Thursday, January 11, 2018

PHRASES Only a SOLDIER Will Understand

             
            Hello badasses! There are many sayings/phrases that only make sense to us military members. Here are a few of my favorite:

“Hooah!”           
Needs no explanation if you were in the Army.

“Nut to butt!!”
A favorite from basic training, any school, deployment, or field problem where all the Privates must line up quickly. This phrase is usually yelled by the newest squad leader in the company. The newest team leader will yell, “yeah, make your buddy smile!” shortly thereafter. I really can’t imagine this being yelled today. I know if a woman was in front of me when an NCO yelled this, I would get excited. Sorry, not sorry, nut to butt with a woman turns me on. Deal with it Army. I have no doubt I would get kicked out of the Army today…

“HURRY up”
Must be said menacingly with much emphasis on the word hurry. It is usually said by some sort of instructor to his students because they are moving slower than old people fuck, slower than pond water. The beauty of this phrase is that it can be said clearly through clenched teeth. Any NCO knows how slow privates move. Any private knows how unreasonable that impossible time hack is…so goes life in the infantry…

“What the Fuck, Over!”
Usually said on mission when a cluster has turned into a fuck due to enemy action or a private being a private. Also used when the CSM acts like a senile old fucktard. Example: Stop watching me on ISR, CSM, don’t you have some soldiers with their hands in their pockets you have to harass? 

“If you say hooah one more time I will buttfuck your soul.”
Team leader response to hooah after five years.

“No. We can’t do that because the blimp is watching.”
Fuck that blimp. I got sick of CSM watching me with it. I got sick of the enemy shooting at it. I got sick of the stupid things high ranking officers would do to try to “name” it. As though soldiers who leave the wire every day care about that shit. On our FOB, they placed a ballot box in the chow tent where one could anonymously vote to name the blimp. I only hope when they read the ballots they said things like, “I fucked your mom” and “fuck off.” I know my vote was “I fucked your mom.” Sorry, not sorry for being politically incorrect. Those were different times when men acted like men and not pussies.

“Company layout tomorrow. All the squad’s gear.”
Fuck. Not because I am missing anything but because I will be after this stupid layout. There is no doubt some air items will get stolen from me during the festivities. Especially since the company has them clusterfucked in a pile by the ripped and unlevel pool table in the day room. You know, the one with dark stains from God knows what and crumbs that refuse to come out. Yeah, that is the place I want three sets of M24 binoculars and 10 compasses…nine compasses…fuck. How many was I supposed to have again? Great, I wonder how many I will have to buy this time.

“Red cycle starts tomorrow. Post police call for us. I’ll let you know your AO in the morning.”
Sweet. I’ll spend a day yelling at soldiers to get on line IOT pick up trash. GET ONLINE, STAY ONLINE! NO, STOP GOIN SO FAST, JOHNSON! SLOW DOWN! YOU CAN SEE HOW FAR AHEAD YOU ARE! FOR FUCK’S SAKE, WILLIAMS, PUT AWAY YOUR CELL PHONE! I DON’T CARE IF YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS PREGNANT AGAIN! BOSTER, STOP FLIRTING WITH THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES AS WE POLICE CALL! GET AWAY FROM THAT DOOR! And that is just the team leaders I am speaking too…

“Please don’t say hooah anymore. Just say okay”
Squad leader response to hooah after about ten years.

“I am so tired of getting fucked by the big green weiney.”
You do get use to it after a while though. You just never get use to the surprise big green weiney. Those hurt the worst because they are giant and studded.

“C’mon BOB. Just come out already.”
Because I am fucking freezing. Apparently, dawn isn’t just when the French and Indians attack, it is also when it is coldest. Yes, I know the science behind it and I do not care. HURRY up, BOB.

“It would behoove you to take copious notes.”
I heard every NCO I have ever had say this, so now I am saying it. How smart do I sound? I bet you didn’t see that sentence coming at the beginning of this briefing. (If you do not sense the heavy sarcasm here, well, it is going to be a tough life for you. I have said this as well. We all did. Instructors are addicted to this saying. Seriously, they have a problem…) 

(Stares in silence)
Platoon Sergeant response to hooah after about fifteen years.

