A few weeks back my wife and I were wandering through a flea market through the usual collection of cast off pots, pans, tools, souvenir ashtrays and decorative spoons of people’s vacations past to places like Rock City, Branson, Dinosaur Land and Captain Spicer’s Wonderful World of Wacky Wildebeests something on the corner of a table caught my eye – an old Kodak Super 8 hand held movie camera. Long before the advent of video cams this little camera was the pinnacle of amateur recording of all events that were important for somebody to keep a record of. They were simple, cheap and easy to operate. They had one switch that said on and off. Instruction books came back then in one language, English, with easy to follow pictures. The Kodak Super 8 had been a constant companion of my hoochmate in Vietnam, Wayne “Bubbles” Conner, and he filmed just about everything that he could during his tour there. No longer a dead antique it became a veritable time machine and I felt myself being pulled through a tunnel of sound and light depositing me back through the mists of time to:

BanMeTout Special Forces Camp, 14 August, 1971

Second Platoon,” POLECATS”, 192nd Assault Helicopter Company and me, Godfather 22, were attached to the Special Forces in the central highlands at BanMeTuot. We’d been operating out of their base camp for a month and the flying and missions were “interesting” and “challenging.” Overall though, things were pretty good and although we would take occasional small arms fire on various recon missions we didn’t lose a single ship or crewman during our August missions. Back at the camp the Special Forces treated us royally as we represented a way to get reinforcements and supplies to them or evacuate them should things turn ugly.

As was frequently the case in most units, mascots were a pretty common element to camp life. The Special Forces camp was no exception and they had the usual collection of pets ranging from mangy dogs, flea bitten cats and last but not least a pair of spider monkeys. We came to know them as Bert and Ernie. Memory records that they were both male and Bert seemed to have a couple of nasty habits like spending an inordinate amount of time pleasuring himself and when stressed out displayed the annoying habit of slinging monkey feces at those who perturbed him. Ernie on the other hand was the more gregarious of the two and loved to greet you by jumping off his roost in the TOC or hooches onto your head and shoulders before settling down to his self proclaimed duty of working through your scalp looking for nits to lunch on. During his tenure at the camp, Ernie had been trained to smoke cigarettes and drink beer. Whenever he was thirsty Ernie would go to the little Sanyo refrigerator in the TOC open the door and roll out a mighty steel can of Budweiser or Miller to anyone who would open it for him.

Naps were a problem because both Bert and Ernie never seemed to sleep when we did. Frequently, you’d be sound asleep in the bunker or hooch only to be suddenly awakened by a loud riotous shit storm of monkeys chasing each other, screaming like banshees and knocking over helmets, rifles, magazines and lots of empty beer cans in the dark. You’d try to find the little buggers with your flashlight and throw a boot at them, yell, curse and then yell and curse some more when one of them would throw an empty beer can back at you (or in Bert’s case some Grade A monkey crap).

I’m not sure exactly who came up with the idea first but seeing’s how we were around all these high-speed SF/Airborne Ranger types we came to the conclusion that it would be a neat thing to get Bert and Ernie jump qualified as both an honor and symbolic Thank You from us, the visiting aviators, to our new best friends, the Special Forces. Over the course of a couple days we gave it considerable thought as to the mechanics of the concept and along with considerable amounts of beer rendered our theories down to a final plan of action in order to get the monkeys their own “Jump Wings.” What could go wrong?

To begin with, we would need to make a harness of some kind and therefore some sewing support would be sought from one of the mama-sans who would come in daily from the village to do the camp’s laundry. The harness, made to fit the small torso of the ape, would be attached to D-rings which in turn would be attached to the shroud lines of a recovered parachute from the numerous parachute flares we had dropped from our “Nighthawk” Huey while flying around the perimeter and nearby possible enemy approach lanes. The size of the chute seemed perfect to support the weight of a 15 pound monkey and allow him a soft and gentle ride down to the earth.

Within days of having everything ready we had at hand a perfect opportunity to pull this off on a mission stand down day for the camp. The SF guys had been humping hard over the weeks we were with them and needed to catch up on resupply, mail, weapons repairs and the like. In addition the camp senior NCO, an E-8 named Swartzenhauer wanted to finish a new TOC as the old one was prone to flooding during tropical mountain downpours. To that end he had started building a new one with plywood and just needed a down day for everyone to fill sandbags to provide the necessary layers of protection against direct hits by mortars, RPGs and rockets which got routinely fired at the camp like clockwork. He had already moved his bunk, personal effects, and symbols of authority befitting an E-8 as the camp’s Top Kick into the soon to be finished TOC. He was one impressive dude with a set of teeth and muscles, like a Teutonic version of Teddy Roosevelt combined with King Kong. No one would want to screw with him, period. We had even volunteered to help fill his sandbags but he graciously waved us off as not our problem. So, barring an emergency we could count on the next day as all ours to do what we pleased and he would get his TOC finished.

The morning brought clear but smoky skies. Perfect mid-day Airborne drop weather. Our plan was for me and Bubbles, our crew chief Jose’ and gunner Red both holding our parachute equipped monkey, Ernie, to launch in our Huey “507″ just before lunch so that at 12 noon precisely, while most of the camp was at the barbeque pit, Ernie would descend from the sky to everyone’s great surprise and amusement. To add to this dramatic moment we had enlisted another of our pilots, Magilla, as a co-conspirator and his job would be to play a tape of “Stars and Stripes Forever” loudly over the camp PA system at precisely noon to get everyone’s attention on the ground. As a final and touching flourish we would safety wire red and blue smoke canisters to the rear of our skids which our crew chief and gunner could activate by pulling cords attached to the pins. We would then fly slow wide orbits around Ernie while he descended gently from the heavens.

We could barely suppress our giddiness in imagining how much good will would soon be pouring forth as a result of this heartwarming salute from enterprising aviators to our appreciative and awed battle hardened Special Forces hosts. So together all six of us, bonded together in this extraordinary endeavor, moved forward with anticipation as the zero hour approached. At about 1115 we found Ernie asleep in the corner of the ammo bunker. Jose and Red brought him to our ship and with much yelping and struggling got him into the harness. Bubbles, of course, was filming the action with the Kodak Super 8 while periodically we would mug for the camera. We planned on just keeping the parachute loosely bunched up and would toss Ernie out in a way that the chute would open near instantaneously. With Red holding the still squirming Ernie, Bubbles and Jose’ rigged the smoke grenades to the skids. I busied myself with getting the aircraft set to start.

So far, all had gone to plan and we were now ready to go. From our revetment on the edge of the compound we could see the barbeque pit smoke rising up in the center of the camp for the beef steaks that 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer had laid on as a reward to everyone for the down day and getting the TOC sandbagged. Our timing was going to go perfectly.

We cranked quickly and headed skyward. Even through my helmet I could hear Ernie screeching his brains out over the whine of the T-53 turbo shaft. As the AC I was flying and periodically would glance over my shoulders watching Red get scratched, bit and beat on by Ernie. Nonetheless, we were all laughing our asses off. With Jose’ doing his best to keep the shroud lines untangled from Ernie’s fury, Red getting covered in monkey bites and Bubbles filming away, I announced over the intercom that we were approaching our drop altitude of approx 2000 feet above the ground. I told the guys to wait till we were right over the middle of the camp.

I slowed to an almost hover and then gave a countdown from five and on zero, which was about 30 seconds short of local noon, Red flung a very surprised Ernie out the cargo door with the parachute trailing behind. The chute blossomed instantly into full canopy and Ernie swung below looking bewildered and moving his head around like it was on a jet fueled swivel. put our Huey into a circling descent with Ernie on the same side as Bubbles and his Kodak. Everything was going to plan and I imagined now that Magilla had started the tape of “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring over the speakers to a now amazed and amused throng below at the barbeque pit. To help draw the attention of the camp skyward we lit off the smoke grenades and now trailed beautiful red and blue contrails. I was filled at that moment with the pure rush of a kid running through the girls locker room with a Halloween mask on and a jock strap.

That good feeling lasted about 500 feet of Ernie’s descent. The monkey quickly displayed his emotional state by letting loose his bowels thus giving up a rather large quantity of fear scented feces, urine and dignity and now all were hurtling down to the skyward facing watchful throngs below. Ernie, also, now having had time to think and totally freak out, again did the unexpected, at least the unexpected for humans. For monkeys, I suppose this made sense.

Anthropologically speaking, when danger presents itself to primates one of their genetically coded responses is to “get the hell out of Dodge”, which is to say in primate terms, climb the first freakin’ thing that takes you away from the danger. With this genetic solution warning light banging away in Ernie’s head he therefore, unwisely, as it turned out, grabbed one side of the shroud lines and to our immediate horror started pulling on them to climb up. Although the little guy may have thought he was making progress upward he, in fact, had done the worst possible thing by collapsing the canopy.
Very quickly, Ernie had an armful of parachute and although possibly comforting to him, not much usefulness to his ever increasing velocity aerodynamically speaking, not to put too fine a point on it.

