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 fourth (I’m going to stop counting very soon) article for Ranger Up and it ranges from being useful to grossly inappropriate to usefully grossly inappropriate and we love it.

Big Advice From Big Tobacco

By

Big Tobacco

I wrote this while smoking a Rocky Patel “The Edge.”

I scan my email inbox:

I’m asking for your advice. Anything you can tell me about what I should (or shouldn’t) bring as far as creature comfort items, gear, what have you. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be or what my living conditions will be like, so I’m trying to cover all the bases.

It isn’t often that I get a chance to help a fellow NCO anymore, so I think about this soldier’s request. I look over at my wall locker and see a pile of useless gear.

This is my second deployment, but it was totally different than the first. If I knew six months ago what I know now, how would I pack differently? What would I do differently? How would I train differently? What would I want to know if I were deploying to Iraq?

If you are National Guard, odds are you will do the crappy jobs that the active Army doesn’t want to do: ECPs, FOB security and convoy security. You will never kick in a door or use a lick of Arabic. So put down the Blackhawk X-TREEM gear catalog right now. You won’t need any of it. Tell your commander to put down the FM 7-8, he won’t use that either.

Personal Stuff to Bring:

#1. Laptop. 

You don’t have a laptop? Do you churn your own butter too? Put down the damn buggy whip and go out and buy one. Laptops are essential when you are in country. Your laptop will be your only outlet to the world. It will be your entertainment center, your source of pornography and your communications device. Don’t buy a huge or expensive laptop that requires a carrying case. You don’t need a giant laptop to send email and the Air Force loves to screw with soldiers who try to get on the plane with more than one carry on. Keep the laptop under 14 inches in size and under $500, so it will fit in your assault pack and if it breaks, you won’t be that upset.

2. Thumb Drive, Headset, DVD ripper and External Hard drive.

Thumb drives are the real network of the military right now. You will need it to get Power Point classes from the instructors during train up and exchange and funny movies with other soldiers. Get a headset so that you can videoconference with your family using Skype. It’s free and works most of the time. Buy software to rip your DVD collection and put the collection on your laptop. This beats carrying around that giant case of DVDs and you will be able to share the movies with your friends. Finally, buy a small, palm-sized external hard drive that runs on USB power. You will need this for…

#3 Pornography. 

Pornography is prohibited under General Order #1. Uh… anyway. Take your external hard drive and load it up with as much porn as possible. Much of the internet in country is blocked and extremely slow. The days of downloading a 74MB Bukkake video on a whim are over for the next year. So take as much porn with you as possible and load it onto your external hard drive.

#4. PT Gear and extra shoes.

This will be your only attire for walking around off duty in Kuwait or Iraq. You will also need it when you walk to the shower. Take at least 4 pairs of shorts and t-shirts. This way you will have one for PT, one to walk around and sleep in, one in reserve, and one in the wash. Your shoes will get sweaty and they won’t dry very fast in the frigid air-conditioning of the tents in Kuwait, so bring an extra pair of shoes to walk around in while sweaty sneakers dry.

#5. Civilian clothes. 

Eventually, you are going to want to wear something other than PTs or ACUs. Bring one or two T-shirts and shorts to sleep in. I’ve found Ranger Up t-shirts to be the most preferred item for this list. So buy one or two Ranger Up t-shirts and make a statement in your room while you sleep. If you are a female, bring silly pajama bottoms and a tank top to sleep in. Sooner or later, you will want to feel like a girl again, so also bring one or two pairs of girly panties as a change of pace to your boring issued underwear. I’ve talked to a number of females and they’ve all said the same thing: you can’t wear cosmetics or jeans, so wearing a nice pair of girly underwear once in a while will help you stay sane.

#6. Scotch tape and a stapler.

No, I’m not kidding. If you are in a leadership position, bring scotch tape and a stapler. You will need this stuff to post bulletins and staple counseling statements.

Equipment to Bring:

#1. Buttstock magazine pouch. 

When you are walking around the FOB, you will have to carry a weapon and one magazine. Yes, you can put your magazine in your lower leg ACU pocket, but the rounds will keep smacking into your leg and this will get old fast. Also note that when you wear your PTs, you will have nowhere to put the magazine. Get a buttstock magazine holder, or better yet, get your supply sergeant to order them.

#2. A pistol shoulder holster. 

If you are issued a pistol, odds are that supply will also give you a drop-leg holster. You will feel cool walking around with it for a while and then it’s going to start chafing your balls. When you are walking around in PTs, the leg holster will look extremely gay hanging off of your PT belt. Do yourself a favor and get a shoulder holster for walking around the FOB and leave the drop-leg holster for real-world missions where everything else is chafing your balls anyway.

