker skills would be seen...
...This was my time to shine...
The first two weeks of being in Germany as you're told in basic, was to get settled in, meet your future platoon-mates, and attend the Army mandated 'Head-Start' program.
This would be 2 weeks of getting your TA-50 (for your non-Army folks out there, your standard 'holy-jesus that's a shit-ton of gear' issued items - gloves, flak vest, winter boots, sleeping bag, etc.), receive your basic German language courses (which really you didn't learn a whole lot besides a few choice swear words), obtain your NATO driver's license, and basically fuck-off for the remainder of the time on the bus rides to and from where the classes were held...
...in my case, the bus ride was about 40 minutes away from my base. We had to travel to a bit larger base in Geissen (pronounced GEESE-IN).
Trips to and from Friedberg (where I was stationed) were always interesting... Looking out the bus windows I got my first glimpse of my first European culture -
The small ass cars these people drove, the strange clothes they wore, and especially the funky ass architecture that was all over the place...
Friedberg Castle -
German architecture -
_Stadtkirche.jpg)
Cobble streets were are all over the place -
I wasn't aware of it at the time, but my First Sergeant wanted to see me that same day I was supposed to head up to Head-Start at 0600 in the morning -
That doesn't leave a whole lot of time for me to report to the guy. I'm a fucking private Top ('Top' is our shortened nickname for first sergeant), I didn't know my ass from my elbow, so how am I supposed to read minds as well?
If someone says be here, or "be fucked" - I'm going to be there. Getting screwed didn't sound too attractive.
So my first official day - spit polished boots, pressed BDU's (battle dress uniform - the older, dark green/black/brown foliage camo uniform that USED to be the Army standard), and a clean 'high and tight' haircut... I arrived back to the barracks around 1830 (6:30 pm for you civilians out there) after a full day of briefings, classes, and toting around 20 tons of gear...only to find a guy named Specialist Gunter waiting for me near my barracks room in a half-assed attempt to chew my ass out... It didn't work.
I wasn't threatened by a Specialist, no matter what position the dude held... He was just a modified private - with his "Sham-Shield" as we called it - Not enough rank to really lead, but enough rank to keep himself out of the more laborious 'details' us privates would have to take part in.
Top wanted SPC Gunter to write me up a 'negative counseling' since he was my Tank Gunner... A slap on the hand since I had failed to report to him the first day I was in the unit...
What the fuck? What the fuck did I do?
That shit didn't make sense at all...
I talked my way out of it, luckily, through a bit of negotiation and explanation of the situation of being a new-comer, and having my head up my ass since landing in the area.
I was a bit of a smart-ass, and I hinted that "SPC Gunter should have been there as my sponsor upon arrival (and for all intents and purposes, I was right), and he did know that I was coming to the unit, but had neglected to properly "set me up for success" (probably one of the most ridiculous statements coined in the US ARMY).
... So head-start finished 2 weeks later - a mixed up memory of drunken soldiers failing to report when the bus stepped off, garbled German language courses, and a few tours downtown Giessen...
I moved in with the platoon, and met my first sergeant and commander for the first time.
Needless to say, it was a sobering experience...
Both of which were old-timer SOB's, and were plagued with what I called 'no-war disorder' .. They had their own unique twitches, hypothetical training excuses, and this insane 'HOOAH' mentality of over-motivation... I never really understood it, but whatever got their rusty old bones going in the morning.
Top hated new guys, and openly admitted to it. He had been in a day shy of 30 years (probably more like 18 years or so), and just looked, shit, abnormal. He was latino, rubbed his hands together profusely, had a strong spanish accent, his left eye twitched when he was really pissed off, and always walked with his stomach poked out... He always wore this weird unamused look on his face - reminded me of the back stabbing drug lord guy from movie 'clear and present danger.'
TOP -
Joaquim de Almeida - Felix Cortez from "Clear and Present Danger" ... but with twitchy eye.
Every unit had a name, always spelled after your corresponding phonetic letter, with a theme or mascot based upon your Battalion's name. Our battalion was named after the Dukes of the old age, or Iron Dukes, knights of the old. We were Charlie Company, so Crusaders was our emblazoned theme.
Iron Dukes - (no that is not me in the T-shirt)
"Psst... HEY.. new guy"... someone whispered my direction during my first formation with the company...
me: (in a normal loud voice...) "YEAH, whats up..?"
"SHHHHHH ... what the fuck man.."
" shhhh... dude, quiet down"
"ay, shut the fuck up back there..."
(its morning formation, its pitch black dark out, and we're already standing at parade rest, waiting for Top to call everyone to attention.. Guess we're supposed to keep our mouth's shut eh?)
... ay, dumbass, when they call us to attention, we sound off with 'CRUSADERS' ...
me whispering back: "Thats kinda gay..."
... immediately everyone in my platoon turned in my direction and gave me a blank look.
