I’m a pretty easy going guy.

I don’t tend to get too spooled-up over this-and-that (unless, of course, we’re talking about a ridiculous YouTube video by “Rock the Vote.”). But by and large, I’m not prone to temper tantrums, raising my voice, or spouting off with a long tirade of profanity laced emotional explosions. But even the most even-keeled (self professed anyway), level headed of us are bitten by the freak-out bug now and again.

My most notable “freak-out” occurred recently when I walked into the latrine following one of “those guys.”

You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one that believes that the entire stall is his crapping ground, and he has absolutely no regard for the poor schmuck who mistakingly walks up to the latrine post-devastation.

After walking in and having every bodily sense shut down in self-induced defense, I fled the latrine as fast as possible.

What’s a man to do in response? After all, there needs to be SOME latrine etiquette, doesn’t there?

Post an articulate and respectable written response, of course.

Dear Disgusting Pig Who Left This Mess:

If you are not able to clean up your disgusting mess in the future, please refrain from using this public restroom. You are not the only one who uses it, and no one else wants to deal with the horrible smell or sight of your child-like defecation. The fact that there was no toilet paper in the bowl, which was full of brown water and poop, leads me to believe that you are incapable of wiping yourself either. I’m sure you didn’t wash your hands when you were done, and you run the risk of infecting everyone else in the BN. If you are not able to clean up after yourself, then please do not use this bathroom again. If I catch anyone leaving a mess like this in the future, you will be cleaning it up with a toothbrush.

- CPT XXXXX (I would be happy to discuss with you if you wish)

Of course I didn’t leave CPT XXXXX at the bottom. I was happy to give my name for anyone who wanted to “hunt me down.” Reactions from my superiors were swift and varied. I got a few pats on the back, and a few kicks in the ass. After I got a call at home from an angry field grade, my wife pointed out the most obvious flaw of logic in my note. I may not have the authority to make someone “clean it up with a toothbrush,” as the perpetrator could have been a superior, or a civilian.

I suppose we all have our moments of temporary blind rage. Perhaps I should have saved mine for a more appropriate, or more significant moment, but sometimes you just gotta’ tell it like it is.

If you’ve had a temper tantrum you’d like to share, we’d love to hear about it.

The “Greatest Generation” is often used to describe the generation of Americans who persevered through the Great Depression and subsequently fought in, and supported from home, World War Two.

Fast forward sixty years, and the driving political force (insert sarcastic sneer here) which is “Rock the Vote,” is taking political activism to new depths…er…heights. Corralling the hoards of mindless carcasses, wallowing in their cesspool of teenage and twenty-something angst, and branding them with the company logo “MTV,” Rock the Vote is taking individual thought to task. Don’t dare think for yourself, don’t have the audacity to have an opinion outside the liberal close-minded box, and don’t you dare “go against the family” (Apologies to Marlon Brando).

Rock the Vote has completely glossed over ostracism and rational dialogue, they’ve skipped ahead to the dreaded triple dog dare of getting your way, withholding sex.

“We pledge ourselves to the health and liberty of young Americans and to government for the people … and to never f—ing you if you are against us.” Ah, Rock the Vote, your militant liberal mothers must be so proud.

What is going on here? Has our political discourse really devolved into this? Sexual extortion? Do it my way or don’t do me at all?

This assumes, of course, that the threat of sexual withdrawal is enough to send conservative men scurrying about in search of Michael Moore’s latest documentary, knocking each other over in the frantic attempt to “liberalize” our minds.

Oh please, please, please! Don’t withhold your crusty, diseased Va**na from us! I’ll do anything! I’ll change my stance on anything you want; National Defense, Economic Issues, Health Care, ANYTHING!

And this also assumes that Rock the Vote speaks for all of young America, not just the mindless, spineless droves of drooling sycophants. Is this what Rock the Vote President Heather Smith envisions? Her army of sex-starved health-care “reform” opponents, being led to slaughter on her jewel studded leashes. Crying out for crumbs of sex from the liberal supply wagon.

Bad news Heather, HOT CHICKS DIG SHOOTERS! The metro-sexual men who frequent your peace rallies, sewing circles, Mary Kay parties, and vegetarian cooking contests may fall for this crap, but rest of us men don’t. Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen. We all give you a collective, Kiss my Ass!