#3. CATs.

Have supply order as many Combat Application Tourniquets as they can. When you get them, take them out of the plastic and size this to your largest extremity (this is usually your thigh, not your head). Practice putting on the CAT with one hand. Make sure all of your soldiers know how to do this as well. Put one CAT in your bottom calf pocket and one in a shoulder pocket on the opposite arm. You can bleed to death in two minutes. The CAT will save your life.

#4. An armband ID holder.

Ok, it took me a while to get over this because I feel that they are extremely gay, but they are highly useful. Normally, the only things you need to carry around the FOB are your ID, your Eagle Cash card and maybe your laundry ticket. If you try to carry this stuff in your PT pants, they will fall out, leading to all sorts of crappy repercussions. Just buy the damn armband holder and wear it. You can always put it in your pocket when you wear your ACUs.

#5. PT Belt, extra laundry bag and small LED flashlight.

When you are in Kuwait, you will have to wear a PT belt sashed around your shoulder at night whether you are in ACUs or PTs. Most PT belts are too short to be sashed, so they will be very tight and probably cut off the blood to your brain… which is probably how officers came up with the idea for wearing the belts anyway. So buy a good PT belt that is long enough to be sashed or buy two PT belts and connect them together. Get an extra laundry bag. You’ll need it to hold new dirty laundry while your bag is being washed by contractors. Turnaround time is usually 3 days, so your laundry will build up. Finally, buy one of those small quarter-sized push-on LED flashlights. The lights cost less than $10 and are useful for when your roommate is trying to sleep and you need a little light to find your cum sock.

#6. Seatbelt Cutters.

The odds of getting blasted have decreased, but the odds of rolling over are still the same. Have your supply sergeant buy 4 seatbelt cutters per vehicle. Tape one to each side of the radio mount. Tape one to the back of the front seats so the backseaters can get to them. If you rollover in water, you will die. So practice your rollover drills.

Equipment You Don’t Need:

#1. Basically don’t bring anything that says “Tactical” “xTREME” or “Spec OPS.” You don’t need a dump pouch. 99% of you aren’t going to be shooting anything, much less changing magazines. Don’t buy $150 ballistic sunglasses. The $20 issued UVEX glasses work just fine and you can always buy more lenses cheap when your lenses get scratched up. You don’t need a gangsta grip or a bipod. The days of kicking in doors are over. If you have a red dot sight, tactical light or a PEQ-4 or PEQ-15 put two AA batteries and a lithium battery inside the deadspace of your pistol grip and tape it up with grip tape. That way, you’ll always have an extra battery if you need them without spending $60 for an eXtREME BlackHawk SPEC Ops Ranger MaXimum Gear Tactical buttstock.

#2. Expensive boots.

I’m kind of iffy on this. If you are on your feet at an ECP all day, buy the boots. Your feet are worth it. If you are going to be in a Hummer or sitting at a desk, just wear your issue boots.

Train up on:

#1. CLS.

Every swinging dick and every swinging clit needs to know how to start an IV. Get everybody CLS qualified. You don’t need fluid to practice your sticks, you just need catheters. This is a great for downtime training, it builds camaraderie and it teaches a valuable skill. You might never fire your rifle, but anybody could get mortared. Do you want your privates to run away in fear or stop you from bleeding to death? Get everybody CLS qualified.

#2. Everyone needs to qualify on the M240B. 

When you get in country, you will suddenly find yourself with a shortage of gunners. People will go on leave, or privates will get pulled for other missions. Qualify everybody on the M240 so that anyone from the commander to the cooks knows how to use that machine gun.

#3. Everyone needs to learn how to drive the M1151 and M1114.

Driving an uparmored Hummer is a lot different than driving an M998. Your best chance of losing somebody is not from small arms fire or an IED but from a rollover because the driver was a retard. Like point number 2, get everybody from the commander on down qualified to drive. As people go on leave, you will experience a shortage of drivers, and at least soldiers can fill in where needed. Run your soldiers through HEAT (Rollover training) as many times as the instructors will allow. You might never get blown up, but someone will roll over.

#4. Commo. Your commo guy can only be in one place at one time and he usually isn’t in that place when you need him. Everybody needs to learn how to program a SINCGARS radio and learn how to fill the radio with an ANCD or SKL. If you don’t have any idea what I am talking about, you are already behind the curve. Learn how to do those things now and then teach your soldiers. If your privates are scared to talk on the radio, make them do it until they lose their fear.