Fuck. There I go for speaking my mind....
"COMPANY!" ... Top yelled... - everyone snapped their eyes forward, "preparatory command"...
"ATTENNNSHUUUN" ... we all snapped to attention...
(Top Squeeked the SHUUN part when calling the company to 'attention' like a kid squeaking his voice into puberty ... I cracked a smile and did my best not to laugh...)
a second later... in unison, 90 men shouted to the top of their lungs...
"CRUSADERS!"
... pretty cool, but it still sounded gay...
Platoons branched off into crews, a four man team, led by one sergeant... We would go running every morning from oh dark thirty (6:30 am), til the sun rose (7:30 am) ... Push-ups, sit-ups, sprints, and the occasional Friday sporting event, which was usually a mud-ensuing battle against another challenging platoon...
Sports of course, were always banned after someone busted their ankle or sprained a knee.. Anything that presented an injury was taken off the schedule of events. Yeah, we're a hard core Army alright - Stub your toe and you might get discharged - Ask me if I'm joking - I'm not.
I hated PT for the most part. I never failed a PT test (a combination of timed push-ups, sit-ups, and a 2 mile run), and always scored the highest in the company, so I never saw the purpose in forcing the mass group to suffer for that one dude that was always overweight, always fucked up... your proverbial "Blersch" If you know what I mean (see my first blog to get more details).
There was one thing that took my mind off of the hate, and that was release runs... A moment of solitude, where I could jettison my slow fucking comrades like a parasitic drag creating chute, and really open up my stride...
We would run downtown Friedberg, in our goofy neon green reflective belts, and newly issued (and much contested I might add) PT uniforms...
I can still smell the fresh bakeries cooking away as you ran past... school girls giggling as you passed by them, books in hand, bundled up from head to toe - giving them a cute smile, a wave, and managing a wheezing 'guten-morgen' ... man those German girls are hot hot HOT! ...
Cobble glazed roads stretched in front of you, keeping you on your toes... shop workers placed their gazebo's filled with merchandise out in the streets, and the bahnhof (train station) offloading the masses of people as they scattered like ants to the next bus station. You'd pass by fellow soldiers, some would be just walking, some would be puking as their Sergeant yelled at them for doing so... probably drank the night prior - way to go genius.
Each morning was a breath of fresh air, only to return to the PT entrance gate, re-assemble into platoon formation... and resume that same old bullshit that I had already grown accustomed to hate...
PT in the morning, followed by breakfast chow, then morning maintenance formation and inspection, walk to the motor pool, un-tarp the tanks (which included a complex standard folding of the tarp procedure), conduct maintenance on the Tanks, go to Lunch chow at 1200, then back to the motor pool at 1300 (1 pm), then work until told otherwise...
usually at around an hour before we got off, we'd park the tanks back online, then sweep the motor pool "line" (your space in front of, next to, and behind your tank) clean...
Every fucking day... sweep, sweep, sweep. For some God Damn reason, I don't know why... Brooms always seemed to dis-a-fuckin-peer... MAN that shit was annoying... Other companies would steal your brooms, sand off your company "branding" markings on the broom head, or hide them so you couldn't use em.
Now you were left with 2 football fields worth of track pad rubber, dust, and debris, and only 2 brooms for 50 or so privates... you learned how to become REALLY efficient with the alotted time you received with that broom... or you'd stay there past Close of Business (which was 5 pm) til the job was done... Never mind Fridays - you weren't leaving until the line was clean enough to eat off of .. although I'm here now, and I never saw a damn person eat off of our line.
I would have paid money to see my Platoon Sergeant eat a boiled egg off the motor pool pavement...
...Lastly, we'd tarp up the tanks and head up to the barracks for yet another 'final formation'...
We'd be released, then it was back to the barracks, tearing off your BDU's along the way, racing up the stairs, getting into your room, changing into normal clothes, and cranking up the sound system... Beer flowed like water, and everyone had booze.
Standard for your room was pretty simple - Two guys per room, one fridge, and two twelve packs each. You could have a bottle of liquor of choice in the freezer, but no drinking during duty hours, at least, don't get caught. Really, we didn't follow the rules in regards to how much alcohol we were limited to -
A twelve pack MIGHT have lasted an hour... Beer was sold in bulk from the PX (the Post Exchange, or in lamen's terms, a large 7-11 open 18 hours a day that sold electronics) - 24 packs of Corona were pretty standard issue. Those that didn't give two shits less about taste would get your bud light, busch beer, or whatever was the cheapest - bang for buck - beer on the shelf...
Most guys would set their alarms before they started drinking - that way, when they passed out from alcohol induced inebriation, they would still awake on time for morning formation...
I for one, didn't drink, didn't party, didn't do shit for the first three months I was there... I hated everything about the place... I was so stuck on this religious fucking guilt trip, I wouldn't allow myself to enjoy anything at all.