But the old axiom applies here. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. So with that as my rallying cry, I sally forth, hands on the reins of my valiant steed (His name is Justice, by the way), trampling the opposition with discombobulated logic, whiny retorts, selfish demands, and self-serving motives. Talley Ho!

A “Radar” Moment: Would you like cream and sugar with that?

Somewhere in the North Atlantic, a long time ago…..

80 foot waves crash over the flight-deck of your current home, a massive nuclear powered aircraft carrier, as the North Atlantic furiously assaults your floating city. Masking the harsh battering the outside of your ship is taking, the inside is a quiet, peaceful place, the only evidence of the current maelstrom outside is the plethora of pilots (say that five times fast) hanging out in the ready room, watching movies, watching porn, and generally just hanging out. You, meanwhile, are on the other side of that thin curtain that separates your little cube from the rest of the ready room -think Oz-ish “Never mind that man behind the curtain!”.  As you catch up on stacks of flight records, training schedules, and log books, a calamity of enormous proportions smacks you in the face like a Fedor Emelienenko overhand looping right. BAM! BOW! BLAM!

“Hey Radar!”

Yeah, okay, so your nickname is Radar, so what. Damn that’s lame…

“Hey Radar! We’re out of coffee!”

AAHHHH, sweet Calamity Jane, whatever shall we do?!? Fortunately, after the shock of this revelation begins to abate, you collect your wits, calm yourself down with a few “Whoo-Sahs” and deliver the most obvious of solutions to LT Freckles, the bringer of this bad news.

“Well Sir, you could brew a pot.”

Silence.

Ever notice how the strikingly obvious can completely befuddle the purposefully ignorant?

“Yeah, but….we’re out of coffee.”

The aforementioned sentence, of course, was accompanied by that look of complete confusion and hopelessness that comes with pretending that you are completely unable to accomplish a task you deem menial, a task that should be accomplished by a subordinate. (See; making copies, making coffee, sending a fax, stapling papers together, wiping/kissing your own ass)

You put down the stack of flight records you are painstakingly logging into the pilot logbooks, and you look up at LT Freckles, his brow furrowed into the universal sign for “I just don’t understand.”

“Sir, it’s easy to make coffee. Just pour ten scoops into the filter and hit brew. Too easy.”

“Yeah, but ….” He hesitates here, he’s not sure which play to run. The “But that’s YOUR job” or the “But I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can.” Another moment of hesitation and he gives up his tell, you know which play he’s running because he breaks out the smarmy, patronizing, half smile.

“Yeah, but…I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can. You make the best coffee on the ship.”

Gee-willikers, do I really? I make the best coffee? Wowee, thanks for that huge compliment! You’re so great to try and manipulate me into thinking I make the best coffee, just so your lazy ass doesn’t have to make it, golly gee whiz…..

But, you don’t really say that, you just think it.

After another moment or two of awkward silence, while LT Freckles shuffles his feet and looks at you with anticipation, you decide that candor is the best course of action.

“Sir, I’ve got hours of work to do right now, so if you’re waiting for me to stop what I’m doing so I can make you coffee, you’ll need to either make it yourself, or wait a while.”

LT Freckles maintains his confused smile and walks away, immediately followed by your department head, LCDR Lexus, (And believe it or not, not every 18 year old daughter of one of your Sailors wants to sit in your Lexus) who walks in and, using his best fatherly tone, instructs you to “take a break from all the paperwork” and make coffee. LT Freckles, still sporting that confused smile, nods his head in the background. That’s LT Freckes 1, Radar 0.

Flash forward 10 years…

You are now an officer in the United States Army, and you make your own damn coffee.

Okay, so “Radar” moments aren’t exclusively the Navy’s property. What “Radar” moments have you had that tested your patience, and made you question the cloth some leaders are made from?

Q: Hey man, how’s your Burger King?

A: Honestly? This whopper is the quintessential burger!

Q: See that chick? Hot, huh?

A: Wow, she’s the quintessential smokin’ hot biscuit!

Q: Do you think OJ is guilty?

A: Oh yeah, he’s the quintessential guilty party.

Ahh, stop the madness! Surprisingly, this insanity is not singular to the sea-faring servicemen, and is shows no respect for person, rank, or branch of the military. The Army, I’ve learned, is equally susceptible to grammar abuse.

We in the Army have a propensity for turning every day, mundane tasks into feats of grandiose brilliance.