#5. Warlock/Duke Listen and take notes when the Navy gives you a class on the Warlock & Duke systems. When you get in country, find out where the CREWs (Counter Radio Electronic Warfare) maintenance personnel are located and get your slutty female 74D to suck their dicks. This will make them your best friends. You will need them when you can’t figure out why your box is dead.

Don’t bother training on:

#1. Roadmarches. You will never roadmarch anywhere in Iraq. You will drive everywhere in Iraq, or you will take your armor to work and leave it there for the day. Roadmarching will not help your men do anything. However, roadmarching will give your soldier torn up knees, screwed up feet, and probably place them in the TMC making them miss valuable training that they need. If you want a quarter of your soldiers in the hospital and fail validation due to numbers, by all means, roadmarch them. If you want the maximum numbers to deploy, come up with a light PT plan that will slim them down but keep them whole.

#2. FM 7-8. It’s not 1985 anymore. Get over it. You will never clear a trench or knock out a bunker. It’s not 2006 anymore. You will never clear a house. That’s the active Army’s job. Get back to your ECP and shut the fuck up for the next 12 months.

#3. Clearing weapons. Put an end to this stupidity now. Nobody will walk around on the FOB with their weapon in Amber status. For some reason, people at the mobilization station think that they do. Walking around with blanks in your rifle to “practice” unloading only sets people up for failure and embarrassing moments when people discharge blank rounds into a clearing barrel. You may go Amber or even Red at the ECP, but never, ever when you are walking around the FOB.

#4. Arabic. You will never talk to an Iraqi. If you are talking to an Iraqi, he is on the FOB for a reason and probably speaks pretty good English. “Kif” (stop), “Imshee” (go away) and “Shukran” (thanks) are the only Arabic you will ever need to know if you do. Anything else is time wasted that could be spent in drivers training.

As I finish this, my cigar is smoked down to the nub. A couple over to my right in the smoking gazebo is flirting with each other and I really have to pee.

I hope that you take this advice to heart, but… you’ll probably be sent to Afghanistan anyway.

BT

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 fifth (Really – I’m going to stop counting soon) article for Ranger Up and as always it ranges from being useful to grossly inappropriate to usefully grossly inappropriate and we love it.

by

Big Tobacco

I did not smoke while composing this.

I walk into the BDOC. It’s 0652. Sergeant Lambchop is in the BDOC. He is seven minutes late.

“I need to talk to you,” I say. “Outside.”

He sighs and lifts his heavy frame out of the chair.

“About what?” He asks.

“You’re late,” I say.

He glares at me. “Hey, I’m just doin’ what you were doin’. You were here thirteen minutes before the hour, so I came here thirteen minutes before the hour.”

Ok, then I guess we’ll do this inside.

“Everybody get out,” I say. Screw it. The radios can watch themselves for a few minutes.

The day and night shift shuffle out, eyeing each other. They know that Sergeant Lambchop just picked a fight with the wrong Jew.

“It’s your attitude,” I say. “You’ve had a bad attitude the past few weeks. You’re late-“

“Hey, you were here thirteen minutes before the hour, so I got here thirteen minutes before the hour. That’s what you put in your counseling statement so if you’re leading by example, than I’m just following your example.”

“That is not an accurate assessment,” I say. “Regardless, I was sitting and waiting for you for seven minutes. I went to the CP, came back, and you were here.”

Granted, with his level of disrespect, I could have had this conversation at parade rest, but I consider parade rest to be the nuclear option. Once you lock a soldier up, you had better have exhausted all options first.

“You want to know what my problem is?” He says. “My problem is I don’t like you. You are the only person here who drives me crazy. I can’t stand you. And a lot of other people on my team can’t stand you either. And I’m not the kind of guy who will talk behind your back. I’ll tell you to your face, you’re the problem.”

How does one lead soldiers? What is leadership in a nutshell? Some would say that leadership is leading by example. But really, it’s more than that. Leadership is really the art of figuring out what motivates people and using that motivation to get them to do what you want. I wouldn’t call it manipulation; rather it’s the surgical application of human psychology to accomplish a task.

In this case it was the task of getting a broken NCO to pull his head out of his ass.

Sergeant Lambshop had been in my headquarters platoon once due to ongoing problems with his back. When the line companies needed men due to a mission change, Sergeant Lambchop’s back problems mysteriously vanished. Now he was back, reinjured and working in the BDOC with the rest of the benchwarmers on the injured list. How on earth was I supposed to lead him now?

Flashback to the summer.

My supply sergeant hands me a pistol.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

“You’re a platoon sergeant,” he says. “You’re supposed to have a pistol.”