I missed home, I missed my parents (well, mostly just my mom), I missed my dog Jake - Shit, I even missed that bitch of an ex-girlfriend that ditched me in basic... I even missed my brother and two sisters. I missed everything.
I called home almost every other day - Calling anyone that would be awake during whatever time it was that I called... I talked with my mom probably more than I had in my entire 4 years of high school combined. I fucking hated my life... and I made it very clear that everyone back home knew that...
- BEER -
At about the third month, I convinced myself that I was going to stop bitching, and actually make some use of my time overseas. One of my buddies I had graduated basic training with was in B - company, and had convinced me to try drinking... regardless of my religious views, or excuses for not trying it. It wasn't illegal here, and you could do what you want.
Fuck it I thought..
- I slammed that first cool, sweaty, green bottle of Heineken beer with a fucking vengeance -
All those years being forced to stay at home, never being allowed to go party during high school, being told that I'd basically fucking die if I drank a beer... all the while my parents drank in front of me... beer from a fucking glass.. How tasteful... like drinking out of a glass justified drinking or made it any more classy.
They weren't alcoholics by any means, but god damn, why not let me have a glass or two - FORCE me to drink that nasty ass Old English 40oz malt beer that my dad always picked up... years later realizing that Old English is the NASTIEST fucking malt liquor ever made...
why the HELL did my dad like that shit?
That bitter nasty fermented Green Beer hit my taste buds and bubbled up in my stomach...
...Beer was goooood!
Shit Started to make sense...
I didn't drink because I was depressed. I didn't drink because I was sad. I drank because that shit made me feel GOOD!
After trying a few micro brews downtown Friedberg, it became a hobby of mine... and what a place to have that hobby...
Every single town in Germany had its own brewery. There were THOUSANDS of different types of beer, and each season, there was another flavor that came out... a different recipe of hops, and spices, and herbs... The possibilities are fucking endless ...
OH, and get this shit... They had this festival, maybe you've heard of it, its called Oktoberfest, and yeah, maybe you've heard that there's a SHITLOAD of BEER there...
... So, now there was motivation to have at the end of the day - something to look forward to. Everyone drank, and everyone had a good time.
I called home less and less. Pretty soon I stopped calling altogether. I had made friends in my platoon, gotten situated in a better room, and had started seeing things in a new light...
... Well, good times were to be had - up until our turn to head out to the field came up...
Nobody liked the field.
And I do mean NOBODY.
You heard rumors about it, nightmares even - ever since you were in basic... That 7 day field training exercise in basic training didn't have SHIT on Germany field time...
Words from my Drill Sergeant: "Germany is fucking awesome ... but holy shit does the field suck... haha, boy does it fucking suck" - yeah, that was quoted DURING the field in basic...
Your career hinged on your performance in the field... all those days of maintenance, hours preparing with your crew, hundreds of hours of instruction & training that you learned in basic training would be put to the test...
You, your crew, and your tank would be broken, over and over and over again...
In the field, your tanker skills would be seen...
...This was my time to shine...
Monday, March 22, 2010
Elvis wore tanker boots
Butterflies. Massive fuckin butterflies...
.... Like those huge monarch bastards you see flying through an open field... so big they might as well use static lines when landing on flowers.
Those damn things were kickin my ass like a Chuck Norris round-house kick to the stomach the day I flew out to Germany. I knew nothing about this far away land I was going to. What I knew was outdated, subjected, and polluted with personal opinion and bias stories...
Some people told me they hated it, and others said they loved it.
What the hell was I getting myself into?
As I walked into the small terminal in Medford, Oregon - I looked back at my mom and dad, smiled and waved goodbye, all the while I kept thinking...
'dude, you actually made it out... you actually made it out of this teeny, tiny, fucking wasteland of a town - freedom is only a few hours away...'
I boarded that plane with a grin on my face, and a million thoughts blazing in my mind... Throwing double deuces to my hometown and all the people that have lived there since they were born into that hole... never looking back.
The flight took around 14 or 15 hours, maybe more. - transfer here, stop there, layover at this airport... I slept through pretty much all of it and ended up opening my eyes to see that we were already there...
There was snow. Lots of snow. Fucking lovely. I was wearing tennis shoes, jeans, and a sweater. Definitely NOT ready for snow. Ramstein Air Force Base... where the hell is that on the globe?
Me dragging my bags from place to place must have looked funny as hell... skinny kid, shaved head, tight jeans, 2 duffel bags, a back pack, and a black suitcase being mushed around, clearing a path in the wet snow for everyone to follow... They tell you to pack light, but what they fail to remember is that new guys have no idea HOW to pack light.
I never traveled anywhere, and now - here I am, the human fucking snow plow - wheels did my suitcase a whole lot of good... yeah, way to go genius
On to Giessen we went, myself mixed in with a random assortment of soldiers, airmen, marines... whoever - some old, some young - as well as a few I knew from Basic Training.