With Bubbles filming away I bottomed the collective and went into a spirally death dive to keep up. Even with a maximum dive angle of 30 degrees, bank of 60 degrees, collective full down, and the aircraft out of trim we weren’t even staying close to the rate of Ernie’s ever increasing speed downward. This was getting ugly fast. But, One thing WE HAD done real well was lining up Ernie on the geographic center of the compound.

His meteoric descent was going to be pretty much dead center on the roof of First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s brand new plywood (and as yet, un-sandbagged) TOC. As Ernie continued to plummet like a crazed white condom filled with lead B-Bs we did our best to keep up behind him screaming out of the sky at 3500 feet per minute. I think I did this as a combination of guilty conscience and not leaving Ernie to his impending and soon to be arriving doom, alone. At least we would be there with him when he reached monkey martyrdom. Although this fiasco had seemed to be going on for an agonizingly long time I have been since told, by those who are aeronautical engineers and beer drinkers themselves, that for Ernie the elapsed time from chute collapse till impact was 9.68775 seconds.

A little monkey math here:
Ernie, (monkey) = 15 pounds.
Altitude AGL, = + 1500 feet.
Max velocity at impact= 309 feet per second or 210 Miles per hour.
Energy of 15 pound monkey exerted on plywood roof of the TOC = 30157 joules or 22,200 foot pounds of force.
Impending UCMJ Article 32 hearing and Court Martial for me = Priceless.
In the final second prior to impact I swear I saw Ernie look up in my direction and with the look in those brown eyes of his showing only what the condemned must know at the moment of their departure from this planet and arrival at paradise seemed to be telling me to go and, technically speaking, have sex with myself.

As Bubbles recorded it with his trusty Kodak Ernie disappeared into the new TOC in a mushroom cloud of red dust. Of course, although we couldn’t have heard it, I imagined his breakthrough coming just as the cymbals were crashing on the final tuba blatz of “Stars and Stripes Forever” as if, Ernie’s landing hadn’t been dramatic enough. I also pictured “Charlie” applauding our accuracy and holding up Olympic grading cards with straight 10s from his hiding places near the camp.

What certainly was not comforting and now clearly apparent was our own death spiral now sickeningly close above the camp. At the same time as Ernie was bursting through the roof I must have snapped out of my hypnotic or target fixation induced trance and pulled the bejeezus out of the collective to prevent us from being a greasy stain across the compound. Pulling pitch felt like the controls were filled with concrete and we were dragging anchors, rocks and a thousand bowling balls of momentum and inertia. We came out of the dive with only feet to spare and “507″ screamed across the camp furiously dodging antennas and Mama-san laundry at 120 knots++, 50 pounds of torque (+ or – 25 pounds, + mostly), and pitchconed coupled ourselves off of the express train to Hell all the while trailing a graceful swirl of red and blue smoke.

As we passed over the barbeque pit I caught sight of 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s Teddy Roosevelt teeth. My immediate impression was he was less than ecstatic. He was also, however, the only one still standing, everyone else scattering for the bunkers or gone to ground like demented prairie dogs. Paper plates and beer cans swirled around on the ground like Titanic’s deck chairs on the ocean after the ship went down. We looked at the new hole in the roof at the TOC and said something hopeful like it didn’t seem too bad, maybe Ernie would be seen emerging this very minute dusting himself off and going over to the boys to get a beer. Although we chuckled, I began considering defecting to the North Vietnamese.

We landed and shut down. Before the blades had even stopped First Sergeant Swartzenhauer pulled up in his jeep amongst a cloud of more red dust. I thought to myself, how bad could this get? The Army had already condemned me to Vietnam. What else could they do to me? Maybe First Sergeant Swartzenhauer was only there to welcome us with “Nice try guys, we appreciated the effort.” His face revealed nothing but those teeth. I began to feel light headed.

After Red finished tying down the blades and me and Bubbles fumbled with the log book like nothing had happened I saw Swartzenhauer wiggling his finger at me to come over to him and I couldn’t ignore him, I had already made eye contact. My crew pretended not to notice and in a great show of support to me moved to the opposite side of 507, as far away from me as they could possibly get. I suppose I should mention at this moment that I also became aware that, “Stars and Stripes Forever” was still blaring over the speakers so wiggling his finger at me was more effective than trying to call me over the million decibel music of this John Phillip Souza classic pouring out over the compound.

He immediately, and with great waving arm motions and no shortage of saliva delivered unto me a nonstop soliloquy not unlike the one given by Gunny R.Lee Ermey in the movie, Full Metal Jacket. The only difference was 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s was even more colorful, louder, moister and involved a few more body parts that I hadn’t known we possessed. Rather than bore you all with the grammatical details, and as small children may be about, suffice to say that following this most impressive communication from this Top Sergeant I willingly agreed to his suggestion that I might want to consider starting to clean up the mess we had in fact perpetrated. NOW!

Walking behind Swartzenhauer’s jeep in his dust we proceeded through the camp looking very much like the condemned men we were to the not too happy throngs at the barbeque pit. We found out at that point that a good quantity of Ernie’s liquidy falling feces had pretty much ruined an otherwise nice side of beef.

As we approached the destroyed TOC entrance someone had mercifully pulled the plug finally on the “Stars and Stripes Forever” but the silence now made the scene all the more horrific. I knew then that I had seen enough to know that I had seen too much. You would really be surprised at how much stuff is contained inside a 15 pound spider monkey. We, on the other hand, had a terrific opportunity to be exposed to the answer. I can say this, though, that in my earlier fantasy of Ernie being seen to walk outside from the TOC, carefully brushing off the dust, well, the only way he would have been capable of doing that from what we now saw before us would have only been on a subatomic particle basis.

Monkey guts, fur, teeth, bone and copious amounts of blood, beer and bile covered every square inch of the TOC. All the radios, the map boards, the tables, chairs, cots, weapon racks, ammo boxes were covered in a kind of oily sheen of blood, bile, snot and God knows what. Most disturbing to me was the pleasantly framed desk picture of 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer and Mrs. 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer, both showing their full set of teeth, covered now, not very tastefully, in blood and Ernie’s testicles.

We were told in no uncertain terms that we only had our hands, buckets and some sponges to clean the mess up. Swartzenhauer already had his men up on the roof and they were now hard at work fixing the small Ernie hole and sandbagging the whole roof and sides as per his original plan. Inside, with everyone else outside sandbagging, made us feel like we were Egyptian slaves getting entombed in alive with the Mummy for horrific crimes against the Pharoh.

We kept at it all afternoon and all night and into the next morning, taking time only to eat. (We passed on the barbeque side of beef). Although feeling like lepers by morning the TOC was clean and presentable. I personally had cleaned First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s and Mrs. First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s picture twelve times, carefully. I got to know her so well I could have recognized her in the dark.

We placed (actually, poured) poor Ernie’s remains in a hole next to the camp flagpole at the new TOC in order to give the SF guys a way to get through what is now called the “grief healing process” by the touchy, feely types. At the 0700 brief First Sergeant Swartzenhauer declared the new TOC clean and once again made reference to the assembled parties of his opinion of Army Aviators in general and me in particular.

But the man was fair and the word was that we wouldn’t be seeing a hangman or Fort Leavenworth any time soon. He did, in fact, mention that although not up to the standards of Special Forces planning our meager and disastrous (for Ernie, mostly) attempt was somewhat appreciated.
Luckily there were only a few missions planned that day that our other platoon members could handle without us. We had been up straight for over 24 hours and some sleep now would be most welcome. We went to our bunkers and fell into exhausted shuteye. I remember having a fitful sweaty nightmare involving large breasted Norwegian women, bean soup and flying squirrels. (Don’t ask me, I have no clue what it meant and don’t care to know, I’ve got enough problems as it is). Hiding up in the corner was now a lonely and even more disgruntled Bert. I think he knew that Ernie had bit the big one. You could tell he was in an even fouler mood than normal. He started screeching at me waking me groggily alert and I threw a boot at him.

About a month later, after we returned to our main base near Cam Rahn Bay, Bubbles got his Kodak film developed of the “Ernie Incident” as it was now referred to. Over and over on the unit projector Bubbles would play that cursed reel to the howls of laughter from my sadistic brethren. He would run it regular speed, fast speed and slow speed just fascinated with his cinematic style while offering director’s commentary about focus and lighting. I would pretend to laugh with the others but inside I would cringe as I heard that clikkity sound of the film advancing off the spool. With cigarette smoke rising in the light of the projector and an occasional beer can hitting the floor for a brief and welcome diversion of my attention there was simply no getting away from the final ending of this reality film unreeling at 12 frames a second.