I look at the heavy black Beretta. I spent 14 years without a secondary weapon and I saw no need for one now. I was a headquarters platoon sergeant. If the bad guys ever popped up from behind my coffee pot, I had a lot more problems than not having a pistol

“What if I don’t want it?” I ask. “What am I? A gunslinger? A cowboy? Goin’ to the rodeo?”

“You’re leadership,” he says. “Leaders are supposed to carry a pistol.”

Flash forward to a few weeks ago.

I sit outside smoking a cigar with Sergeant Blade, the chief vehicle mechanic and a former member of my platoon. I had spent a good portion of my political capital getting Sergeant Blade promoted to sergeant. Even though my platoon had been broken up to fill up the line platoons, we still talked on occasion.

“Can you do me a favor, sergeant?” He asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“You’re good at scrounging for stuff. One of my mechanics needs a pistol. He’s carrying his M4 all over the yard and has to bring it with him when we move vehicles. You know people and how to get stuff. I know we’re not your problem anymore, but do you think you can do me this one last favor?”

“You guys will always be my problem,” I say. “If your guy needs it, I’ll give him mine.”

“Oh, no sergeant. You’re supposed to have one, you’re leadership.”

“I lead a damn coffee pot. I’ll talk with the supply sergeant and see if I can hand receipt mine to your mechanic.”

I go to my supply sergeant that day.

“Hey sergeant,” I say. “I want to sign my pistol over to one the mechanics.”

“You can’t do that,” he says. “You’re leadership. You’re supposed to have a pistol.”

“For what?” I ask. “I don’t even know if the damn thing works. I’ve never even fired it.”

The supply sergeant glares at me. A mysterious ammunition shortage in Kuwait prevented anyone with a pistol from test firing the weapon before we entered Iraq. Rumors abounded as to the cause.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he warned. Although I outranked the supply sergeant, he wasn’t a man you wanted to upset. “Listen. Talk to the XO. If he says it’s ok, then come back here and I’ll let you turn it in.”

I find the XO. Take a wild guess what he said?

“All of the leaders are supposed to have pistols.”

“I know sir,” I say. “But this guy is dragging his M4 all over the maintenance yard. I just sit in the BDOC all day. I can do that with a rifle or a pistol. I just throw it in the rack anyway.”

“He’s not your problem anymore.”

“Sir, he was one of my men once. He’ll always be my problem.”

“Fine,” he says. “Hand over your pistol to supply.”

I day later, one of the mechanics seeks me out and shakes my hand. He is wearing a brand new shoulder holster and has my pistol safely tucked inside.

“Thank you sergeant,” the mechanic said. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “You’ll always be my problem.”

So now I stand before Sergeant Lambchop – an E-5 who never quite made the cut. A man whom I know was motivated by dreams of glory and all of the heroics dreamed up by the Army of One – a man who wanted to kill Haji, but couldn’t even put in the effort to pass a PT test.

“The fact is,” I say to Sergeant Lambchop. “That I don’t think that’s you talking. That’s the medication talking. I think you are frustrated at the mission and at what’s going on with your back. I know you need to be home getting this fixed, and I know the chain of command won’t send you home because we need the numbers. But I will talk with the first sergeant and the commander and see what I can do.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But you are going to get it anyway. Whether you like me or not I’m still going to look out for you and treat you with respect. You will always be my problem.”

Guess a leader doesn’t need a pistol after all?

Usually we only post original content on Ranger Up, but this video from Big Tobacco’s blog was too awesome to pass by, so we got his permission to repost. Enjoy!

Watch the Burn Barrel Video>> 

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.

We’d like to introduce you all to Big Tobacco, a vet currently deployed in Iraq, and 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.

by

Big Tobacco

“Zonk!”

I watch as the formation scatters. Soldiers take off running in all directions. I imagine that this would be the view inside a hunk of uranium as a neutron is introduced, splitting the company, releasing hundreds of soldiers off to cause chaos on a three day weekend. The first sergeant is that rogue neutron. But I stand in place, a lone atom of hydrogen that is about to be bonded with a corporal for CQ duty.

The first sergeant approaches me: “Private Tobacco, right?” He speaks with a thick, Tennessee drawl. He seems puzzled by me. One hundred and fifty pound Jewish kids from New Jersey are about as foreign to him as a toothbrush.

“Yes, first sergeant?” I say still standing at attention.

“I thought you were supposed to be a smart kid. Didn’t you think that when you saw everybody else running, you should have been running too?”

“I didn’t want to get in trouble, first sergeant.”

“Well at least you are honest.” He produces a chewed cigar from his PT sweatshirt pocket and lights the stick. Smoke blows in my face and I fight the sensation to cough. What a filthy, disgusting habit.