Shuttled from the airport to our bus, sprinting to processing station, then slushing through the snow to get inside... to a desk, then the next desk, to your unit liaison, back to the other desk... Finally after 5 or 6 hours of constant 'hurry up and wait' directions... We were crammed onto a small bus, and taken to our units Staff Duty desk... the front desk for your unit...
Our desk ended up being manned by an old timer E5, and a private that lounged lazily at the desk. We were told to wait by the front entrance in a stairwell, the Staff Duty desk was just visible through the walkway, and there wasn't much room in there to walk around...
3 other guys in uniform were working the stairwell, sweeping, mopping, talking shit to one another... none of them wearing any rank.
Extra duty...
- Extra duty would consist of your fuck-up's, or so I later learned - those that decided to do one of the things on the long laundry list of things you were told NOT to do at your mandatory, every single fucking day prior to a weekend safety briefing -
- Whatever they did wrong, they got caught doing it... Not to say that they had probably done whatever they were guilty of beforehand (maybe many times before), they got away with it those other times...
- At one point, they got caught, and paid the piper - Article 15, Universal Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) - you fuck up, you ruck up - If you thought being in the Army was bad enough, get into trouble like these guys did - see how your quality of life improves...
... all I knew at that point was that I was nervous... I had no idea what to expect - I was pretty fresh at this game with only basic training as a reference ... when in doubt, salute, say roger, stand at attention or parade rest, and hope to God you figure out real quick what the fuck is going on...
...Shit - The Staff Duty dude is looking at me...
Staff duty dude - "Orders..."
Me - I walked up to the desk - "Roger, here u go Sergeant" ...as I handed him a nice thick stack of papers that had slowly grown to an un-proportionate size for whatever reason, snapped to parade rest... man I was fucking HIGH SPEED back then - all motivated and shit...
Dude - ....looks through the papers, then this smart ass lookin grin appears accross his face - "Ah, you're going to C-co, that's where I'm at, best damn company in the Battalion."
-Come to find out, every fucking company was the best damn company in the Battalion - it was like this retarded high school/college frat boy bravado or competition that lead to schoolyard-like brawls amongst platoons, companies, and different Battalions - Something that never made any sense to me. Dude, we're on the same team here for christ' sake.
Me - "Roger that Sergeant" (who the fuck is this roger guy anyways?)
Dude - "Welcome to 'Duke land' home of 2-37 Armor, the Iron Dukes... You know, Elvis was stationed here."
me - "Negative Sergeant, I did not know that..."
... thinking... - when the fuck was THE KING in the Army??
I'm thinking THIS guy -
But HE was talking about THIS guy -
Dude - "Your Platoon Sergeant is on his way. You'll be going to 4th platoon. Chill out by the front door, he'll be here in a few minutes. You're going to LOVE Sergeant Rincon..." - Walking around the makeshift wooden desk as he talked, he walked outside, sucking in his old man gut as he squeezed by the private on duty... coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, he brushed past me, paying me no mind...
What the fuck did he mean ... I'm going to LOVE Sergeant Rincon??
me - "Roger Sergeant" ... lookin down at my bags, as he walked past... I now notice my suitcase is drenched from being dragged through the snow... My clothes were growing mold by the minute - sweetness. At that point, I could care less - I just wanted to go to sleep. Jet lag was kicking my ass.
... 30 minutes passed, and a dark black 5 series BMW pulled up next to the front door. A dark skinned thin-set man, hunched over, in a black leather jacket got out of the car. He immediately lit up a cigarette...
(now, try to think of the next sentence in a Sylvester Stalone accent here, with a spanish twist to it... yeah, it was that bad)
SFC Rincon - "Ay yo, private, Get yo sheet, get in tha fuck-ing Kah. Its fuck-ing late, and I'm fuck-ing tired."
...holy shit... I didn't understand a single word this guy said...
SFC Rincon - "I'm not going to Fuck-ing tell you again." - at the same time he was motioning his head into small circles, staring at me right in the eyes, giving me the notion that I needed to do something.. fast..
- I moved. Quickly. Dumped my shit in the trunk and back seat, and got in the passenger seat...
There was no conversation during the 5 minute drive down the road... I don't think there would have been even if I tried -
I didn't understand a single fucking word that came out of his mouth...
All I could think was ...
Ayyyyuhhhhhyo...
... they had to be related!!!
He dropped me off at the barracks, and I pulled my bags out of his trunk. He barked something indiscernible at a couple guys near the entrance to the building... they sprinted inside, and came out with 3 or 4 guys to help with my shit...
oh, ok, he was telling them to help me with my bags...
For Fuck Sake I can't understand this dude... this is going to be rough...