We also have the tendency to tell the world when we have completed the unbelievably difficult, time consuming, and heroic task of…..doing our job. We roll every single thing we do, every task we accomplish, and every possible mission into beautiful, but oh so overused, identifiers. So what wins the prize for the current flavor of the month, currently misused more than it should be?

Considering both the Army and Navy’s propensity for over-verboseness,   I propose the first in a series of grammatical retirements.

FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS

Yes, FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS means you can accomplish EVERYTHING you are SUPPOSED to accomplish. You have the capacity, the training, the resources, the ability, and the will to accomplish FULL SPECTRUM OPS (If I could add audio, FULL SPECTRUM OPS would be announced with a deep echoing voice….a pause….and an explosion). You aren’t going to accomplish partial spectrum ops, or intermittent spectrum ops, you are going to accomplish FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS. Why, exactly, do we use this term? Doesn’t FULL SPECTRUM OPS kind of smack of the “duh” factor?

FM 7-0 defines FULL SPECTRUM OPS as simultaneous offensive, defensive, and stability or civil support operations. As a doctrinal term, FULL SPECTRUM OPS has its place, although I once again point to the “duh” factor.

General XYZ: I’m sorry Mr. President, we only planned on conducting offensive operations, we never even thought of defensive operations, I mean…come one….two things at once?

But FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS has become so much more than a doctrinal term that describe 360 degree warfare. FULL SPECTRUM OPS is now the phrase de jour. The “in” term to use when describing your unit’s abilities, BDE through BN through Company to Platoon.

“Sir, we’re going to conduct a FULL SPECTRUM OPS FRG meeting. We’re going to have a Pot Luck, we’ll be having door prizes, we’ll put out some info, and we’ll make sure we put the signup sheets out, we really feel we need to hit FULL SPECTRUM OPS on this thing.”

Somehow, units that don’t even come close to having the capability to conduct actual FULL SPECTRUM OPS, are conducting them every day, in every possible mission set. I’ve been to numerous briefs where I’ve been told how such-and-such a unit is going to conduct FULL SPECTRUM OPS, when that unit has nowhere near the resources or know-how to do so. I’ve seen OERs that speak to an officer’s ability to conduct the FULL SPECTRUM OPS of his/her current position (Isn’t that really just doing your job…all of it?).

FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS has officially spilled over from the ranks of relevant doctrinal Army-speak (I’ll throw one last “duh” into the fray) into this quagmire we call nonsensical Army lingo, and therefore, must hitherto be retired. To steal a phrase from my Navy days, as we watch FULL SPECTRUM OPS go off into the setting sun,

“Fair Winds and Following Seas.”

——–

What military terms have you heard that should be retired to the grammar graveyard?

I am actively being recruited.

Anti-Terrorism and Force Protection classes all give you the warning signs to look for. We’re taught to be aware of potential pitfalls, or weaknesses, which our enemies can use to recruit or blackmail us. We’re taught to be aware of those dangerous situations that threaten us immediately, and of the subtle designs of the enemy, the gentle persuasive methods they use to hook and reel you in. Right now, they are waiting to see if I take the bait.

A certain faction is currently working me, relentlessly trying to recruit me to the cause. It’s really my fault this has gotten so far, I’ve allowed them into my inner circle, and I allowed the development of their plan when I could have nipped it in the bud. I could have stopped this months ago, but I allowed them to keep meeting and discussing their plans, right under my nose.

They’ve promised me gold, riches, and extensive equipment if I join their cause. They’ve promised me beautiful women, unending adventure, and the opportunity to belong to an elite group. Thus far I have resisted, I have spurned their advances and I have held steady. My biggest fear is that everyone will find out. My wife, my children, my boss. They will find out the truth. That I have become a target of opportunity for one of the most sinister organizations today.

The World of Warcraft.

They are relentless. I am one of the sole holdouts in my department, and I’m not doing myself any favors with my consistent smart ass remarks.

Soldier #1: Hey, we haven’t heard back from Brigade on this tasking. I really don’t understand what they want.

Me: Maybe you should take an elixir of understanding, so you can really grasp their intent…hehe.
Soldier #1: That’s not funny Sir, they don’t have elixers of understanding anymore in WoW (“WoW” is the cool way to say World of Warcraft.)

or…

Soldier #2: I’m sick of getting these taskers from BDE, they have no clue how stretched thin we are!
Me: Maybe you should take your Conan sword and smite their ears off. Haha, I’m so funny.