This incident was going to go deep, deep into my psyche, as if breasts, soup and squirrels wasn’t already bad enough. However, in time, the nightmare of this event would slowly fade and eventually be suppressed…. until a chance encounter with a dusty Kodak Super 8 at a flea market brought it all back.
Ernie, if you’re out there in monkey heaven and can hear this, I’m really, really sorry buddy. Those weren’t the wings we had intended for you.

Godfather 22, out.

Best regards to all our deployed gang in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan and everywhere else. Come home safe.

Sometimes things happen and you can’t believe they are really going down. You wonder if you’re on the set of some game show where at the end of you overreacting, the panels come down and everyone laughs at you, then Ryan Seacrest or some other troglodyte pops out and goes, “Hey, you’re on the new MTV show F*ck with Nick until he loses his Shit!”

This was one of those times.

No shit, there I was: the summer of 1999. Star Wars: The Phantom Menace had just come out a few months prior and I had just graduated from Ranger School and was now enjoying my much needed post-suckfest leave before I headed off to my first unit as a 2LT. I hadn’t really been home for any period of time in the last five years having spent four of them locked in the seclusion and wool-lined misery of West Point and the last year graduating from the 237 schools that infantry officers have to go through before they can get their first platoon. I was actually pretty excited to see some of my buddies from high school and decompress.

One of these friends, we’ll call him Qui-jon, or QJ for short, called me up the first day I was back and asked if I wanted to go to a sweet party. Of course, just like every other time anyone has ever asked me this question, I said yes.

Visions of kegs, girls, tomfoolery and hijinks swirled in my freshly minted Ranger head. It was going to be a great time. The party was out in the country, which generally meant it could be louder and more boisterous and no one would give a shit, so all the better.

QJ picked me up and we drove for a small eternity through trees and darkness until we finally arrived at what seemed like a party teeming with life. There was a mid-sized house alongside a barn. Cars filled the field and I could see people everywhere. QJ had outdone himself! I hopped out of the car fired up to have a good time, ignoring the pain in my back from carrying a ruck for 2.5 months and started marching towards my Ranger Objective.

As I got closer to the heart of the party at the barn, however, I felt a disturbance in my personal force. There were a whole lot of dudes here…actually almost all dudes…and many of them were dressed up funny. As I peered closer, I noticed that every one of them, to a man, had a…I can’t believe I am going to say this…light saber.

A. Mother. Fucking. Light. Saber.

I hadn’t been this floored since I found out Darth Vader was Luke’s father. A Star Wars party brought me to, Qui-Jon had. And this wasn’t just a “party”. These guys were deadly serious. Each light saber was different, representing the individual “Jedi’s” personal preferences. Some guys were Sith Lords. Others were righteous Jedi. The light sabers were made of PVC pipe wrapped with a foam exterior and then wrapped again in a special glimmering tape to replicate the blue, green, orange, and red flavors of molten laser from the movie. If the situation wasn’t so catastrophically sad, I would have been very impressed with the construction, but as it stood, I just wanted to get the fuck out of here…NOW. That desire got even stronger when I realized this wasn’t just a party – these dudes were competing in a light saber tournament! I stared in astonishment as loser after pathetic loser lined up to face each other, spinning their little plastic sticks around as if they were seriously fighting for the freedom of the universe. I threw up a little in my mouth.

Me: QJ, let’s get out of here. Let’s go hit a bar or something.

QJ: But Nick, you love Star Wars. You’ll love it man. Give it a shot!

Me: Dude, I love the original Star Wars movies from my childhood. I don’t need to be dressed like a droid to become sexually aroused. There’s a big fucking difference. Let’s get the fuck out of here.

QJ: Come on man, you need to compete. I know you just finished that Ranger shit, so I’m sure you’ve had tons of training.

Me: Oh yeah, dude. We learn this in the Dagobah Phase of Ranger School. Seriously man, I’m gonna start walking. I’m not doing this shit.

QJ(hurt): Dude, come on man. You can use one of my light sabers. I brought three.

Oh my God, I realized. QJ, my longtime friend, was one of them. I had to save him from this and fast.

Me: QJ, I am not going to compete. We need to get out of here right now dude. If you’ve ever trusted me on anything in your life, trust me on this.

Douchey McDoucherston: Sounds like you’re scared to fight!

I look over to see a guy wearing brown pajamas or something. He has a brown cloak on and a hood up. I wish I was making this up. Even through his loose-fitting garments, you could see his complete lack of physique.

Me (ignoring him): QJ, let’s get out of here man. Please.

Douchey McDoucherston: Yeah, you should leave. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

Me: What did you just say?

Douchey McDoucherston: We wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Jedi fights are not for the weak of heart.

I know better than this. I really do. This is Psychology 101. I should be the bigger man.

Me: Give me the fucking light saber.

QJ: Yeah! Let’s go Nick! (drops to a whisper) Be careful man, he’s good.

I am given a light saber. I am furious at the world. I am pissed at QJ for bringing me here. I am pissed at these asshats for living in this fantasy world. I’m pissed at myself for giving in to his taunts. Most of all, though, I’m pissed that I haven’t eaten in like an hour.

They explain the rules. They are entirely too complex. I am staring my opponent down. He will not make eye contact. Rage is building inside me. I’ve seen about five matches already and these guys dance around as if they are skilled athletes. I have no interest in that.

The referee says go and I come at this kid like a fucking spider monkey hopped up on PCP. He didn’t know what hit him…wait, actually he did – it was my freakin’ light saber drilling him across the chest, face and back in rapid succession as the ref pulled me off of him. There’s point one in the best out of three, endeavor. He resets us and the kid makes some comment about my needing to control my anger or I’ll end up a Sith Lord. I literally want him dead. The ref told us to go again and I hit him with everything I could across the neck and face and snapped the light saber in half, leaving him with a giant red mark for the rest of the night.

The geekdom looked at me like I was an alien creature. I thought I was done at that point, having proven my point and been the first guy ever to snap a light saber in half on someone else, but I was wrong. Apparently, I had to be taught a lesson, and that lesson was that I could kick all of their asses in gay ass light saber fighting.

All the rage built up in 2.5 months of Ranger School (and let’s not even talk about pre-Ranger) was unleashed on these poor unsuspecting fools. For the better part of an hour, I took on all challengers. I broke one dude’s nose, two of another dude’s fingers, and two more light sabers in the process.

Finally, I was up against some dude that was supposed to be the “best” light saber fighter. He had a double-sided Darth Maul light saber. I bludgeoned him badly for the first point. In the second round, I repeated my beat down, pummeling him so hard that he fell to the ground. The ref, however, claimed that he had brushed my arm with his light saber before I crushed him with mine, and he awarded him the next point. The crowd was happy to hear this news. I might still be taught my lesson.

As the third and final round began, I hurled my light saber at him and hit him in the throat, dropping him to his knees gasping for air.

Ref: I’m not sure that’s fair!

Me: Didn’t Darth Vader throw his light saber and cut the staircase Luke was on and knock him to the ground?

Ref: Well, yes.

Me: Wouldn’t a magma hot laser hitting you in the throat kill you?

Ref: Yes.

Me: Well, then fuck off, and may the force be with you.

Fuck with the wrong Infantryman, they did.

We’ve received more than a handful of emails from people asking us to post our thoughts on leadership – mostly from seasoned NCOs who want us to use our powers for good instead of evil (at least every once in a while).

This is a tough one for us to write, because in some ways it starts with the position that we are qualified to teach leadership.  I mean you can go to the store and literally buy hundreds of books on the topic of leadership from real war heroes that should be dead a hundred times over, general officers or sergeants major who have a lifetime of service to the nation, or even business leaders, coaches, or politicians who have made a real difference in the world.  Hell, a lot of the guys that read this site have been to combat four times or more by now!  Candidly, we felt that posting an article on leadership would be more than a little presumptuous.

Nevertheless, the emails have continued coming in – as a result, I posed this dilemma to one the NCOs in the Ranger Up Militia.  “Why should we tread on ground that so many great leaders have already covered,” I asked.  “Simple,” he replied, “You won’t write it with the intent of making yourself look like a big deal, which means someone might actually listen.”

His logic was hard to argue with, so we drew straws and for this one you’re stuck with me.  I’ve decided to write it from a platoon leader’s perspective, because no one needs more help than a 2LT, but hopefully most of my comments transcend all levels of leadership.  So here goes:

Nick’s Rules on Leadership

1) Don’t be a douche.