I made my way inside, noticing the front glass door was shattered, completely kicked in with glass and broken beer bottles crunching under my feet. That's an effective welcome mat... Inside it smelled like old beer and mold with a small hint of vomit... an animal house.
Fuck that, this might as well be a fucking mad house...
It was Saturday when I arrived, so by the time I got there, pretty much everyone was either stumbling out in the hallway piss drunk, or in their rooms blasting 20 different types of music... You could hear guys yelling at the top of their lungs to Nirvana, random shit slamming against the doors -
....SFC Rincon paid no mind as he walked me to my room... you could tell he could give a fuck less about anything going on - he just wanted to go back home...
Country, rap, techno, rock.. it was a competition to see who could lose their hearing first, who could play their shit the loudest, who could drink the most...
Come to find out, there was no drinking age, since everyone could buy booze from the PX at the age of 18 - everyone was drinking something, except me.
- I like this place ...
- yeah, keep telling yourself that...
I met my temporary room-mate that was sharing my temporary room since they didn't have a permanent place for me or this other guy to stay in just yet...
For the first couple nights there I'd be sleeping on a sweat stained mattress, with no frame, on a freezing cold marble floor, next to a stack of porno's about 2 feet high... all of them were used... Most of the pages had been stuck together from some type of fluid... Fucking gross man...
Fucking Gross.
Home sickness kicked in almost immediately. I tried plugging in my alarm clock, only to find that the outlets were completely different... 220 watt? what the fuck?
man, this shit is turning into a turd fest real quick...
My leadership ditched me - "have fun with your weekend" ... yeah, thanks asshole.
I look at my watch... its 2 am.
I curled up into a little ball...
This place is supposed to be different. Its supposed to be something else...
...wrapped up in basic, itchy as hell, Army issue wool blankets (courtesy of the Supply Sergeant), the thump of 10 different bass speakers vibrated the walls and rattled everything metal...
...my eyes started to close...
...Tomorrow is another day... I thought...
and I drifted off to sleep...
.... Like those huge monarch bastards you see flying through an open field... so big they might as well use static lines when landing on flowers.
Those damn things were kickin my ass like a Chuck Norris round-house kick to the stomach the day I flew out to Germany. I knew nothing about this far away land I was going to. What I knew was outdated, subjected, and polluted with personal opinion and bias stories...
Some people told me they hated it, and others said they loved it.
What the hell was I getting myself into?
As I walked into the small terminal in Medford, Oregon - I looked back at my mom and dad, smiled and waved goodbye, all the while I kept thinking...
'dude, you actually made it out... you actually made it out of this teeny, tiny, fucking wasteland of a town - freedom is only a few hours away...'
I boarded that plane with a grin on my face, and a million thoughts blazing in my mind... Throwing double deuces to my hometown and all the people that have lived there since they were born into that hole... never looking back.
The flight took around 14 or 15 hours, maybe more. - transfer here, stop there, layover at this airport... I slept through pretty much all of it and ended up opening my eyes to see that we were already there...
There was snow. Lots of snow. Fucking lovely. I was wearing tennis shoes, jeans, and a sweater. Definitely NOT ready for snow. Ramstein Air Force Base... where the hell is that on the globe?
Me dragging my bags from place to place must have looked funny as hell... skinny kid, shaved head, tight jeans, 2 duffel bags, a back pack, and a black suitcase being mushed around, clearing a path in the wet snow for everyone to follow... They tell you to pack light, but what they fail to remember is that new guys have no idea HOW to pack light.
I never traveled anywhere, and now - here I am, the human fucking snow plow - wheels did my suitcase a whole lot of good... yeah, way to go genius
On to Giessen we went, myself mixed in with a random assortment of soldiers, airmen, marines... whoever - some old, some young - as well as a few I knew from Basic Training.
Shuttled from the airport to our bus, sprinting to processing station, then slushing through the snow to get inside... to a desk, then the next desk, to your unit liaison, back to the other desk... Finally after 5 or 6 hours of constant 'hurry up and wait' directions... We were crammed onto a small bus, and taken to our units Staff Duty desk... the front desk for your unit...
Our desk ended up being manned by an old timer E5, and a private that lounged lazily at the desk. We were told to wait by the front entrance in a stairwell, the Staff Duty desk was just visible through the walkway, and there wasn't much room in there to walk around...
3 other guys in uniform were working the stairwell, sweeping, mopping, talking shit to one another... none of them wearing any rank.
Extra duty...
- Extra duty would consist of your fuck-up's, or so I later learned - those that decided to do one of the things on the long laundry list of things you were told NOT to do at your mandatory, every single fucking day prior to a weekend safety briefing -
- Whatever they did wrong, they got caught doing it... Not to say that they had probably done whatever they were guilty of beforehand (maybe many times before), they got away with it those other times...
- At one point, they got caught, and paid the piper - Article 15, Universal Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) - you fuck up, you ruck up - If you thought being in the Army was bad enough, get into trouble like these guys did - see how your quality of life improves...