“Aim small, miss small.”
Okay, this one is for my sniper brothers out there. I first heard this before I joined the Army in the movie The Patriot. Benjamin Martin, the main character, tells this to his young sons before he goes HAM. With a simple hatchet, some rifles, a pistol, and some giant pre-American brass balls he kills an entire company of redcoats…and their moms. I didn’t really get the saying at first. Aim small, miss small, sure! Sounds like one of those Forrest Gump sayings that only a retard would get. Then I went to Sniper School and for about a year after that became my answer to everything. Can’t hit the target? Aim small, miss small! Potty training the kids? Aim small, miss small, of course! Wife cheating on you with Jody? Well you obviously didn’t AIM SMALL, MISS SMALL mother fucker! It made sense at the time. I definitely went full retard on this one.

“Did anyone turn on the Duke?”
                Seriously though, does it really matter? On my second tour in Iraq, we had a Duke specialist come in to show us how it works. After a short block of instruction, he grabbed a radio, turned on the Duke, and guess what happened? Yup, you guessed it, radio still worked. What do you think happened next?
A.      He stopped his presentation to figure out why the Duke didn’t work.
B.      He joked that this one must have a problem before troubleshooting the system.
C.      He doubled down by moving to the next HMMWV, turning on the Duke only to have that one fail the simple radio test as well.
If you guessed C then you, my friend, were deployed around the same time I was and just as fucked as I am. I await the day when my lungs rot from the burn pits, or when I turn senile, thanks to the Duke. Remember what that thing did to the electronics in the vehicle when you turned it on? What do you think it did to your brain?

“A YELLOW BIRD…!”
                “…WITH A YELLOW BILL…!” Cadence changed while I was in, big time. I specifically remember a cadence about being president and rounding up all the gays and feminists and killing them around the year 2000. In 2015 I got a “talking to” for saying haj! Fuck sensitive soldiers and fuck political correctness. If you don’t have the stomach to hear off-color jokes, then you won’t have the stomach to go Benjamin Martin on the nations enemies!     

“I’m out! Hooah yourself, bitches!”
Response to hooah after twenty years or on retirement.

“I hope I get chili-mac…”
There will only be one who is eating this at the end of the day. Most likely the squad leader who passed them out. Speaking of MRE’s…

“I’ll trade my main meal for some jalapenos (pronounced ja-lop-en-nose) cheese spread and Skittles.”
                I’ve seen it before. Many have.

“What was your MOS?”
                The first question I ask to people who say they served. It never fails to show the fakers. 11B for me, by the way.

“I miss my soldiers saying hooah.”
Response to hooah after a few months of retirement.




Thursday, January 4, 2018

A War Story: Ruck Life


There is an aspect of my life I have come to appreciate as I get older. I used to call it the spartan mindset, but that doesn’t sound fun, does it? Lately I have come to call it ruck life. I developed it through years of field problems and missions; we all did. It is how we lived in the field while on mission. Basically, we had to learn how to be comfortable living with what we could carry on our back. We had to learn what was important and what wasn’t. We quickly learned what was truly needed through years of living in the bush, carrying our lives in our 3500-cubic inch “backpack.” In this age of materialistic hedonism, it is rather freeing to live a rucksack life. The ability to let go of the “stuff” we acquired over a lifetime of consumerism is freeing, isn’t it? We are no longer tethered to anything, and we can fight for what we believe in. In other words, we are not slaves. We gain by letting go. In life, we either own our possessions or our possessions own us. If we live the rucksack life, we are free.

Reality is key here. Ruck life has no room for theory or feels. The smart quickly learn that they cannot carry everything; the strong accept this. We must learn the difference between “needs” versus “wants.” Once we know what we can carry effectively, we pack our “needs” and have the faith we will be adaptable and resilient enough to overcome what we feel is missing. This is what success is all about; plan, but have faith that we and our team have the intelligence to overcome the obstacles in front of us.

Rucksack life teaches us how to pack our rucks in a way that is optimal only to the individual. That way, in the pitch black of a moonless night, we can find what we seek by feel alone. It doesn’t matter if we are perched on a rocky outcrop on the side of an Afghanistan mountain, or in the thick green brush along the Euphrates River, because we know exactly where everything is. The illumination of a flashlight can get us killed in those locations. When we truly get used to this lifestyle, only the inexperienced will have to use a light to find items in their ruck. A mistake in which, as stated earlier, can get someone killed. Other people can try to use our rucksacks, but they won’t understand its configuration. I have had Canadian border patrol agents ask me to repack my ruck after they searched it. They couldn’t figure out how I was able to cram so many things into such a small area. Little would they know the hard work that went into perfecting that skill. Simplicity (How much you pack) + Consistency (Where you pack it) = Efficiency (Ease in carrying and fishing out gear).