I am dead serious.  Nothing pissed me off more than watching some wannabe tough guy treat his people like shit and then hear someone say “that’s his leadership style”.  NO-GO.  I fully admit there are a lot of ways of running a unit, but the foundation of leadership is integrity and love for your people.  You can be hard and have high standards, but you cannot treat people like their existence is to serve you, amuse you, and accelerate your career.  That is not a leadership style, it’s an ego trip.  Get over yourself or you will find yourself getting a wood line attitude adjustment .

My first boss was a hard ass.  We had the best trained unit in the Brigade because he was always pushing for additional training.  On the surface of it, one would argue he was doing everything right.  When one of my NCOs found out his mother was dying, the commander actually tried to convince him that he shouldn’t go see her, because his guys needed him more.  This was pre-9/11.   He was willing to trade one of his men’s last moments with his mother in order to minimize the risk that his unit might get a slightly lower grade on the training exercise. Instantly, everyone realized that all his training wasn’t to take care of us at all – this guy was really just a spotlight Ranger. His actions led to my first counseling by the Battalion Commander, but that is a different story.  In short, don’t be a douche.  

2) Your guys are more important than your career.  

This ties in nicely with my last point, but it is worthy of its own bullet.  You’re all going to be civilians someday, no matter how much you love the military or how long you serve.  Years from now, the fact that you made Colonel or Sergeant Major won’t erase the fact that you threw some unsuspecting subordinate under the bus to avoid punishment, and it certainly won’t remove a stupid decision you made based on pressure from above that got someone killed or injured.  Every leader I’ve ever respected has been willing to stand in the Gates of Fire when it mattered.  If you’re not willing to do this for your people, be honest with yourself and quit.  Join corporate America – you’ll just annoy people, not get them killed, and you’ll make more money.  Everyone wins.

3) Be good at your job.  

Every day you should be working your ass off to be technically and tactically skilled (note I didn’t say proficient – you need to be better than that).  You should be asking questions, reading, practicing, and training.  You can be a super-nice dude or dudette who loves your troops, but if you don’t know how to train them, lead them, and they aren’t ready for combat, you are a colossal failure.  If you look deep inside, you’ll know the truth of where you are in this regard.  Either fix it or quit.

4) It’s not your platoon.  

Imagine you’d been doing a job for 12-15 years and grew so good at it that you were chosen ahead of others to lead 40 men into combat…with one caveat.  You’re not actually in charge – some kid young enough to be your son is in charge…and you have to train him… but he rates you.  You couldn’t make this shit up, right?  When you’re walking into that platoon, appreciate the fact that you’re not the badass here.  You, like your men and your platoon sergeant, have a job to do, and it is your job to do that as best you can.  Acknowledge their experience and allow them to help you grow.

Towards the end of my time with my first platoon, my platoon sergeant and I were a team to be envied.  We had figured out who was going to do what and we had each other’s backs.  He had been very “anti-PL” over the last few years (I was his fourth platoon leader), but decided to give me a chance when I shook his hand for the first time and said, “SFC Stewart – it looks like I’ll be spending a year or so in your platoon.  Thanks for having me.”  I’ll give full credit to my dad, a former NCO, for that one but it was my firm intent to let him know I needed to learn and that I respected his position and sacrifice, and our men benefited as a result.

5) It is your platoon.  

We were at CMTC getting ready for our field problem.  I was at an OPORD and my platoon sergeant had everyone in the bay cleaning equipment.  Two of my new soldiers got into a fistfight over something stupid (one of them fancied himself a rapper and the other one felt his rap sucked – damn eighteen year olds).  My platoon sergeant punished them by having the entire platoon outside in the mud wearing all of their recently cleaned equipment.  He was smoking the ever-loving shit out of them when I rolled up on the scene.  Spotting me, he made the motion to stay back (this was NCO business).  So I hung low and watched from a distance so my guys couldn’t see me.  Just then Sergeant Major Chickenhawk rolled up – the same Sergeant Major that I hated and had recently outlawed this kind of “hazing” because it was politically expedient to do so.  He grabbed my platoon sergeant by the shoulder and started digging into to him in front of my guys.  I ran over and told the CSM that this was my platoon and that he could have the conversation with me.  He told me that this was NCO business and I responded that my platoon sergeant was acting under my command with my permission to discipline the men.  He walked me over to the battalion commander.  They had me don my gear and do mud PT to “show me” how it felt.  Well – you can’t smoke a rock.

Yes, your platoon sergeant has more experience.  Yes, he can run circles around you in a lot of areas.  Yes, he should probably be in charge over you – but he isn’t.  You are, and anything that happens or fails to happen in your platoon is your responsibility.  Furthermore, in this scenario, I had a great platoon sergeant and I agreed with him.  But not all platoon sergeants are good and not all good platoon sergeants are always right – you need to trust your own judgment and execute accordingly, even if it means pissing your PSG off.

6) Don’t lie, ever, for any reason.  

This isn’t grade school.  Your actions matter.  If you fuck up, admit it as soon as possible, even if you think it’ll hurt your career.  The team cannot work on a solution until they know the truth, and this is one of the few jobs in the world where lies can get people killed.  Furthermore, the military, for all its faults, is one of the few places on earth where honest mistakes are actually forgiven.  Conversely, it is one of the few places where lies are extravagantly and brutally punished, and rightly so.

7) You make mistakes – admit them.  

Don’t be that guy.  Your men don’t expect perfection.  They expect you to strive every day for perfection.  You’ll be wrong a lot.  Fess up, get over it, get their feedback and drive on.  They will respect you infinitely more and they will trust you for it, as opposed to committing themselves over and over again to proving, quite creatively and to everyone’s amusement, that you are often wrong.

8 ) Leader is not equal to BFF.  

I loved my guys.  I still love my guys, even though I’m very far removed from being in command.  Many good-intentioned leaders make the mistake of believing that being a great leader means never having your guys be upset with you and hanging out with them all the time.  There’s nothing wrong with taking your platoon out for a night on the town.  There’s nothing wrong with socializing with guys when you bump into them at a bar.  There is something wrong with passing out on your PV2s couch at 3AM.  Once you become “one of the guys”, you’re no longer their leader, and they need you to be in charge a lot more than they need another buddy.

9) You’re not the smartest guy in the platoon.  

A lot of guys make the mistake of thinking that because they have achieved a certain rank, or have a certain degree; they are in some way superior to the others in their unit.  In my first platoon alone, I had 7/20 privates or specialists with college degrees – one with a master’s degree.  One of them was literally a genius, having maxed out the MENSA (weak-ass organization, by the way) test.  You’re not in charge because you’re the smartest or most talented or anything else – you’re in charge because you signed up to be the LT.  Don’t act superior, because you aren’t – just do your job.

10) You can never quit.

You don’t have to be the fastest runner, or do the most pushups, or be the best at combatives, or be the best shot, but you can never quit.  The second your guys see you give up, you’ve lost them.  Period.

11) You are not the focal point of your subordinate’s lives.

They don’t spend their nights thinking about you, your speeches, or your goals.  They have wives, kids, girlfriends, bills, friends, and problems.  Acknowledge that – your men are not here to serve you.  They’re here to serve your country.  You’re here to serve them.

12) But your subordinates watch everything you do.  

Just because they don’t live their lives around you, doesn’t mean you’re not important to them.  If you lie, they assume it is okay.  If you quit, they assume it is okay.  Your actions, not your mission statements, speeches, codes, creeds, etc. will set their standard of behavior.

13) Get your boss’s back.  

Everyone wants to be in charge…until they are there.  We all think we could do a better job than our boss – sometimes it’s very true and sometimes it isn’t – but as long as he or she is working hard to take care of your men and complete the mission, you owe it to them to ensure they succeed.  You’ll be there someday, and you’ll find that despite your best efforts, you are very fallible.

14) Have a sense of humor.  

You will be tested.  When I came on board my first platoon, my guys tried to get me with every snipe hunt in the book – PRC-E8, keys to the indoor mortar range, box of grid squares – you name it.  Skillfully, I held out for three weeks, until that day in the motor pool.  In formation, the motor chief announced that today was the day that everyone had to turn in vehicle exhaust samples.  Promptly, the motor sergeants disseminated to each platoon a vehicle exhaust sample kit, which included labels, sharpies, and garbage bags.  My guys grabbed the bags, turned on their vehicles and began throwing the garbage bags around the exhaust pipe, filling it, then promptly tying the bag off and labeling it.  This just didn’t seem right – all the more so when they asked if I wanted to help get samples.  I balked.  They guilt tripped me.  Finally, even though I was at least 25% sure I was being had, I filled a bag with exhaust and started walking to drop it off at the motor chief’s office.  Sure enough, they snapped about 2000 pictures of this jackass 2LT running around with a bag of exhaust.

They got their laughs and busted my balls about it.  We were about to head to an 18-hour computer simulation exercise.  Immediately afterwards they had a room inspection with all their gear laid out.  They, of course, had done this the night before, knowing they’d be going right from the exercise to the inspection.