Soldier #2: Conan’s not in WoW, SIR! (The dialogue cloud is hovering over his head, I know he wanted to add DUMBASS to the end of his sentence.)

The peer pressure wasn’t always bad. It’s peer pressure from my Soldiers that led me to get hooked on The Shield, Sons of Anarchy, Deadwood, and Rome. Those were the golden years of peer pressure. Now, I’m reduced to making fun of my Soldiers for starting every conversation with “Guess what level my mage is now!” And yes, it is a “mage” not a “magic guy,” don’t make that mistake.

I’ll continue to wage this war of attrition; my ability to withstand the peer pressure vs. their relentless geeky pressure. But I will prevail, and maybe somewhere along the line, I’ll even convert one or two back to reality.

As a kid, I used to love the playdough machines that let you turn red and white playdough into spaghetti and sauce, yellow playdough into funny hair, and every other cool mold that playdough offered. The only problem with this, is that once you’ve made a multi-colored clown, that playdough ain’t ever gonna look the same. After a few times out of the plastic containers, your once multi-colored playdough has turned into one giant gray/brown lump of blah. The colors are no longer distinguishable, and you’re really not happy with the end result. So, what’s the point?

The Annual Family Readiness Group (FRG) Halloween Party is coming up soon, but there is a clear question as to what it is actually being celebrated. This party will have trick or treating, pumpkins, Halloween decorations, costumes, and copious amounts of sugar laden bits of heaven, but it is not, I repeat NOT, a Halloween party. It’s an Autumn Festival. We’ll be seeing who can toilet paper the mummy fastest, we’ll be having the requisite costume contest, and we’ll attempt to scare the bejeezus out of two dozen eight year olds with a hastily thrown together haunted house. Isn’t that what you do at an Autumn Festival? Err… I guess. As long as it isn’t a (gasp!) Halloween party.

Politically correct mantras have been flooding the U.S. for years now, but I always held out hope that the U.S. military would be a last stand for honesty, a refuge for reality in an otherwise PC tainted landscape. A world where self righteous feelings police launch their IRAMs filled with watered down descriptions of truth, and gender-neutral/religion-neutral/view-neutral/opinion-neutral ball bearings (Oops, did I say “ball?” I meant humorous reproductive reference, whether male or female). During these rocket attacks, I imagined the military as the protective bunker, withstanding the ranting and ravings of PC induced hysteria as it rains it’s venom down on the unsuspecting.

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID POLICEMAN! IT’S POLICE OFFICER!

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID FIREMAN! IT’S A FIREFIGHTER!

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID MANHOLE! IT’S A PERSON-HOLE (You can say that again.)

But the wheels that power the PC mobile have come to a rolling stop at the doorsteps of the U.S. military. Halloween has become “Autumn Festival,” and Christmas has become the “Winter Festival.” Santa is still Santa, but he doesn’t visit during an FRG Christmas party, he visits during the FRG Winter Festival. Never mind that the Winter Festival is celebrated around the Christmas tree, with Christmas presents, and Silent Night playing in the background, it’s still not a Christmas party. Just as trick or treating, costume contests, haunted houses, and ghosts and goblins no longer mean Halloween parties.

As the screeching harpies of the PC police continue to demand we toe the line, keep in step, and follow the heard of bleating sheep as they head toward that precipice of ambiguity and sameness, there are a few of us who won’t swallow the blue pill. We’ll take our red pill and see the world for what it is; a cornucopia of varying customs, traditions, and wonderful diversity. “Strength through Diversity” does not mean watering down our differences and combining our playdough into one giant gray blob. It means celebrating all the varying aspects of cultural diversity, appreciating each unique difference for what it has to offer.

I’m attending an “Autumn Festival” in a few weeks. If you see me with scars on my temple, know that I haven’t been lobotomized by the PC police, it’s just my costume. After all, what’s a good Halloween Party without Frankenstein’s Monster.

I remember, somewhere around 1985, sitting up with my folks, watching the Martin Short hour long comedy special. He was my favorite comic at the time, and one of my favorite skits was his impersonation of Doug Henning, working a long “Illuuuuusionnnn” into every other sentence. Back then, as a kid just entering his teenage angst period, I though illusions were fantastic. Now, not so much.