“You got CQ with Corporal Lane,” the first sergeant says as he walks back to his office. “Go shave and change into your BDUs.” He stops and looks back at me. “Why are you still here?”

I run into the barracks to change.

The slowest Gazelle…

An hour later, I am sitting in the orderly room with Corporal Lane, who is grumpy and nursing a hangover. For the next 24 hours, I will sit with Corporal Lane and answer the company phone as we wait for the call to let us know that the Russians have crossed the Fulda Gap.

I look through a box of VHS tapes as Corporal Lane rests his head on a desk.

“Let’s see,” say as I peruse the box of videotapes, “We got Footlose. We got Tremors. We got Quicksilver.”

“Private, shut the fuck up!” Corporal Lane doesn’t move his head a millimeter.

“Roger, corporal. Ghostbusters?”

“Private, shut the fuck up.”

“Roger, corporal. Ooh, Flatliners! Do you want Flatliners or She’s Having a Baby?”

“I want you to shut the fuck up.” Corporal Lane looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “You know what, put in Flatliners and get in the fuckin’ front leaning rest.””

For the next half hour, Corporal Lane smokes me while William Baldwin and Julia Roberts die and are revived on screen. By the time Kiefer Southerland starts being attacked by the dog, I am ready to die myself.

“Get up. Shut up. Sit by the phone and don’t move,” Corporal Lane says. “I have to do my checks.”

I get up and sit in the CQ chair.

A half hour passes. An hour passes. I have to pee, but I won’t dare get up lest the corporal come back and see that I’ve disobeyed an order.

The phone rings. My first call of the day: “Charley Company, Private Tobacco speaking. This line is unsecure. How may I help you sir or ma’am?”

The voice on the phone seems distant. It’s the voice of a woman, yet she seems husky and very demanding.

“Who is this?” she breaths.

“Um, Private Tobacco. Charlie Company-“

“I’m going to come over and fuck you tonight.”

I look the phone. What?

“Er. Yes, ma’am.” I say into the mouthpiece.

She hangs up. I put down the phone. What on earth just happened?

Corporal Lane comes back into the orderly room trailed by two civilian workmen: “Help me move the CO’s stuff, the carpet guys are here.”

“Hey, uh, corporal?” I say as I get up from the desk.

“Yeah?”

“Um, this woman called me and said that she was going to come over and have sex with me tonight.”

The corporal gave me a wry smile: “That’s Dixie.”

One of the workman turned around and points at the corporal. “Yeah, Dixie.” He turned again and looked at me: “You don’t know Dixie?”

“No sir,” I say to the workman.

“He’s an FNG,” the corporal says. He gestures at me, making smacking motions with his hands. “Dixie works at billeting or something. She goes around and fucks people who are on CQ.”

“Like a hobby?” I ask.

“Hey, some people collect stamps,” one of the workmen says.

I go to the latrine. When I come back, Corporal Lane and I and help the workmen move furniture out of the commander’s officer, crowding the orderly room with chairs, desks and bookshelves. The workmen leave and reappear with a gleaming new tan rug for the commander’s office.

We watch Tremors as the workmen install the new carpet in the commander’s office. When they are finished, they suggest that we wait a couple of hours before moving the furniture back into the room. I go to lunch and bring the corporal back a hamburger. We watch Friday The 13th and do some more checks around the barracks and arms room.

Time passes. Corporal Lane’s hangover slowly disappears and he starts to engage me in probing conversation while we watch movies.

Important Life Lesson

“You sound smart,” the corporal asks, “why did you go infantry?”

“I wanted to be like Moshe Dayan,” I said.

“Who the fuck is Moshe Dayan?”

“He was an Israeli General. He won the six day war. I wanted to be mechanized infantry like him. Thunder down the Sinai and all that, corporal.”

“You Jewish?” He asks. “You sound Italian.”

“There are Italian Jews, corporal. Shylock, the Merchant of Venice, was an Italian Jew. The first ghetto was in Venice.”

The corporal sighs. “Dude, let me tell you this straight-up. You seem like a really smart guy and we are going to tear you apart. And it’s not because you’re Jewish. It’s because you’re weird. Your military days are numbered, dude. In fact, I’m going to smoke you right now just because I can.”

The next hour is a blur of push-ups, flutter kicks and the dying cockroach. Soldiers come in to bullshit with Corporal Lane and drink coffee while they watch me suffer on the floor. Dinner comes around and Corporal Lane is tired of me. He sends me to get chow.