... all I knew at that point was that I was nervous... I had no idea what to expect - I was pretty fresh at this game with only basic training as a reference ... when in doubt, salute, say roger, stand at attention or parade rest, and hope to God you figure out real quick what the fuck is going on...
...Shit - The Staff Duty dude is looking at me...
Staff duty dude - "Orders..."
Me - I walked up to the desk - "Roger, here u go Sergeant" ...as I handed him a nice thick stack of papers that had slowly grown to an un-proportionate size for whatever reason, snapped to parade rest... man I was fucking HIGH SPEED back then - all motivated and shit...
Dude - ....looks through the papers, then this smart ass lookin grin appears accross his face - "Ah, you're going to C-co, that's where I'm at, best damn company in the Battalion."
-Come to find out, every fucking company was the best damn company in the Battalion - it was like this retarded high school/college frat boy bravado or competition that lead to schoolyard-like brawls amongst platoons, companies, and different Battalions - Something that never made any sense to me. Dude, we're on the same team here for christ' sake.
Me - "Roger that Sergeant" (who the fuck is this roger guy anyways?)
Dude - "Welcome to 'Duke land' home of 2-37 Armor, the Iron Dukes... You know, Elvis was stationed here."
me - "Negative Sergeant, I did not know that..."
... thinking... - when the fuck was THE KING in the Army??
I'm thinking THIS guy -
But HE was talking about THIS guy -
Dude - "Your Platoon Sergeant is on his way. You'll be going to 4th platoon. Chill out by the front door, he'll be here in a few minutes. You're going to LOVE Sergeant Rincon..." - Walking around the makeshift wooden desk as he talked, he walked outside, sucking in his old man gut as he squeezed by the private on duty... coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, he brushed past me, paying me no mind...
What the fuck did he mean ... I'm going to LOVE Sergeant Rincon??
me - "Roger Sergeant" ... lookin down at my bags, as he walked past... I now notice my suitcase is drenched from being dragged through the snow... My clothes were growing mold by the minute - sweetness. At that point, I could care less - I just wanted to go to sleep. Jet lag was kicking my ass.
... 30 minutes passed, and a dark black 5 series BMW pulled up next to the front door. A dark skinned thin-set man, hunched over, in a black leather jacket got out of the car. He immediately lit up a cigarette...
(now, try to think of the next sentence in a Sylvester Stalone accent here, with a spanish twist to it... yeah, it was that bad)
SFC Rincon - "Ay yo, private, Get yo sheet, get in tha fuck-ing Kah. Its fuck-ing late, and I'm fuck-ing tired."
...holy shit... I didn't understand a single word this guy said...
SFC Rincon - "I'm not going to Fuck-ing tell you again." - at the same time he was motioning his head into small circles, staring at me right in the eyes, giving me the notion that I needed to do something.. fast..
- I moved. Quickly. Dumped my shit in the trunk and back seat, and got in the passenger seat...
There was no conversation during the 5 minute drive down the road... I don't think there would have been even if I tried -
I didn't understand a single fucking word that came out of his mouth...
All I could think was ...
Ayyyyuhhhhhyo...
... they had to be related!!!
He dropped me off at the barracks, and I pulled my bags out of his trunk. He barked something indiscernible at a couple guys near the entrance to the building... they sprinted inside, and came out with 3 or 4 guys to help with my shit...
oh, ok, he was telling them to help me with my bags...
For Fuck Sake I can't understand this dude... this is going to be rough...
I made my way inside, noticing the front glass door was shattered, completely kicked in with glass and broken beer bottles crunching under my feet. That's an effective welcome mat... Inside it smelled like old beer and mold with a small hint of vomit... an animal house.
Fuck that, this might as well be a fucking mad house...
It was Saturday when I arrived, so by the time I got there, pretty much everyone was either stumbling out in the hallway piss drunk, or in their rooms blasting 20 different types of music... You could hear guys yelling at the top of their lungs to Nirvana, random shit slamming against the doors -
....SFC Rincon paid no mind as he walked me to my room... you could tell he could give a fuck less about anything going on - he just wanted to go back home...
Country, rap, techno, rock.. it was a competition to see who could lose their hearing first, who could play their shit the loudest, who could drink the most...
Come to find out, there was no drinking age, since everyone could buy booze from the PX at the age of 18 - everyone was drinking something, except me.
- I like this place ...
- yeah, keep telling yourself that...
I met my temporary room-mate that was sharing my temporary room since they didn't have a permanent place for me or this other guy to stay in just yet...
For the first couple nights there I'd be sleeping on a sweat stained mattress, with no frame, on a freezing cold marble floor, next to a stack of porno's about 2 feet high... all of them were used... Most of the pages had been stuck together from some type of fluid... Fucking gross man...
Fucking Gross.