Illusions still surround us, and in the Army they are abundant. Only these are not Doug Henning’s, or David Copperfield’s illusions. They are the illusions we, as an institution, have set up, and that we continue to give life to every day. So, without further ado, I give you, The Power of Illuuuuuuusionnnnnn……

The blast of the IED has everyone’s eyes fuzzy, and ears muted. Bits of debris seem to be slowly falling from the sky, and every radio in the convey is silent until a cacophony of shouts and shrill directions seem to erupt from every VIC system. Smoke seems to settle on everything, as vehicles jockey for position, a macabre ballet of steel, fire and noise, erratically moving to the dull sound of metal on metal, shouts of anger and dismay, and the incessant babble coming from every alley and storefront. Shouts that sounded like they were underwater slowly start to become clear, and you start to make out the frantic shouts of your friends, concern and panic cling to their words. As you choke and cough on smoke fumes and fear, you imagine white pickup trucks pulling up and snatching you off the streets in a calculated bid to kidnap a Soldier. Your heart quickens and your adrenaline leaves you short of breath as you steady yourself and exit your vehicle. Eyes dart about, scanning every pedestrian foolish enough to still be nearby, and you raise your weapon to the ready position, prepared to put two into any menacing figure that show hostile intent. You squint through the smoke and the fog of danger, and you slowly start to breathe easier as you see your salvation confidently striding toward you. At a sub 6 minute pace, a figure in PT shorts, shirt, and sneakers is coming in your direction. Armed with a heart rate monitor and a stop watch, this imposing figure runs up to you and surveys the situation.

“I’m Captain Runsalot, I’m here to help.”

You feel a surge of relief as you realize that you are in good hands. Everyone knows Captain Runsalot by reputation.

 He can run really fast, really far.

“Captain Runsalot, did you bring a weapon,” you breathlessly ask. Damn, this guy isn’t even breathing hard. Captain Runsalot is the Man!

“No, I didn’t, I only shot 4 for 40 at my last M4 range, so most of my Soldiers don’t trust me with a weapon. I’ve only hit the 25 meter target with my M9 two times, and I’m pretty sure someone made those holes with a pen, so I’d rather not use that one either.”

It doesn’t matter if he can’t shoot. Sir….er….CPT Runsalot can run really fast, really far.

“CPT Runsalot, we have a wounded Soldier. Maybe you could throw him over your shoulders and carry him to the aid station.”

Captain Runsalot laughs at this, the way someone laughs with a conspiring partner at an inside joke.

“Sorry, can’t help you there either. I’m only able to lift about 35 pounds over my head, so I’m quite certain I won’t be able to firemen’s carry anyone to the aid station.”

It’s okay. Despite his gangly frame and obvious lack of upper body strength, CPT Runsalot can run really fast, really far.

“Don’t worry about it CPT Runsalot, your still THE MAN! If you could just run on over to Warrior Six’s vehicle and call in a MEDAVAC, that would be a ton of help.”

“Oh, you mean a something-line MEDAVAC?”

“Yes, CPT Runsalot, a nine-line MEDAVAC.”

“Okay, no problem! Do you have a cell phone I can use?”

“No, CPT Runsalot, we don’t use cell phones out here, you need to use the SINCGARS in the vehicle.”

“Well, I would, but I’m really not sure how to use a SINCGARS. But don’t worry, because I can run really far, really fast.”

“Yes, you can! Okay CPT Runsalot, I know you don’t have a weapon, but keep an eye out for anything suspicious. If anyone tries to sneak up on us, use your combatives skills to keep him at bay until we can subdue him with our weapons.”

“Okay, by ‘combatives’, do you mean running?”

“No CPT Runsalot, I mean using your fighting ability to physically restrain and/or harm him.”

“Oh, that’s right, I remember hearing about combatives. Yeah, I skipped that training, I was out running with the Battalion Commander. He loves it when I run with him.”

“Don’t worry about it CPT Runsalot, just jog around in a circle or something, we’ll do the rest of the work.”

So he does.

At the end of the day, you reflect on how fortunate you all were to have CPT Runsalot show up today. Who knows how things might have gone without him. He may not be able to shoot, communicate, or kill, but damn that guy can run.

Really far, really fast.