As all the guys moved to the simulator, all the officers got called back to the bays for the OPORD.  When I came back, I asked them, “Don’t you guys have an inspection tomorrow?” 

“Roger, sir” they responded. 

“Man, it’d suck if someone dumped everyone’s gear into one huge pile and then covered it in baby powder, wouldn’t it?” I asked.  

Their faces dropped.  They fucking hated me.  I had gone way too far and clearly was getting back at them for the exhaust sample thing.  For the rest of the exercise it was hard to get anyone to talk to me – even my platoon sergeant was edgy.

The exercise ended and we all came back to the bays – they knew they only had an hour to salvage the inspection.  When they busted into their bay, they found that none of their stuff had been touched and was in perfect inspection mode.

“Sir, you are a fucking dick!” my platoon sergeant shouted.  

“Why’s that sergeant?” I asked.

“You said you dumped all our shit out on the floor and covered it in baby powder!”

“No, sergeant – I said it would suck if someone were to do that.” I smiled.

I could take it, but I could give it back too.  There would be no more fucking with this LT.

15) Do the right thing.  

This is the last and perhaps most important aspect of leadership.  I am a big believer that in almost every single case, people know the right course of action.  The bigger question is whether they have the courage to make the right decision, even when making that decision could be personally harmful.  Decide now to always be a force of good.  Don’t justify away indiscretions.  Don’t sell out.  Your life will be easier, your men will respect you more, and you’ll sleep at night.  More importantly, you won’t start down that slippery slope towards being one of those leaders that will do anything to get ahead. We all want to think we’re the next coming of Patton or Eisenhower.  No one thinks they are a bad leader, but it doesn’t take much to get there and it happens incrementally – one little lie or moral concession at a time.

Kelly Crigger is an accomplished author who writes for Fight! Magazine, Real Fighter Magazine, and Muscle and Fitness, among others. His most recently published book, Title Shot: Into the Shark Tank of Mixed Martial Arts, can be purchased below. As a Ranger Up Exclusive, the book is signed by both Crigger and world-renowned Mixed Martial Artist, Matt Lindland.

Arachnophobia

by

Kelly Crigger

I was never afraid of spiders until one tried to sting me, wrap me in a cocoon, and hang me on its wall for a midnight snack. It was 1995 and I was a Captain assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group out of Fortress Bragg. Ecuador and Peru had just finished another perennial squabble over their disputed border and my Battalion had gotten the assignment to lead a peacekeeping operation to police up the remnants. It was a rewarding experience that I looked forward to, but soon learned the only bone that gets thrown the Chemo’s way is the one no one wants. I was staged in Panama to be the resupply dude loading planes with food, water, and mail every day for the guys who were doing the real work.

Every so often, though, I weaseled my way onto one of the flights to Ecuador to ask questions, prod around, and assess how I could better serve my unit. Sporting clean BDU’s and a hangover, I wasn’t a popular among the men who were toughing it out in one of the most inhospitable places on earth without booze. So I was like a menstrual cycle-I visited once a month and left after considerable discomfort to the host.

Still they tolerated me because I sent them all the necessities of life so they reciprocated by putting me up in a GP medium tent with the rest of the general population instead of in solitary confinement under the stars, which are extraordinarily bright on the equator, I must add. In fact the moonlight there was brighter than any I had ever seen before, which turned out to be my undoing one night.

So there I am, sleeping in the middle of the Amazon with about ten other guys. I had a trusty Army cot and the one piece of equipment that always occupied the bottom of my duffel bag-a mosquito net. From everything I’d heard the mosquitoes in Ecuador were more like Jurassic park pterodactyls than invertebrates so I thought it wise to bring the net. Whether or not that was a good decision I’ll leave up to you.

I woke in the middle of the night to a tent that felt more like an interrogation room with all the moonlight streaming in when I spotted an arachnid the size of a terrier on my net. It resembled a hairy dinner plate and was heavy enough to bow the net fully a foot lower than normal.

“Jesus Christ,” I exclaimed in typical soldier fashion.

A sane man would have left a venomous equatorial arachnid the size of a veal calf alone, but I am a dumbass and so I reached up and flicked the tarantula with my middle finger. My intent was to dislodge it and then…who knows, maybe watch it scurry away to make a meal out of someone else (I’m a member of the Noble Order of the Blue Falcon after all).

But flicking it was an unfortunate choice of action that became evidently clear when I realized the beast was actually on the inside of the net. Although my finger registered this fact when it felt the hairy pig on my digit, my brain was in denial right up to the point that it landed on my chin.

In the history of man, two hundred and thirty pounds have never moved so fast or swatted so furiously at nothing. The sheer weight of that Shetland pony landing on me made the cot’s legs give way and crash to the ground, waking a few of my fellow troops. My incoherent squeals of “Get it off me!” and wild thrashing woke the rest.

“Broken arrow! Broken Arrow!” I screamed to rally them to my aid. At that time, I really had no idea what the term meant except that it was supposed to get everyone to stop what they were doing and help the person yelling it.

Didn’t happen.

When the Carpathian hydra (which I swear growled at me) attempted to bury its fangs through my chest, I tried to invoke their fear of the undead and yelled, “Get a wooden cross and holy water!”

Again, no one flinched.

I struggled to keep it from killing me and turning my innards into liquefied goo for its offspring when my buddy, Dean, finally switched on a lantern. His voodoo worked. Knowing it was caught, the mutant angel of death flew out the tent door as I struggled to get untangled from the remnants of my cot and netting.

“Avengers Assemble!” I screeched in a last ditch effort to get my bunkmates to rally. Again, silence. When me breathing returned to normal I asked the befuddled Dean, “where’d it go?”

“You mean that?” he responded, pointing at a miniature spider scurrying away from the broken shards of my bunk.

“Huh,” I said, feeling like I’d just called Melissa Etheridge hot. “Seemed a lot bigger a minute ago.”

I can’t be sure but as Dean rolled back over to sleep I thought I heard him mumble, “that’s what she said.”

Many years later I would be assigned to the Operations Group at Fort Irwin, California to be an Observer/Controller, or O/C. All of the teams in Operations Group were named after desert animals since Fort Irwin was nestled in the heart of the Mojave.

I was assigned to the Tarantula team.

by

Big Tobacco

I wrote this while smoking a CAO Brazilia.

I lay in the prone. The Earth leaches heat from my body. My frigid fingers grip my M-16. Private Kim lies next to me on the ground. We hide in the woods, one meter away from a dirt road. It is 1994. Our squad waits in ambush for the enemy.

We wait.

And wait.

It starts to drizzle.

I sink into misery. Nobody ever told me anything. How long would we wait? What should we bring? What was out there? I always seemed to be the last to know. I hated my life.

I tap Kim’s foot with my boot.

“Kim,” I whisper, “Dude?”

Kim responds in a mild Korean accent,”Yeah.”

“Are you awake, man?” I ask. “You’re squinting.”

“No, my eyes are naturally like that.”

“I’m so cold, man.” I whisper. “I fuckin…I don’t think… I don’t think I can do this, man. I think I made a big mistake.”

“Tobacco, shut the fuck up. Don’t you fuck up this ambush.”

I flex my fingers. I shiver in my BDUs. Tears well up in my eyes.

I hate this job and I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

It’s February, 2007. I’m back in New Jersey. Private Tobacco is now Staff Sergeant Tobacco. I stand in front of 14 wide-eyed trainees as I read them an operations order. Soldiers didn’t join the Guard to watch Power Point presentations, they joined to get dirty, and my training platoon of split-op high school kids got dirty every drill weekend.

I summarize the mission, “We had a local national come in and offer some intel on an arms transaction. IPs are going to sell captured weapons back to Mahdi Army and the deal is going down in about an hour. First squad moves to the intersection of Routes Michigan and Blue Hen to overwatch the road for the arms transaction. Sniper team moves to the corner of Routes Michigan and Yankees to overwatch the road and report on vehicle traffic. Sniper team, you need to SP in about ten mikes to make your time hack. Snipers, your call sign is Shepard. I am Doghouse. First squad is Beagle.”*

The soldiers scribble down information on their notepads. They plot points on their maps. I finish with the operations order and watch proudly as Private Tarquinto, the sniper team leader, and Private Volk, the first squad leader, start their pre-combat inspections.

The sniper team leaves the briefing room with a minute left to go before their start point time. First squad is still performing their inspections.

My radio chirps as the sniper team radios in their start point report, “DOGHOUSE, DOGHOUSE, THIS IS SHEPARD. SP TIME 2000. FOUR PAX. PATROL LEADER PRIVATE TANGO, OVER.”

“Roger, over.” I speak into the radio.

“SHEPARD OUT.”

Private Volk finishes up his inspections. “Ready, sergeant.”