Basic Training not included (too many stories), my first venture into Rucksack Life occurred when I arrived on Fort Richardson in June 2001. I was seventeen and a proud member of Task Force 1/501. The unit was about to conduct its yearly Expert Infantryman Badge testing. I was excited for the new challenge. I was proud of my recent accomplishments, graduating basic training and Airborne School at the young age of seventeen. While most of my friends were juniors in high school, I was working to become a paratrooper. I really wanted to push myself to be sure I was ready for the final event, a twelve-mile road march with thirty-five pounds, water weight not included.

We had large, olive drab green ALICE rucksacks at the time. At the front of the top flap was our nametape with “cat eyes” (our company markings). The cat eyes were two pieces of luminescent tape cut into various shapes. Mine were rectangular, but other companies used diamonds, circles, or triangles. This had the effect of displaying what company we were in, while also helping soldiers follow each other in low light conditions. The ruck had three pockets in the front where we usually kept four items; two ponchos rolled up in the side pockets and our wet weather gear for the larger center pocket. On one side, attached to the ruck with Alice clips, was an E-tool, or small foldable shovel. On the other side, again attached with Alice clips, was my plastic two-quart canteen and its carrier. The carrier strap ran around the outside of the ruck. It helped compress the ruck, and was there in case of emergency. The only reason my ruck was in that configuration was because it was SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for the Platoon. I was lucky, I joined the Army when they still practiced fieldcraft. Unfortunately, that has been lost over the time I was in.

I remember the senior Specialist in my squad dropping by my room as I was packing my ruck. Peterson, or Petey as everyone called him, seemed like a good guy. He had helped me out when I had gotten lost on the land navigation course. It was a simple error, a cherry mistake; I had used the protractor backwards. I had felt terrible but took my lumps and teasing. I was over it, so I put it behind me. Anybody could have made that mistake. I planned on being perfect from there on out.
“Do you need help packing? There is a certain way to do it which might help you when we’re out there road marching.” He eyed the gear which was lying out around me, his eyes stopping on a flak jacket I had taken out.
“No, I am good. Thanks though.” I responded. I didn’t need help. I had this. This shit was weak.
“Ok, just make sure you stick to the packing list. The route is very hilly, and the footing isn’t too good. It is also supposed to rain, so I wouldn’t wear the treadless soles. I am just going to wear my leg boots. Whatever you wear, make sure that they are broken in.”

I grabbed my waterproof bag. It was still in the plastic bag from CIF. I ripped off the plastic bag and opened it up. It was black on the inside and olive drab green on the outside. I opened it up and put my head inside to show Petey how experienced I was. I had seen my airborne instructor do this when he was inspecting my gear. It smelled like new rubber inside. I liked that smell. I suddenly felt foolish; why was my head in this waterproof bag? I didn’t really know what I was looking for. A clue, maybe? I pulled my head out.
Petey had a smirk on his face. “Did you find it?” he asked.
I mumbled something in response.
“Geez brand new, huh? You are lucky, mine was used and had enough holes to sink the Titanic and CIF wouldn’t take ‘em back. Fuck CIF. Ok, good luck with all of this. Just remember to stick to the packing list. These EIB road marches are a bit different than regular ones. Good luck, dude.” He put extra emphasis on that last line, with a hint of sarcasm in it. What did he know. I rolled my eyes as he walked away. He didn’t know me.

I continued packing, making sure I stuck to the packing list. There was probably going to be a layout after or a scale to make sure we weighed enough. The old military adage that you can add to but not take away floated through my mind. I had to be ready for anything. What if I needed something and I didn’t have it? I would be a shitbag.  I grabbed the woodland camouflage flak jacket and placed it at the bottom of my ruck. This was a pretty heavy item, probably adding around 20 lbs to the weight. I was excited; this march was really going to challenge me, and I was sure to make weight. I couldn’t wait to get out there. Little did I know I was about to learn a hard lesson in ruck life.  Lessons like the importance of where to pack the heavier gear and how to hydrate. There is only one way to learn ruck life and that is through your mistakes.