Guardian Angels – Part Two

by Grin & Barrett

Be the Father for my children while I am gone, and Husband to my wife until I come back
Fill my family with Peace, Joy, Comfort, Hope, Faith and Happiness
Give my family the strength to choose the hard right over the easy wrong
And give my children the courage to stand up for the weak and the oppressed
Put your mantle of protection around my family, and protect them from all spiritual and physical evils
- Amen

WE ARE BEING FOLLOWED.

Her mom slowly raised her head, eyes wide, and glanced from the man to the young woman. At that moment, she realized it was true, and she was overcome with the sudden realization that they were all in very real danger.

In a ruse, my wife turned in her seat and waved to an elderly couple sitting in the train car behind them. The man jerked his head around, clearly surprised that my wife knew someone on the train. She stood up and went to another car in the train, pulled out her phone and tried like hell to get the number for the Military Police at Camp Darby.

The man followed her. He stayed back and pretended to be looking out the windows as he tried to see what my wife was doing, but she knew he was watching her. She attempted, several more times, to get the number from information, but to no avail. Frustrated, she hung up the phone and walked back toward the cabin with the kids and her mom. Without a word, she gathered the kids up, directed her mom toward another train car in the back, and left the man and the woman behind. As she left, the man, back in his seat now, glared at the young woman, his eyes imploring her to do something.

“Are you guys moving seats?”

My wife nodded her head, and quickly moved out,

“Yes, we’re going to another car, nice to meet you. Have a good trip.”

As they gathered in the next train car, my wife explained the situation to the family.

“Listen, we’re getting off at the next stop. I know it’s not our stop, but we’re being followed by that woman and man, and we need to get off now.”

My kids were scared, but they trusted their mom, and they trusted in God to protect them. My youngest son, ten years old, spoke next.

“I wish Dad was here.”

I wish Dad was here. That’s the phrase that I still think about, home from deployment for almost a year now, and I still can’t get it out of my head. It’s one thing to miss birthdays, Christmas’, special events, school plays, and soccer games, but it’s another to be gone when your kids NEED you. Those moments when they are truly afraid, in need of their father to stand strong against the storm, to be the one to protect them when they are in danger.

I wish Dad was here. But I wasn’t.

At the next stop, my wife waited until the last possible moment, and ushered the kids off the train. My quick thinking mother-in-law quickly shuffled the family behind some stone pillars at the train stop and kept everyone out of view. Within seconds of ducking out of view, and as the train pulled away, the man leaned out from the exact same exit my family had just escaped the train. He hurriedly scanned the crowd that had just exited. As my wife peeked around the corner of the abutment, she saw him go back into the train car and pace down the length of the train. He was clearly looking for them and seethed with anger and frustration. As the train gained momentum, my wife stepped out into view. The man was now standing between rail cars further down the train, speaking into his cell phone, and yelling at someone on the other end of the line. He continued to scan the train station as he spoke and lowered the phone as he made eye contact with my wife, his eyes boring holes into hers and the sneer on his mouth lingering in her mind as he rode out of sight.

The next morning, I spoke to my wife by phone.

After forcing a cab driver to be her personal rear security on the way out of the parking garage in Lucca (story for another time), she swung by Camp Darby to pick up their bags, and drove the entire trip back to Germany straight through, only stopping for gas and bathroom breaks. At four a.m. she led my weary troops back into the house, where they collapsed into their beds. My phone call woke her up. I couldn’t wait to hear about her trip to Italy, but before she told me, I had to tell her about this great movie we had watched the night before, one we had gotten an early bootleg copy of.

“Honey, I just saw the coolest movie last night. It’s called Taken.”

Then she told me her story.

Read Part 1 of Guardian Angels>>

As a reformed squid, people always ask me why I chose the Army over the Navy when I made the decision to leave behind civilian life and come back to military service. Often, I am left muttering to my other personality, twitching uncontrollably, and wondering the same thing myself. After a few brief moments of self reflection, however, I usually come out of my trance and offer some semblance of a reason. Some folks can’t quite wrap their minds around the idea that I would choose the Army over the Navy, and usually they have some pretty valid reasons why they think I made a huge mistake.

“Why didn’t you go back into the Navy? Army life sucks!”