I drag my thoroughly smoked ass out of the orderly room. When I am a safe distance from the barracks, I sit down under a tree and cry for a good five minutes. He is right. I am a 150 pound Yid that had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I pull myself together and go to chow. I pick up the meals to go in a Styrofoam container and return to the barracks. When I reach the orderly room, Corporal Lane isn’t there. Fear racks my body. The phone! What if the battalion commander had called! What if the Russians were pouring across the Fulda Gap at that very moment now my company commander wouldn’t know because somebody wasn’t by the phone! I am practically hyperventilating by this point when the commander’s office door opens.

A small, rough-looking middle-aged blond with 90’s vintage teased hair appears in the door. She looks at me quizzically and lights a cigarette. She takes a drag and walks past me.

“Don’t you wish you would have stayed?” she asks as she leaves.

I watch her walk through the door. I turn back to the commander’s office and see Corporal Lane shimmying into his BDUs.

“Corporal?” I asked.

“Yeah, dude. Did you get me a hamburger?”

“Uh, roger, corporal. Who was-“

“That was Dixie.”

“Roger, corporal.”

Murphy’s Law of the FNG

As we eat, the corporal relates stories of his own sexual exploits while on CQ. I sit still, only moving to eat or nod my head to his story, lest some movement result in yet another marathon smoke session.

When we are finished eating the corporal says: “You know, Tobacco, you aren’t a bad guy. Now you can move the commander’s furniture back into his office.”

I get up to move the furniture and deflate when Corporal Lane leans back in his chair to watch a movie. I walk into the commander’s office to evaluate the space I have to work with when I gasp in revulsion.

There is a stain on the floor.

“Uh, corporal?”

“What, Tobacco?”

“I think you might want to see this.”

“You’re going to make me get up?”

“Um, did she get really wet, or something, corporal?”

I hear him sigh and get up from his chair. He pushes past me.

“Holy shit,” he says when he sees the diameter of the stain. He looks at me. “Go get some simple green and a sponge.”

I spend the next half hour scrubbing the stain while Corporal Lane watches a movie. The effort is futile.

“Corporal, this isn’t coming out.”

He looks around at the office furniture that crowds the orderly room. “Well, maybe we can cover it up.” The two of us move the commander’s furniture back into his room and try to arrange the guest chairs to cover the stain. The tactic doesn’t work. All of the commander’s furniture is back in the room and the stain is still uncovered in the middle of the floor.

“Maybe I could get a throw rug or a bathroom mat?” I offer.

For a moment, the corporal seems almost human. “No, he would know it wasn’t there before. Well, keep scrubbing it. Maybe um… go and get some bleach and one of those green scrub pads.”

I retrieve bleach and the green pad. Something tells me that this is a bad idea, but I dump bleach on the stain and start to scrub. Fifteen minutes later, the stain is gone, but has been replaced by a foot-wide white splotch in the carpet.

“Uh, corporal?”

“What?”

“Well, what do I do now?”

He sees the stain. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I used bleach, corporal.”

“Well, did you scrub it?”

“Yes, corporal.”

He looks at the stain. “Let me think.”

He goes back to his chair and starts to watch the movie again. After a moment, he says: “Tobacco, don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it. Put down your cleaning stuff. The drunks are going to start coming in soon and you need to stay by the phone.”

The night is a blur of drunk infantrymen and the occasional phone call. I answer the phone as Corporal Lane runs interference on the drunks. By three in the morning, Corporal Lane finally gives me permission to stretch out on a collapsible cot.

Somebody kicks the cot. I awake. I smell freshly brewing coffee. I look at my watch. It’s eight in the morning. Corporal Lane stands over me.

God loves the infantry, and he loves the NCO most of all…

“First sergeant wants to talk to you,” the corporal says.

I leap from my cot and come to the position of parade rest. The first sergeant is wearing civilian clothes and has a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other. He is looking at the commander’s new carpet with a scowl on his face.

“Private Tobacco, come here,” the first sergeant says.

“Yes first sergeant.”

“Did you fuck that girl on the carpet last night?”

My eyes flick over to the corporal. Corporal Lane has his arms crossed and is staring at me.

“Yes, first sergeant,” I lie.

“Well, did you use a condom?”

“Yes, first sergeant.”

The first sergeant sighs. “You boys are lucky that I forgot something and saw this before the commander did on Monday. Tobacco, you seem like a pretty smart kid and you may make a marginal infantryman one day. This is your free one. I’m going to teach you a lesson that will be more important than anything you ever learn at PLDC, BNOC, ANOC, OCS or whatever.”

The first sergeant walks over to the stain and dumps his coffee on the carpet. He hands Corporal Lane the cup and speaks: “If the commander comes in, tell him the first sergeant spilled coffee on the floor.”

He walks toward the orderly room door: “Always take care of your soldiers, boys.”

“Roger, first sergeant,” I say as he leaves.