There is a road on Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson called Davis Highway. When you head back to the barracks, you can see Anchorage in the distance. Due to this, you feel like you are a lot closer than you are to the end of the movement. It was here, at mile seven, that the movement became no fun anymore. I was struggling with all the energy I could muster just to keep up. And I had stopped sweating. Not good. At nine miles, I began the catch-up game, where I would fall back and sprint forward. Finally, at mile ten, there was a permanent gap of about ten meters between myself and everyone else. Petey, the man whose advice I had ignored, fell out with me and urged me on. He asked me how much I was carrying, and between gasps, I answered that I thought it was around fifty pounds. He lifted my ruck and laughed. “Jesus, dude. You are carrying way too much. What were you thinking?” I watched as my platoon got further away. I felt like shit. I began to run. I didn’t care if I was going to die. I would not fall back any further.

“Hey, hold on…HOLD ON, DUDE! Let me help you.” His voice cut through me like an ice knife. “Give me your ruck and you take mine. I am used to the heavier weight.” Petey was a machine gunner in the platoon. Thirty-five pounds dry was a joke to him; he was used to carrying double that with a 27.6-pound machine gun as well. I didn’t know that then, just like I didn’t know to trust people to pick me up. Why would he want to help me? Those were my thoughts at the time. I was sure no one helps without wanting something in return. I was wrong, and over time, I learned to trust in the wolfpack with everything. It is truly amazing how one act of kindness can sit with you for the rest of your career. In that moment, I learned what the life I had just entered was all about.  Yes, I was an amusing, dumb, cherry private at one point. We all were. I have an endless number of stories like that. After those, I can start with more as a cherry team leader, squad leader, and platoon sergeant. Then for fun, we can recount stories at the various schools I attended. All have their own cherry moments and learning experiences. I regress. The point of this story is about the weight we carry, how we choose to carry it, and that it is ok to share our weight. This is just as true for our life experiences as it is about what we pack in our ruck.

In the foxhole, ranger grave, patrol base, COP, CHU, we discussed the realities of our lives. We trust our buddies enough to tell them anything. We become our own therapists as we watch our friends go through some horrific life situations. Squad leader is a dick? Kids don’t understand you? Jody got your wife? Sick of seeing dead bodies? Best friend was just horrifically shot or blown up? We were there for each other and would never let slip something told us in confidence. We listened. We listened to take on our buddy’s emotional weight. To share the grief and help carry the load, but mostly because we wanted to. We cared… A LOT. The emotional burden of a soldier is heavier than his ruck and gains more weight each tour. It can’t be found in the civilian world, outside of whatever close friends you might have from kindergarten. Ruck life discussions disappear when you get out of the Army. Vet centers and VFWs are a good attempt to replicate that trust, but in the end, they are a poor substitute.


The truth is, many infantry soldiers come from broken homes. Not all, of course, but a lot more than people like to talk about. People whose self-worth is validated when they are children do not seek out jobs which can get them killed or mutilated for scant pay. They do not seek out jobs where they are smoked endlessly and told, “low crawl through the dirt because you are a piece of shit!” They will low crawl until the side of their face is bleeding, out of a sense of family. They will resent you for making them do that, but they will do it anyway. The platoon a soldier ends up in becomes his family because his real family is usually dysfunctional on some level. Once again, not all, but most will come from abusive, drugged up, dead, or simply non-existent, as in, doesn’t give a fuck about him and never gave a fuck about him. For many, the infantry platoon is the only family the person will have, and they become hooked on it because it is the only real connections they have ever had. So, there he will be, living ruck life with his makeshift family. Late at night, on some mission in the Sunni Triangle of Death, an infantryman, caked in wet moondust from an exhausting day of fighting in the thick brush which follows the Euphrates River, will struggle to stay awake while he pulls his hour-long security shift by himself. Eyes tired but alert, he will look around as he throws in a pinch of Copenhagen Long Cut and smiles despite the windy desert cold which feels like it cuts straight to his bones. He smiles because he will never be more at home than in that moment. He is content, complete despite the mortars, IED’s, and bullets because his real family surrounds him. That is ruck life. It will never be replaced.

(Photo from http://soldiersystems.net/2015/10/08/the-baldwin-articles-alice-pack-trilogy-part-2-of-3/)