Typically, the aforementioned “Army life sucks” comments are bracketed by the stuttering that comes with sleeping in the cold, eating cold MREs, and waking up at 0300 for watch. When you are dealing with someone who is currently enduring this level of suck, it’s hard to argue your point. When these comments come from a place like Iraq or Afghanistan, you are fighting a losing battle. It doesn’t help my argument when most Navy bases are surrounded by sun, beach, and bikinis, and there is a very alluring, certain “Hollywood” that goes with being in the Navy. Aircraft carriers, submarines, and Navy SEALs. All very cool.

After three years of civilian life, I had to make a choice. Army vs. Navy. The only real possibilities I had in the Navy were as a Supply Officer or a Navigation Officer, not exactly my first choices. But it wasn’t the branch choices that made my decision so hard; it was the essence of Army life versus Navy life. And so, without further ado, I present to you the top five reasons to “Go Navy” and the top five reasons to “Leave Navy.”

Top Five Reasons to “Go Navy”

1. Port calls. This one is too easy. Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Australia, Japan, and Israel. Basically, anywhere awesome. What exotic locals will you visit in the Army? Iraq, Kuwait, and Afghanistan. No contest.
2. The JAG factor. The Army has a long way to go to match wits with the Marines and Navy in the media. Coolest military recruitment commercials = Marines. Best recruitment exploitation in the movies and television = Navy. This one really is a no brainer. Top Gun, A Few Good Men, Navy SEALS, JAG, NCIS. Don’t get me wrong, there are some GREAT Army movies, but they don’t seem to become pop culture like the Navy movies do. Who sings, “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling?” Is it Tom Cruise or The Righteous Brothers? If you had to think longer than half a second on that one, you just made my point.

3. Everyone wants to visit a carrier. Politicians, athletes, movie stars, and musicians all flock to see Aircraft Carriers when they are in port. They really are that cool. From sitting presidents and mega-stars to that guy from the movie “Speed” whose convertible Keanu Reeves uses while chasing the bus, they all want to visit.
4. Port calls. Did I mention Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Australia, Japan, and Israel? Israeli girls are wicked hot. (Side note, Israeli Army chicks = Hot Ranger Up girls, just an idea…)
5. Annual Army/Navy game. I know all the West Point graduates are seething in rage as I say this, but come on, Army football sucks. The only great football player to come from West Point since Pete Dawkins is….wait for it….wait for it….crickets….

Top Five Reasons to “Leave Navy”

1. The Dining Facility. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, segregation still exists in America today. On Navy vessels, you have one chow hall for E-6 and below, the Chief’s Mess for E-7 through E-9, and finally the Officer’s Mess. No mingling allowed, enlisted DO NOT eat with officers, and officers are not allowed in enlisted messes.
2. Staterooms. Cram 120 Sailors into a space that would normally fit 20, stack them in bunks three high, stuff their belongings in the very limited space under their mattresses, and you have the enlisted berthing area. Take a room that w

ould fit about 20 Sailors, provide spacious beds, desks, and wall-lockers, and you have a two-man officer’s room. Things that make you go hmmmmm.
3. Priorities. In the Army, officers and senior NCOs eat last, go on pass last, and are (supposed to anyway) first in when the day starts, and last to leave when the day ends. This is the complete reverse order in the Navy. On port calls, the most junior Sailors on the last one off the ship, and the first ones back on. They have the longest lines for haircuts, PX (NEX) access, and chow. Officers and Chiefs have head of the line privilege for all the aforementioned items.
4. Bathroom segregation. Yeah, back to the segregation thing. Separate bathrooms for enlisted and officers. To completely pour salt in this wound, junior Sailors clean the officer bathrooms.
5. Uniforms. In the Army, I get to wear ACUs and dress blues. In the Navy, I had dungarees and “Cracker Jacks.” This is another one of those no-contest-why-did-I-even-bother-to-compare items.

There you have it, top five reasons to go/stay Navy. If you are ever faced with this situation yourself, please feel free to print out, and use this article for your own decision making process. Or, feel free to simply print out and put on your dart board. Either way, I hope it’s helpful.

Have your own reason to Go Navy, or Go Army? Post it below!