And to this day I do.

Copyright of Big Tobacco

We’d like to introduce you all to Big Tobacco, a vet currently deployed in Iraq, and 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 second article for Ranger Up and well…it shows us that NCOs are kind of mean…it also shows us that behind Big Tobacco’s secret identity is probably a consultant of some sort…what with his fancy 2X2 Matrix and all…

By SSG Big Tobacco

I wrote this while smoking one of my beloved CAO Brazilias.

It’s 0600. My first sergeant and I are on the drill floor stretching out on the mats. We are preparing for a four mile run through the cold February air. My first sergeant is a former Airborne Ranger, tough as nails; a man who had broken many knuckles with his nose and had the DUIs to back up the stories. I was an enigma to this first sergeant, a little 160 pound staff sergeant who wrote computer software in real life yet could keep up with him on the runs around our large National Guard armory complex.

My first sergeant didn’t exactly like me, his background was airborne and mine was mechanized or “leg” infantry as he liked to remind me. He regarded mechanized soldiers as minor curiosities that were to be tolerated for those occasions when all of a Ranger’s HOOAH could not stop a T-72. Yet he respected my penchant for running and liked the fact that I would occasionally use some of my flex time at work to come and jog with him instead of lingering over breakfast and the newspaper at home.

I came in to my National Guard Armory that day to straighten out my final paperwork for BNOC Phase II, a leadership school that teaches staff-level NCOs how to drink to excess but still show up for class on time the next day. I planned to study hard.

As we stretch, the door to the Armory opens up and SSG BitchTits walks in. SSG BitchTits is wrapped in a large reflective gold one-piece motorcycle suit with a matching gold helmet. I immediately start laughing.

SSG BitchTits stops in mid stride: “What?” he asks.

I recover from my laughing enough to stammer out: “You…you look like a condom.”

“You want to go running, with us, you fat fuck?” My first sergeant says.

“I can’t Top, I got a profile.” He responds as he starts to hurry across the drill floor to his office.

“Yeah, your tits are too big,” my first sergeant calls after him. “That’s your fuckin’ permanent profile. Bitch Tits.”

Welcome to the Machine

“Hey!” I call after SSG BitchTits as he just reaches his office door. “Did you get Private Johnson’s pay problem fixed?”

“I’m working on it.”

“How fucking hard is it to change a U to a P in the system? Private Johnson was here last drill. I have his rifle qual. How did he qual if he wasn’t here?”

“I’m working on it.”

“You got my orders for BNOC yet?” I ask.

“Yeah, uh, those got kicked back because I don’t have a copy of your 1059 for BNOC Phase I.”

“When the fuck were you going to tell me? I came down here to fill out my checklist.”

“Well, I just found out cause I’ve been on leave-”

“Dude, whatever. I got my graduation certificate and my 1059 from Phase I in the car. I’ll see you after my run.”

SSG BitchTits scurries into his office.

“Fuckin’ fat fuck,” my first sergeant calls after him.

“Yeah,” I respond.

My first sergeant looks at me bitterly. “Fuckin’ leg.” He says to me. “You ready to go?”

Revelation

I think about SSG BitchTits as we run. He is the kind of NCO who always seems very… sweaty. He constantly seems busy, but never seems to get much done. He is a man who holds several MOSes : Administrative Assistant, NBC NCO, Commo and Medic but he never seemed to be good at any of them.

It was almost as if SSG BitchTits was very hard working, but incredibly incompetent. This is where the idea of the Incompetence Matrix formed in my mind. As I ran, I pictured the cubes falling into place:

There are soldiers who are hard working and competent. These soldiers are the “Squared Away” block. They know what they are doing, and they do it well.

There are soldiers who aren’t hard working but competent. These soldiers know what they are doing, but never get around to doing it. The least you can say is that they don’t screw anything up, but if they get up off their ass and do their job, at least they do it well. This is the “Lazy” group.

Then there are soldiers who are incompetent, but lazy. These are known as the “Unskilled,” These soldiers don’t know what they are doing and are too lazy to do it. They could theoretically screw something up, but they never do any work. This means that the risk of them screwing something up is higher than the lazy or squared away group.

Finally there is SSG BitchTits: A man who is not only incompetent, but industrious. He does not know what he is doing and he works hard at doing it. Soldiers like this create the perfect storm of fuckups within an organization and leave a trail of exasperated NCOs in their wake.

The Army Penalty for being Squared Away

As we come to our cool down, my first sergeant turns to me and asks: “We have to do a serial number inventory on the heavy weapons in the arms room today. Would you mind staying for about an hour after you get your checklist squared away? I’ll pay you for half a day.”