Home sickness kicked in almost immediately. I tried plugging in my alarm clock, only to find that the outlets were completely different... 220 watt? what the fuck?
man, this shit is turning into a turd fest real quick...
My leadership ditched me - "have fun with your weekend" ... yeah, thanks asshole.
I look at my watch... its 2 am.
I curled up into a little ball...
This place is supposed to be different. Its supposed to be something else...
...wrapped up in basic, itchy as hell, Army issue wool blankets (courtesy of the Supply Sergeant), the thump of 10 different bass speakers vibrated the walls and rattled everything metal...
...my eyes started to close...
...Tomorrow is another day... I thought...
and I drifted off to sleep...
Sunday, March 21, 2010
scio me nihil scire - all I know, is that I know nothing - Socrates
What is the earliest I remember being alive...
Something I try to think about from time to time...
I think, "Take a deep breath. exhale. remember - fuckin remember brain..."
... drawing a blank ...
"Well, what DO you remember about your childhood?"
I remember ...
- when I was 7 or 8, I managed to get lost in the woods behind our house - hours later I wondered if I'd ever get home... later finding my way back home to a panicked mom and dad ...
...Playing with military micro machines and a mish mash of other toys, simulating a modern day battlefield, kicking up freshly tilled dirt (thanks to my father's rotor tiller) with my feet, simulating bombs being dropped over the battlefield...
...My first swear word, and the ensuing reaction from my parents and fellow siblings - shit was not a word taken lightly in my family. The fear of eating soap was well ingrained in my memory...
...The freedom of summertime, and the late summer nights being spent with my best friends, thinking of all sorts of debauchery we could do on our own - without a care in the world...
So I do remember quite a bit about my past... The mistakes, the lessons learned, as well as the days where I struggled to define myself as a kid.
Who was I, and what did I want to do someday?
How did I end up here?
...How did I end up being ten's of thousands of miles away from home, in a land long forgotten, filled with remnants of milk and honey, now replaced with cesspools of raw sewage and burning animal corpses. Where once great kings ruled, with extravagant palace walls lined with gold, now replaced with makeshift mud huts, and walls covered in propaganda posters.
And who the fuck are these guys on the posters anyways? Not that I could care less, but they all seem to look like angry Jesus...
I mean who in their right mind would say that guy looks normal? Whatever you say Pissed off Jesus.....back on track -
After all that time of my youth spent wasting days away, from my childhood to my teen years, from my teen years into high school. I never saw a point to it all. There was this sense I had, a sense of being that one guy that would raise his hand, and ask that question that all teachers despise... "what the fuck IS this bullshit?" - A guaranteed straight cut ticket to the principles office, and a phone call to mom and dad shortly thereafter.
...Well, mom would know about it first, then dad. Mom was always home, while dad didn't really exist until after he got back from work around noon and finished his mandatory 2 hour nap. The Garbage business made him wake up at 2 a.m. and work for 10-12 hours straight, 6 days a week. can't really blame him to be off the radar until the afternoon - not with all the bullshit my dad had to deal with.
But I kept my mouth shut, fit in, and even became president of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, and the President of the Swim Team... well, co-president of the swim team... I didn't like the title by myself, let alone the fact that I had to wear a speedo. I had acne all the time, and was too shy to talk to girls. We were all pervs back then anyways, but I didn't have the slightest idea what I would have done had I been buck naked with a girl on top of me... let alone what to do to make things happen.
...With a not-so-stellar performance in high school, and a mediocre job in my small, rinky dink of a home town, I opted for the quickest, easiest way out.
I guess that answers my question on how the fuck I ended up getting here...
When I joined the Army, I was still in high school. At 18, I thought I had the one answer nobody else had - A real plan to get out of this town, to give everyone the last and final middle finger, I'm out bitches, see you later. My dad didn't really support the decision I made (Pops was a Vietnam Vet, and had volunteered to get duty station of choice... by the way, he never saw action in S. Korea), so I was pretty much hell or high water on my own. My recruiters didn't bullshit me, and they pushed me to get a better job in the Army, something non-combat related (since my ASVAB scores were pretty damn good), but I insisted on being on Tanks...
I never had a second doubt about joining, not until I actually got to basic training, and realized this was a whole fucking lot more than I had bargained for.
The physical wasn't hard, nor was what they asked you to do. Sure, waking up at 4:30am every single day to a fully grown Gulf War vet breathing down your neck, screaming at your face from inches away, smoking the dog shit outta you was kinda rough... but it was the people that you were in basic with that made it difficult...
Your brain is still mixed up - thinking common sense, thinking like a civilian.
You're not allowed to move when standing at attention, parade rest, or at ease (why can't I move?)
You're no allowed to speak unless spoken to(Doesn't the bill of rights say that I have freedom of speech?)
You can't even walk when you want to walk (Do I really need to run everywhere? Is that necessary?)