Guardian Angels – Part One

by Grin & Barrett

Be the Father for my children while I am gone, and Husband to my wife until I come back
Fill my family with Peace, Joy, Comfort, Hope, Faith and Happiness
Give my family the strength to choose the hard right over the easy wrong
And give my children the courage to stand up for the weak and the oppressed
Put your mantle of protection around my family, and protect them from all spiritual and physical evils
- Amen

One of the toughest parts of this job is leaving the family. I don’t mind being away from the creature comforts of life, and I don’t mind being in “the suck.” The part that gets me is leaving my wife and kids. The gnawing worry that they need you there, that they won’t be as safe if you aren’t there at night. Knowing that you won’t be there to protect them is a tough pill to swallow, but it is my trust in God that helps me leave them, and my faith that He will protect them while I am gone. That and the fact that I’m blessed to have an ass kicking wife. Though I always kid her that she is a big wimp, no one messes with our kids, she is the mama-bear for my cubs. Fortunately, my wife and I have discussed what it means to be stationed overseas, and how to avoid being an easy American target for terrorism or criminal activity. I was deployed to Iraq last year when my wife had to go full blown Liam Neeson. On vacation with my mother-in-law in Italy, my wife and kids were marked by nefarious forces, and I wanted to share their story…..

My wife, her mom, and my three kids hurried toward the train station. They were already running an hour behind schedule, and they wanted to jump on the train before it got too late.

“Mom, do you think we’ll see that lady again?”

“No, honey, she’s long on her way.”

At least I hope so, my wife thought, it would just be too weird if we bumped into her again.

Four hours earlier, my wife left her cabin in Camp Darby, Italy, grabbed her mom and our three kids from the American Beach, drove the van to Lucca, and jumped on the train in Lucca, bound for Florence. They’d already taken the requisite picture of the kids “holding up” the leaning tower of Pisa, spent many sunburned hours in the waves, and eaten all the spaghetti, pizza, and ice cream they could stuff in their stomachs that week. They had a day left of their summer vacation in Italy, and they wanted to go to one last place before they left, Florence, the “Cradle of Renaissance.”

Onboard the train to Florence, my wife made the acquaintance of a young American teacher on summer holiday. She and my wife chatted for a half hour or so, making small talk and sharing stories. She had already answered a couple of this woman’s questions. Where are you guys headed? How long will you be there? When are you coming back? By themselves, the questions weren’t too ominous, but coupled with a couple other clues, my wife was starting to get uncomfortable around this young woman. First of all, the young lady had referred to her summer vacation as a “summer holiday”, not exactly an American term. Secondly, she had well worn European shoes, not something a teacher on summer vacation would have bought in the states, and clearly too worn to be something she had only recently bought in country. And lastly, and perhaps the oddest clue, was that she didn’t “smell” like an American. My wife couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but this young woman in front of her just seemed off.

After de-boarding the train at the Santa Maria Novella Train Station, my family headed off for their day in Florence. That young “American” teacher shadowed them for a bit, and my wife was happy when they finally left her behind. Once she was gone, my wife and kids all remarked their relief that she had finally gone off on her own.

Four hours later, they were all hurrying toward the train station, already running an hour behind. My oldest son, 12 at the time, asked my wife as they approached the train,

“Mom, do you think we’ll see that lady again?”

“No, honey, she’s long on her way.”

As my wife scanned her rail pass, she felt her stomach sink when she heard a familiar voice:

“Wow, you guys are an hour late. I thought you said you would be here at four.”

There she was, this young woman who made my wife so ill at ease.

“Yeah, we were running a bit late.” What the hell? This is too strange to be a coincidence.

And at that moment, my wife realized they were being targeted. Earlier, on the train to Florence, this young woman had remarked how she was on her way back to Florence because she had an apartment there she was staying at. Evidently, she forgot that she had told my wife that, because now she was claiming that her apartment was in Lucca. Now, my wife was completely on alert.

They boarded the train, and once again the young woman sat by my wife. There were few people on the train back to Lucca, and this time my wife made a deliberate effort to avoid speaking to the woman. This time, however, she was not alone. Sitting in the aisle next to, and slightly behind, my wife was a tall Italian man, and he spent too much time looking over my wife and children, and exchanged too many looks with the young woman. In a panic, my wife realized that she had not taken any phone numbers or contact info for the local police, or for the Military Police located at Camp Darby.

My wife wrote a note on a scrap piece of paper and passed it to her mom.

WE ARE BEING FOLLOWED.

Her mom slowly raised her head, eyes wide, and glanced from the man to the young woman. At that moment, she realized it was true, and she was overcome with the sudden realization that they were all in very real danger.

Next week we’ll launch Part 2 of “Guardian Angels” by Grin  & Barrett. Stay tuned…