“I can do that, Top. Why me? What about the armorer?”

“He’s a lazy fuck and I’ll know you’ll get it done.”

“Roger, top.”

I go back to my car and get my paperwork. Then I walk inside the armory and move to SSG BitchTits’s office. I open the door and immediately collide with a chair.

“What the fuck!”

Sergeant BitchTits looks up from his desk. “Oh, sorry, Sergeant Tobacco. You can move that chair.”

I look around his office. Mounds of paper vie for space with bulging manila folders.

“This place looks like the Battle of Fallujah,” I say.

“I know where everything is.”

“Then find my 1059.”

“You never gave one to me.”

“Dude, whatever. Let’s just get this done.”

We spend several minutes going over the paperwork for the school. When finish, I ask him to open the arms room so I can help with the inventory.

The arms room is a mess. Our company’s rifles hang neatly in racks around the room, but heavy machine guns scatter the floor. Several .50 caliber machine guns are stored vertically like stalagmites with their barrels lying on the floor next to them. This is an incredibly dangerous and stupid way to store a weapon since a slight tap could send fifty pounds of machine gun crashing down to the concrete floor.

“What the fuck?” I say. “What happened?”

“The signal company needed fifties for a qual range so we let them borrow ours,” SSG BitchTits says.

“Why didn’t you have them put them back the right way?” I ask. “If the Commander sees this he’ll shit himself.”

SSG BitchTits shrugs and hands me the paperwork: “Well, it is kind of fucked up, but this is the first time I’ve seen it. The armorer was supposed to handle it. Let me know when you lock it up.”

SSG BitchTits leaves. I look at the mass of machine guns cluttering the floor and shake my head. Fucking poges. I reach for the first .50 caliber machine gun and my wrist accidentally taps a second weapon. In a millisecond I realize what is happening. The first weapon teeters over and smacks into a second weapon, which falls and smacks into a third. The arms room becomes a gigantic line of dominos as my company’s heavy weapons fall to the floor.

One weapons lands on my foot.

Sonofabitch.

My howl echoes through the concrete vault. I fall to the ground and roll on the floor in agony. I sit up grasping my foot. I rip off my sneaker and white sock. My big toe is already purple, bleeding and starting to swell.

SSG BitchTits runs into the arms room and comes to a sliding halt in front of me.

“What happened! What happened? You’re going to be OK!”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FAT FUCK!” I scream.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I’m fine!”

“I’m a medic!”

“You’re a retard! Go back to your office you fat fuck. I’m fine.”

SSG BitchTits stares at me in shock. He gets up, hangs his head and leaves the arms room.

I was being a cock, but fuck it – he’s mostly to blame for the lightening bolt running through my foot right now, and I could give a fuck about his feelings.

I look down at my foot. I know the toe is broken. I slide my sock back on my foot, pick up my shoe and limp my way out of the arms room, locking the door and spinning the combination lock behind me.

Never Expose Your Soft Underbelly to Another NCO

I cross the drill floor to my first sergeant’s office.

“Um, first sergeant?”

My first sergeant is sitting at his desk with our training NCO. He looks up at me. “Was that you screaming like a girl a minute ago?”

“Roger first sergeant, may I sit down?”

His head moves a millimeter in a nod toward a guest chair.

“Top,” I say as I pull off my sock. “The signal unit stored those fifty cals vertically. One of them fell on my toe. I think it’s broken.”

I pull off my sock. My first sergeant and my training NCO lean forward to see my damaged toe.

My training NCO is holding a manila folder. He smacks my foot with the folder, sending a bolt of searing pain through my body. I stifle a scream but shout: “MOTHERFUCKER! Why the fuck did you do that!”

The pair laugh.

“Yeah, It’s broken,” my first sergeant says. “Ain’t nothing you can do about it, though. The hospital is just going to tape it up. You can do that yourself. You’re probably going to lose the nail too. When it starts to swell up, heat up a needle and push it into the nail. That will let all the blood out.”

“And the fifty cals, first sergeant? They all fell on the floor. Someone has to pick them up.”

“I’m going to have you do it,” my first sergeant says while pointing at the training NCO. “That was kind of funny what you did to Tobacco’s toe, but it was kind of fucked up too.”

My training NCO looks dejected: “Roger, Top.”

Redemption

My first sergeant suddenly glances at the door: “What do you want?”

I turn in my seat. SSG BitchTits is standing in the doorway with an ACE bandage, some ibuprofen and a bag of ice.

“This is for Sergeant Tobacco,” SSG BitchTits says. “I thought he might need it.”

Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe that matrix needs a third dimension.

Heart.

Copyright of Big Tobacco

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