Fear is a definite motivator, and in Basic Training, that is their number one motivator - Fear of failing a test, fear of being recycled (sent back through basic for failing), fear of not making it to formation on time, fear of not meeting the standard, fear of failing your battle buddy, fear of the morning and whatever the next day brought you on its big ol' platter of what the fuck is this shit... It was a wake-up call, and my ass was afraid.
Everyone breaks down at different intervals in basic, sometimes the hardest guys there never break - sometimes they would. There's a phase where you get so demoralized, so tired, and so worn out... your mind goes blank. The only thing that kept me sober in that drunken madness is going to my happy place. When that was gone, I had nothing left but those piss yellow colored walls, that itchy as hell wool green blanket (U.S. logo facing down thank you very much), and your brothers in the bunk above you or below you, to your left and to your right. Your battle buddies... your closest friends in the world. Shit, you might as well be married to those guys.
You reveal your deepest darkest secrets, although not always on purpose...
You sleep together, well not literally - we're not fuckin homo's (not that there's anything wrong with that - 'Seinfeld'), but you're in the same bay, inches from one another...
You shower together - and I do mean shower together, and it is as disturbing as it sounds... imagine 6 homo-phobic mother fuckers in the same shower together... no stalls, no curtains, just a meat locker. Jesus Christ I hate taking a shower in the same place as other dudes. Its just, gay. No if's and's or but's - no pun intended. I find nothing enjoyable about having to see some dudes junk.
... But most importantly, you experience everything together as a platoon. You realize that the strength of the platoon hinges on that one dude that's weaker than everyone else - The lowest common denominator.
That ONE GUY that the recruiter just HAD to push and push to join the Army. He'd be that medium weight, fat fucker, that had no place in the Army in the first place, and more than likely he was a good guy that you'd see workin at Wal-Mart, greeting people as they walked in the door. The Army didn't care who he was - if he fails, we fail, and everyone has the right to fight.
The 'ONE GUY' wasn't really bright by any means, and probably had a bit of a speech impediment since childhood - making it nearly impossible for you to NOT crack a smile when you asked him a serious question... You could say that those 'weak links' gave you a bit of a challenge during basic... yeah, I'd say - a challenge is something that you can hurdle over, go around, move, push, or kick start...
- We had Blersch -
As the name implies, he wasn't all there physically or mentally. I kept imagining something like Sloth from the Ghoonies ... You now, mentally handicapped but trainable... something like that.
Blersch couldn't do 15 push-ups in 2 minutes, he couldn't run 2 miles in under the minimum standard, and don't even think about sit-ups - his back was so jacked up from having a crooked spine, he could barely even get up without hurting something...
This fucker was so deformed he couldn't even walk straight. But yet, we managed to push him through it, pulling, draggin at times, even carrying his excess weight on our backs...
I tell you what, he was happy as hell to pass basic, and I think we were better for getting him through it... Granted, for fuck sake, I would never want to be stationed with the guy... give that dude a rifle, are you fucking kidding me? Hell no. Give him a rubber ducky (fake m-16) and tell him its real - he'll be just fine with that.
I could go on about Basic, but you know the gist of things - Google it if you want to know more. That shit was 10 years ago, and like all 'old timer's' say, basic gets easier and easier over the years, and 'You didn't know what hard was when you went through'.
Whatever, who gives a shit. Basic is basic - its what the real Army wishes it was. You get real sick and tired of basic training stories after a while...
Looky here joker - Unless you blew up wildlife, or someone lost an arm at the grenade range, spare me the expense of telling me what I already know. I could fucking care less.
....
After finishing up basic, you go back home for a few weeks of well deserved leave, you learn that your girl that said she loved you before, now wants nothing to do with you *COUGH COUGH* - Tiffany* - ... you really don't have a whole lot of money saved up, and you're probably still driving your parents car wherever you wanted to go... I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, and I didn't hang out with the 'IN' crowd.
I just wanted to get the fuck outta that dank, sink-hole of a town. It was a place where dreams were made, and crushed. A place where a person would have aspirations for bigger and better things, visions of fuckin grandeur, only to pile on a mountain of debt while working a mediocre job, with a 10% tithe, mandatory to pay to your local church.
I was destined for Germany... Europe... A place where my friends and family told me that everyone was an alcoholic, and that little had changed since WWII, and all the people there were neo-nazi's... something along those lines I guess.
... I remember what I heard from Drill Sergeants - "You're going to have sex with prostitutes at the red light district, you're going to drink heavily as it's legal to drink on base when you're 18, and you're going to learn to hate the Army... "
.... the "field" will have a whole other meaning while you're there.
That's where I would find out what life was all about, where I could finally realize that I hated the Army, "sin" without being held accountable for my actions, and finally stretch my legs of my youth...
I needed to go someplace where I would make life-long friendships and burn bridges...
... but that, my friends, is for another day...
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