“Don’t look at me, it’s your squad.”

He nods and leads his squad out of the briefing room, through our drill hall and into the cold February night. I follow the squad, acting as their mentor and referee.

The squad moves through our armory’s parking lot. I hear the men slap magazines into their rifles and SAWs as they cross into the high grass of our gigantic training area. Although I am only a few feet away from Private Volk, he calls me on the radio to report his status.

“DOGHOUSE, THIS IS BEAGLE.”

“Send it.”

“SP TIME 2010. TEN PAX. PATROL LEADER PRIVATE VICTOR, OVER.”

“Roger out.”

It’s just cold enough to suck outside. It’s the type of cold that tricks you in to not bringing gloves and then reminds you of your boneheaded decision an hour later when you can’t feel your fingers. I’m not wearing gloves and I turtle my hands inside my GorTex jacket when I’m not using my radio.

The squad moves out toward their objective, compressing into a file when they reach the tall grass. Our uniforms become moist from the frost on the grass as we move. The cold isn’t so bad now, but it will bite us when we stop. I look around, ensuring that the team leaders position their men correctly. We halt. Private Volk checks his map and quietly calls up his team leaders. The soldiers discuss their position in hushed voices, come to a consensus and move out again. I don’t see the team leaders pass any information down to their teams and this annoys me.

“DOGHOUSE, DOGHOUSE, THIS IS SHEPARD, OVER.” The sniper team calls over the radio.

“Go for Doghouse,” I say.

“IN POSITION. OVERWATCHING THE ROAD, OVER.”

“Roger, break.” I say. I key my mic, “Beagle, you got that?”

“ROGER, OVER.”

“Doghouse out.”

The sniper team is now in position on a hill overwatching Routes Michigan and Yankees for any traffic headed our way. If they looked hard enough to the south, they could probably see first squad bumbling through the grass.

We stop again and Private Volk checks his map and compass. Something is wrong. I approach Private Volk.

“Is everything ok?” I ask.

“Roger sergeant,” Volk says. “I think we fucked up our pace count. I don’t know how far away we are from Michigan.”

“Alright,” I say. “This isn’t the fucking Gay Pride Parade. Let your team leaders know that something is wrong. The only person you have to impress is me, and you don’t impress me right now. So if you are afraid of looking stupid it’s too late. Now that being said, move on. Talk with your team leaders. Make sure your team leaders are pushing down information. If you’re confused, imagine how one of your riflemen feels right now. What assets do you have? Think. What can you use? You want a hint? You’re not the only people out here. Think about it.”

I back away from Private Volk and watch him think for a moment. He calls his team leaders over and consults with them. One of the team leaders removes his night vision goggles.

Private Volk keys the mic on his radio, “Shepard, this is Beagle, over.”

“BEAGLE, THIS IS SHEPARD, OVER.”

“I need you to tell me how far I am from the objective. Do you see my inferred beam?”

A team leader holds his night vision goggles above the tall grass, pointing the goggles north and turning them back and forth.

“GOT IT. WAIT.” A moment passed. “I SEE THE BEAM. YOU’RE ABOUT ONE HUNDRED METERS SOUTHEAST FROM THE INTERSECTION OF YANKEES AND MICHIGAN.”

“ROGER, OUT.”

Good job, kid. Now you have to fight the battle.

Private Volk leaves with a team leader to conduct a reconnaissance of the objective. The remaining soldiers lie in the grass, the dampness soaking into their uniforms. Now the soldiers are wet and cold, but I don’t hear a single complaint. Much has been said about the Myspace generation of soldiers, but the soldiers who surround me seem much tougher than I was thirteen years ago. I hunted in the night for college money. They hunt in the night with a purpose.

My radio crackles once in a while. Shepard reports vehicles driving up Route Blue Hen, but none of the cars turn onto Michigan.

Private Volk returns. He consults with his remaining team leader. The squad picks up and moves into an overwatch position near the objective. The men set up to ambush the arms deal and the waiting begins.

I hang back and use my cell phone to call the bad guys. I tell them to start the show. A minute later, I hear Shepard over the radio.

“DOGHOUSE, THIS IS SHEPARD, OVER.”

“Send it, Shepard.”

“WE HAVE A HUMMER TURNING OFF BLUE HEN ONTO MICHIGAN. BREAK. LOOKS LIKE IRAQI POLICE, OVER.”

“Roger, break. Beagle, did you copy that?”

“ROGER.”

“Doghouse, out.”

I lie down with the trainees. The soggy grass soaks into my uniform and chills my skin. The trainees focus on the road. They grip their weapons with determination. They are ready.

A Hummer drives up the road and parks at the intersection about twenty meters in front of us. Two Iraqi flags, hastily printed out just hours before, lie taped to the side doors. Two men in the blue shirts and brassards of the Iraqi Police climb out of the Hummer. Cadre from my unit play the Iraqi Police, but they look real enough to my trainees through their night-vision goggles.

“DOGHOUSE, DOGHOUSE, THIS IS BEAGLE, SALUTE REPORT. OVER.” Private Volk whispers over the radio.

“Go Beagle,” I whisper.

“TARGET VEHICLE IS ON THE OBJECTIVE. ONE IP HUMMER. DRIVER AND PASSENGER WEARING IP UNIFORMS. BOTH CARRYING AK-47S. THEY LOOK LIKE THEY ARE WAITING AROUND. HOW COPY?”

“Roger, wait for the transfer before you engage.”

We wait longer. I start to shiver. I think about getting up, and as their instructor, it is my privilege to do so, but I don’t want to screw up Private Volk’s ambush.

“BEAGLE THIS IS SHEPARD,” the radio cracks.

“SEND IT.”

“ONE BLUE PICKUP TRUCK JUST TURNED OFF BLUE HEN ONTO MICHIGAN, OVER.”

“ROGER.”

One of the IPs lights a cigarette. The other IP fiddles unsafely with his rubber AK-47, playing the unprofessional policemen like a professional thespian. The blue pickup truck pulls up. A man in a makeshift bed sheet dishdasha and headdress exits the pickup truck and greets the IPs with phony ”derka, derka, derka” Arabic. I think its funny, but to the privates looking through their night vision, the effect is definitely surreal.

Private Volk’s voice whispers over my radio, “DOGHOUSE THIS IS BEAGLE. THAT BLUE PICKUP JUST PULLED UP. ONE UNARMED MALE LOCAL NATIONAL IN A MAN DRESS. HE IS TALKING WITH THE IPs, OVER.”

I key my mike and whisper back, “Roger, out.”

The men negotiate for a while. One of the IPs takes out a thermos. I hear one of the team leaders whisper to his men, “It’s tea…get ready, they sealed the deal.”

The IPs walk to the back of the hummer and lower the tailgate. They reveal a wooden crate. One of the IPs removes an artillery round from the crate.

Private Volk blows a whistle. The squad opens fire. Ten men lean into their weapons and shoot up the target. The IPs and the buyer don’t stand a chance. The actors look genuinely shocked for a moment before falling down in a pantomime of death.

The cold air turns hot with excitement as the men sprint across the objective, call out their limit of advance, and set up their security elements. Special teams peel off to search the trucks and the bodies. A timekeeper shouts at thirty second intervals, “Thirty seconds! One Minute! One Thirty!” as the men search. The squad should spend no longer than two minutes searching the objective. The men do well, gathering valuable intelligence and shouting back and forth as they search. Team leaders consolidate ammunition and water amongst their men. The soldiers work like they are firing on all cylinders and I couldn’t be more proud.

At the two minute mark, the men set phony demolition charges and fall back into the high grass. Everybody is out of breath and sweating as they scamper away from the objective.

I get a call on my radio, “DOGHOUSE THIS IS BEAGLE, OVER.” Private Volk sounds out of breath.

“Send it,” I say.

“LACE REPORT GREEN, AMBER, GREEN, GREEN. TWO IPS KILLED. ONE LN KILLED. TWO AK-47S AND ONE IED KIT DESTROYED. RETURING, OVER.”

“Roger, break. Shepard, return to the armory, good job, over.”

“RETURNING, OUT.”

First squad forms up into a column for the walk back to the armory. The men are tired, but there is a sense of accomplishment that carries through the squad like an electric current. The men know that they did well.

We approach the armory parking lot and Private Volk watches each soldier clear his weapons.

The morbidly obese form of Staff Sergeant BitchTits, my company’s readiness NCO, stands in the parking lot of the armory by the smoker’s station. He is smoking a cigarette, drinking a McDonalds coffee and watching my men return from the patrol with mild curiosity.

“Hey Bitchtits!” I yell as I walk over to him. “I though you and McDonalds were supposed to see less of each other?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “She keeps calling me, man. How come everyone’s wet?”

“We were patrolling,” I say. “You know, outside. Like infantrymen.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. Could I come next time, like as a medic?” BitchTits asks.

Before I can answer, my men walk past us and enter the armory for their after action review. Many of the men flash a look of contempt at SSG BitchTits. I should have corrected them, but I didn’t. They were wet and tired and he wasn’t. I let them relish in their superiority for the moment.

I pat SSG BitchTits on the back. “Aah, it’s your world, man. I’m just livin’ in it. I gotta’ give these kids an AAR. See you, dude.”

As I walk into the warm armory, I realize that one of these kids may have learned something tonight that will keep them alive in a couple of years. I didn’t need to be out in the cold. Those night patrols were my idea. Hell, I didn’t even have to be in the Guard. I had a nice house, a cushy software job and more money than I knew what to do with. Yet I kept chasing that moment years ago when I punked out on an ambush and cried from the cold. These night patrols in the evening chill around the Jersey shore were like a Catholic penance for me. My absolution found in the eyes of my men as they recounted their mission and discussed how they could do it better.

I made the best mistake of my life joining the Army.

And I love my job.

BT

*I know that I compressed a 5 paragraph OPORD into a couple of sentences, but I’m using artistic license for speed here.

by

Tommy Batboy

My heart dropped when the “breaking news” chime on my computer went off. The headline read “Airliner Crashes Into Hudson River.” If I was amazed after the seeing the headline, it was nothing compared to the first sentence – none dead, only a few passengers and crew injured, and they were already on their way to the hospital. How on Earth was this possible? I thought shaking my head. An airplane crash-landed onto the river in New York City proper and everyone is okay? 

That doesn’t happen on accident.

The AP said the tale of US Airways flight 1549 was one “of luck and heroism,” you can take the luck away from this story. The men and women on that flight owe their lives to Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger and his amazing crew aboard the airplane that day.

As the story continues to get discussed, people continue to focus on the luck involved. Yes, they say that Sullenberger’s actions were heroic, but there is a sentiment that that it was really the luck that saved the day – that this was a one in a million type of thing. The guys at Ranger Up and most of you out there aren’t big believers in luck, because Lady Luck, my friends, favors the well-prepared. Whenever someone mentions that the situation was lucky, please tell them to dig a little deeper into this story and learn about the man who saved the lives of 150 people that day. We’d argue that the only luck involved here was that Captain Sullenberger was the man behind the controls.

Well before Captain Sullenberger sat down in that ill-fated cockpit on 15 January, he had graduated at the top of his aviator class at the Air Force Academy. He flew F-4’s before moving on to fly for US Airways, which he’d done for 29 years prior to that day. In that long and decorated career he devoted himself to becoming a subject matter expert in all facets of his job, mastering such skills as glider landings. He devoted himself to studying how pilots and crews react in moments of crisis. He put the hours in the simulators. He stayed at the cutting edge of training. He knew what was at stake if he should ever fail. Long before he ever found himself in the middle of a crisis, he’d spent years preparing for such an event.

Then the day came.

With perfect poise he put his wealth of training to use and executed a flawless emergency glider landing. He was so in control of the situation that he had the presence of mind to land the plane in the section of the river that would facilitate the easiest transport of the passengers and crew to hospitals and treatment centers. Once the plane hit the water, the crew got everyone off the crippled aircraft like a well-oiled machine. Smoothly and carefully the doors were opened, the boats were deployed and the passengers exited from the plane. Finally, after everyone was off the plane Captain Sullenburger walked up and down aisle, twice, just to be sure no one was left on board.

That is not lucky. Nor is it a miracle or any of the number of things people are trying to make it out to be. It was the culmination of decisive actions by a leader refusing to fail at his mission. It was what happens when a person spends his or her life always striving to get better and refusing to compromise. It was heroic. Everyone at Ranger Up has been more and more amazed by Captain Sullenberger the more we find out about him. Not just by his actions last week, but also by the lifetime of vigilance he exhibited – by the hours he’s spent getting ready, just in case. He never let his guard down.

Captain Sullenberger is the manifestation of the thing that all great NCOs and sports coaches have been telling us since as early as we can remember – the game isn’t won on game day – but on the practice field.

Thank you, Sir. Not only for keeping all those people on the plane and in the city safe, but for caring enough about the people under your command to prepare for the worst. You knew the day might come, and when it did, you stood ready.

My good friends Reed and Karin, the marryees on this festive occasion, had done a phenomenal job planning this event and each bar was outfitted with their favorite drinks throughout their three year relationship. The bartender recommended a little concoction called “Virginia is for Lovers”. It had gin, pomegranate juice, and some other fruity stuff that I normally wouldn’t order, but hey, one girly drink wouldn’t hurt.

At this point, it is probably important to mention that I was standing next to a former West Point football player from the Class of 95 whom I had just met on the shuttle ride from the hotel over to the reception, along with two friends I hadn’t seen in a while that not unlike me, are total assclowns. Respectively, we’ll call them Skullcrusher, Tomfoolery, and Hijinks. The shuttle ride was one hour and Reed and Karin, great hosts that they are, outfitted the shuttle with several coolers of Sports Beverages, known to the layman as Bud Light. Even though we had never met each other, the classic military posturing began, and in short order, Skullcrusher, Tomfoolery, Hijinks and I had emptied the coolers. There may or may not have been a shotgunning involved…

Come to find out, girly drink or no, Virginia is for Lovers is a delicious beverage. We got another round.

The part my friend Amy from Just Barely thinks I should have cut…

The line was long, which was somewhat aggravating; so when we arrived at the front of the line, I handed the bartender a $20 tip, despite there being no tip jar. He handed us four pilsner glasses in place of the mini-martini glasses and filled each giant glass with Virginia is for Lovers. Now we were getting somewhere.

Tomfoolery decided to go all Ashton Kutcher Commercial out on us, and started stealing digital cameras from the tables and taking pictures of people’s butts and groins – thankfully still wearing clothes (for once).

Unfortunately, in one scenario the folks returned to their table and he saw no way to return it. I Rangered Up and grabbed the camera, bent down behind the table for a moment, then stood and asked “Does this belong to anyone?”

They were happy. I was a hero.

We were now in with the bartender and Virginia is for Lovers flowed like wine…or water…or like Virginia is for Lovers. They all have basically the same viscosity, so just pick your simile.

Aside, aside (heh, heh) – we’re drunk.

The Dance Floor Opens Up

I’m not a dancer. You will never see me on “So you think you can dance?” I cannot. That being said, I did spend 3.5 years of my life living in Germany with some of the craziest dudes you will ever meet, and we actually created some “routines” over there to 1) impress the Fraulines and more importantly 2) amuse ourselves. As such, I have a bit of a penchant for break dancing.

But I’m older now…more mature…not a twenty-something wet-behind-the-ears infantryman anymore. I was going to hold back…until…

Michael Jackson’s Thriller came on.

I knew then what man has known, ever since the sands of time have sifted through the hour glass…or at least since 1983…Not unlike the Rhythm, The Thriller is gonna get ya…

Every fiber of my being said, “It’s GO TIME.” But still, I held back…a voice inside of me said, “Maybe this isn’t the time to show everyone what you’re made of…maybe, and I’m going out on a limb here, just once, you need to not be an attention whore.”

Then they got me: Skullcrusher called me out. Tomfoolery told me I was scared. And Hijinks took to the dance floor, casually telling me over his shoulder he was probably better anyway.

I had no options left.

GO TIME

When I say I can smoke Thriller, I mean it. What I did not expect was that Hijinks was equally skilled. We played off each other so well that they cleared the dance floor and the entire wedding was in a circle around us. This upped the ante. He’d do a move. I’d do a move. Each one had to be more spectacular than the previous one. His rhythm was a smidge better – I had to go with acrobatics. I did a bunch of drop downs, leg claps, etc. – all the basics, and he followed suit with moves of his own. It was time to go for the kill shot – to show Hijinks who the real zombie was.

Aerial Split. Flawless. 

Floor slide. Crowd pleaser. 

Backspin. Laughter. 

Layout. Clapping. 

Popup. Hijinks knows victory is mine. 

Closing split. I get a grade 2 hamstring tear. 

This is probably the part where you ask, “Nick…did you just say that you got a Grade 2 Hamstring Tear while break dancing at a wedding?” And the answer is that is exactly what I just said. I’ve jumped out of planes, road marched, fought in every kind of martial art you can think of, lifted a stupid amount of heavy weights, played almost every sport, and nary a hamstring pull – never mind a tear, but on June 7th, all of that would change.

Come to find out, when one of the largest muscles in your body tears apart, it smarts a bit. My first instinct was to writhe in pain on the ground, but then I thought, “What? And lose to Hijinks?” Instead, I tried to pop up. When I (quickly) realized that I did not have the hamstring strength to get up, I did a back somersault and hopped up on my left leg and finished the song.

Before you ask:

1) Yes, it made my injury worse, but I won.

2) No, it was not an actual competition, but I make everything a competition.

3) If you think it is silly to complicate a major injury in order to win a wedding dance competition that isn’t really a competition, you clearly have never met me.

So, how did it end?

As I hid my limp coming off the dance floor, I received many a pat on the back. I walked past a table with a few over-60 couples, and was asked point blank if I was a professional dancer. I replied, “Yes, ma’am. Yes I am.”

Weekend Synopsis:

Act like a teenager at a black tie wedding? Check. 

Abuse alcohol? Check. 

Receive a personal thank you from the photographer? Check. 

Told “Thanks for coming and being you” from bride and groom? Check. 

Lied to senior citizens about actual profession? Check. 

Tore major and essential muscle group for no good reason? Check. 

Walked two miles to the famous Arlington International House of Pancakes anyway? Check. 

I nominate, second, and formally send myself to Douchebagistan. I’ll be there for at least 6 weeks while I rehab.

Copyright of Nick

Remember that oath you took when you first signed up? You vowed to uphold the Constitution of the United States of America. Sounds like a no-brainer – these are the basic tenets of egalitarian democracy. Free speech, free religion…what could possibly be the downside? In your calculations, you probably never considered that you might be protecting the right of people to PROTEST YOUR MILITARY FUNERAL.

That’s why this week Ranger Up salutes the esteemed members of the Westboro Baptist Church, who have been picketing military funerals for about a year now. Armed with signs that bear such heartfelt messages as “God hates the U.S.A.”, “Thank God for IEDs”, and “God killed your son”, these wastes of space gather outside military funerals and shout insults at the mourners in an attempt to disrupt the services.

Their rationale (if it may be dignified as such) goes something like this: 1) God hates homosexuals (reference their “classy” sitehttp://www.godhatesfags.com/), 2) the US tolerates homosexuality, 3) God punishes the US by killing its soldiers, ergo 4) these soldiers deserved to die and thus do not deserve a respectful military funeral. In short, “Military funerals are pagan orgies of idolatrous blasphemy where they pray to the dunghill gods of Sodom and play taps to a fallen fool.” Clearly.

Whether these people have the intellectual capacity to understand that they are protesting the funerals of the very men and women who fought and died to protect their right to do exactly that remains unknown. We do hope, however, that the irony’s not lost on them.

Some other fun Westboro Baptist Church facts:

- WBC members wrote letters to Saddam Hussein praising his regime, and traveled to Baghdad in February 2003 to protest the impending US invasion.

- WBC members traveled to West Virginia on 15 January 2006, waving signs that read “Thank God for dead miners” to protest the memorial service for the victims of the Sago Mine Disaster.

- They hate America (http://www.godhatesamerica.com/).

-They hate…uh…Sweden (http://www.godhatessweden.com/).

You know what else God hates? When corn gets stuck in his teeth (http://www.godhatescornstuckinhisteeth.com)

It takes a whole lot of work to make Scientologists look smart, but you assholes have done it.

Welcome to Douchebagistan.

Copyright of Brad and Nick

We’d like to introduce you all to Big Tobacco, a vet currently deployed in Iraq, and one of the best writers we’ve found in the blog-o-sphere. As luck would have it, he was willing to write for RU and we’re happy to have him.

This is his third article for Ranger Up and we think it is a phenomenal reminder of two things:

1) NCOs make the difference.

2) There are no front lines anymore.

by

Big Tobacco

I did not smoke while composing this.

“Tobacco,” my first sergeant says.

“Yes, first sergeant?” I answer.

“I’m going to give you the class of pogues. That includes the females. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Roger, first sergeant. But, um…Why can’t I take the combat arms kids?”

My first sergeant gestures to one of the other platoon sergeants in the room: “Because Sergeant Baar is a Ranger and I think he has more to offer.”

My training unit was divvying up the next class for my state’s recruit sustainment battalion. My particular company was handling the split-op kids; soldiers who went to basic training during their summer break between their junior and senior years of high school. I was about to spend the next nine months babysitting these kids until they were sent to their MOS schools.

“But Top, I don’t know anything about driving trucks or fixing radios.” I protest.

“You know what, Tobacco?” he responds. “I think everybody in this room would agree that you are the least qualified to teach anything. That’s why you are going to teach the kids who matter the least.”

“Roger, Top.”

I think about these kids as I drive home that day. How could I boil infantry soldiering down to the basics for kids whose jobs would range from plumbers to mechanics?

What are the basic rules of soldering?

I spent that night scribbling on a piece of paper as my wife lay slumbering beside me. By midnight, I was ready to face the new class.

I’m standing in front of my brand new class of trainees. As the other instructors and drill sergeants hover around their platoons shouting and berating their soldiers, I take my platoon of wide-eyed teenagers outside and sit them down in the grass far from the commotion of the drill floor.

“Listen up,” I say to the platoon. “I know that you are not permitted to smoke in AIT. Who here are smokers?”

Half of the class raises their hands. I pull out a small cigar and stick it in my mouth.

“Good. I don’t want to see anybody not smoking. Listen to me. My name is Staff Sergeant Tobacco. I am your platoon sergeant. I’ve been in for about twelve years now, all of that time spent as infantry. I hope to G-d I can teach you something that might keep you alive when our state is called up again to go to Iraq.

“I guarantee you that I am the easiest man in the world to get along with. You just have to follow three rules:

#1. Always have a pen, a notepad and a watch. One day, you will be in combat. You will be tired, cold and hungry. You will be told things, but your fatigue will make you forget those things if you don’t write them down first. You need a watch because then you will always be where you are supposed to be at the right time.

#2. Do whatever you are told to do unless it is unlawful or dangerous, and in combat forget about dangerous. If someone tells you to do something that is fucked up, do it, as long as it is not unlawful or dangerous, and then go tell your chain of command.

#3. Don’t get in trouble to the point where it can’t be taken care of at platoon level. I’m a big believer in going out, getting drunk, getting in fights and doing stupid stuff. But don’t do stupid stuff to the point where your platoon leadership can’t help you if you get caught.

These three rules are the basic tenets of soldiering. They are all of my years of experience distilled down to three central points. One day, you will be in Iraq or Afghanistan. You will face your moment of truth. Remembering one of these rules may be the difference between coming home with your buddies or coming home in a box.

That being said, we have a Power Point on the schedule today. But I don’t think there is an extension cord long enough to reach out here. So FRAGO. We got rubber ducks in the supply room. Maybe I can teach you kids something. Let’s go play in the woods.”

Leaders Make All the Difference

Time passes.

It’s the summer. Most of my class has gone to their AIT schools. I get a call one day from a former trainee, who along with three others, is at Fort Jackson learning how to be a truck driver.

“Yo! Sarn’t,” says the voice on the phone.

“Good to hear from you again!” I say. “How’s Fort Jackson?”

“Easy, sarn’t. Easy. You know how you said to always have a pen, paper and a watch?”

“Yeah.”

“Well us four from Jersey always have it. We’re always on time and we never get in trouble. The drill sergeants call us ‘NJ Squared Away.’”

“Well, I’m glad that something sank in because you were pretty fucked up when you left.”

More time passes. I am sent back to my infantry unit to deploy to Iraq. I see a trainee of mine when I am in Kuwait, a girl who always seemed a little too friendly for her own good.

“Sergeant!” She explodes as she hugs me.

I look to see a newly minted specialist: “Congratulations on your promotion, specialist.”

“Thanks!” She grins. “You know how you always said not to get in trouble?”

“Yeah. Why? What happened? Are you in trouble?”

“Well, you know how, like, guys are always after me because of these?” She says as she pushes out her ample chest.

I resist the urge to tell her that she’s overweight, not buxom: “Yeah.”

“Well, like almost every girl at AIT got an Article 15 for fraternization. I didn’t get a single one!”

“Cause you didn’t get caught,” I say.

“No! I didn’t have sex even once!”

Oddly, I am proud. I’ll take my victories where I can get them.

A few more months go by. I’m in Iraq. It’s my birthday. I wallow in self-pity as I watch a convoy move north, knowing that I will never join them. My place is at a radio and computer in the TOC. I log into my email and see a message from a trainee. I click on the message.

“I wanted to let you know that I got blasted, but I’m ok. They found parts of the truck lying 200 meters away. I would have been dead, but I was wearing my gunner’s strap. Cause you know. Do what you are told to do, right?”

Right.

As I write this essay, sixty of my former trainees are deployed to Iraq. Some are guarding convoys. Some are pushing paper. Some are fixing radios.

All of them are still alive.

Maybe it is due to my rules, maybe not.

But I’d like to think it didn’t hurt.

BT

Copyright of Big Tobacco