By RU Contributor L.R. Hale

Life is filled with many joys, both predictable and unpredictable.  Life is also filled with many negatives, some brought on by one’s very bad decisions, others by simple fate.  Lastly, things will happen in one’s life, and no matter what one does, the inevitable will happen. One of those inevitabilities, because we suck air into our lungs, means that one day, we will exhale one last time.  Immediately, Death will pull over, roll down the passenger window and yell, “Get in!”  How we get to that point is determined by fate, health, stupidity or any combination of those three.  So far, in my fifty years of sucking in oxygen, I’ve came close a few times to taking the ride with Death, but only to see him cruise on past and just wave.  Well, he waved once.   On another occasion, he just drove by and laughed.  I think both times Death felt sorry for me.

It was October, 1985 and I was assigned to Headquarters & Headquarters Company, 3d Ranger Battalion.  My Section Leader, Staff Sergeant (SSG) P, was working on his Master Parachutist Badge, and had set up a “proficiency jump” for us, after a line company made their jump.  The plan was simple and easy: they would jump out, and the C-130 with us in it, would circle back over Fryar Drop Zone and then our small section would make our jump.  This way, SSG P would get credit for being a Jumpmaster for a Combat Equipment, Mass Tactical, Night Jump, and we could each get a nice 2-3 second door position before exiting the aircraft.

The moment until I was at the door was uneventful.  The line company exited with no issues.  The plane circled back around while SSG P assumed his position at the right, rear door, and started giving the commands.  I was #2 in line, behind another soldier.  We were hooked up, ready to go, waiting on the green light.  I should add here that a proper exit from a C-130 on a static line jump is to hand the static line to the jumpmaster, place your hands outside the door and jump UP and OUT, immediately placing your hands over the reserve, locking the elbows tight to the body and keeping your legs together.  In a perfect world, it’s a blast.

I’m not sure what happened after I handed my static line off to SSG P.  He later told me it looked like I tripped and fell out the door.  Before I even knew what was going on, my parachute was open, and I was hanging upside down, with my feet stuck in the lines, above the risers.  My first thought was, “Hale you’re gonna die.”  I am floating to earth on an otherwise beautiful night with a full moon, under a T-10 parachute with a rate of descent of 22 feet per second.  If you execute a proper Parachute Landing Fall (PLF) with feet & knees together, hitting all the proper points of contact, you still land with a jolt, but get up and walk away.  All I knew in those brief moments was that if I landed on my head, I’ll probably die, or end up in a wheelchair for life, holding a pencil in my teeth to write important words like, “I want oatmeal”, and “Change my diaper.”

Not sure what to do, I started kicking my legs and after a couple of seconds, I suddenly swung down and was hanging under the ‘chute the way I should be.  I immediately grabbed my reserve handle and looked to off to spot other jumpers and make sure I had the same rate of fall.  After that, I looked up and checked the canopy and didn’t see anything wrong with it.  The rest of the descent was without incident and I did my PLF.  As I released buckles and got out of the harness, the adrenaline wore off and I noticed things were blurry.  I reached up with my right hand to check for my glasses.  My high-speed birth-control glasses, along with the sports band, were gone, but my helmet and chin straps were intact.  Lowering my hand, I noticed a cut on my wrist where my Timex used to be.

I organized my gear and started to fold my ‘chute when I noticed the risers.  They were twisted…TWICE.  Between falling out of the door and when the parachute fully opened, I had rotated twice through the risers, with my feet catching in the parachute lines when they went tight, at the opening shock of the main canopy.   I then realized how close I had come to falling to earth totally entangled in the ‘chute, looking like a mass of dirty laundry flapping in the air, with a muffled scream coming from the inside of the bundle.  It wouldn’t have taken but a split-second difference while the main canopy was deploying to end up with a terminal outcome.  After I had my gear organized, I “rucked up” and went to the assembly area.  SSG P was there and I told him what happened.  That’s when he told me it looked like I tripped or just fell out the door.  He said that after I handed him my static line, I never had a door position and I certainly didn’t jump up and out.  Back at battalion, I felt some soreness on my legs, so I dropped trousers to inspect.  Across the back of both legs, near the knees, was a bruise that was the exact width of the risers.  My First Sergeant and Company Commander both agreed it was a close call and I needed to jump again soon to get it all out of my head.  I did, with no issues, but I knew Death had just cruised past and waved.

It was 1990, sitting in the NCO Club in Giessen, Germany, drinking wine with a First Lieutenant.  I was legally separated from my first wife, The Succubus, so I was free to sail the open seas.  I was in a tremendous slump, and to use another sea analogy, I was to the point in that classic cliché, “Any port will do in a storm.”  Sitting across the table from me was The Drunken Harbor.  Maybe that’s why she was there with me, and draining the wine, she could’ve been thinking the same thing I was.  She certainly was as drunk as I was.  I’m POSITIVE I heard her tell me she was going through a divorce and her estranged husband was in the States.  POSITIVE.

The evening and drinking progressed, with no perceivable limit on the drinking and the evening coming to the obvious conclusion, unconsciousness.  We decided to leave for her quarters.  Outside the club, I used the payphone to call a taxi.  There are two kinds of taxis in Germany: taxi cabs and mini-cabs.  Taxi cabs are usually Benz’s and Audi’s, operated by Germans, and are the safest due to the German’s respect for the road.  Mini-cabs are usually VW Rabbits and other small cars, operated by foreigners, which we claimed were Gypsy’s, who didn’t seem to give a shit about the rules of the road.  They are cheaper than cabs, but you take your life in your hands with their driving skills.

I called for a German cab and we staggered out near the road, using each other for crutches.  All I knew was I needed to get laid as quickly as possible before I passed out.  Google didn’t exist then, but if it did and you Googled Shit-Faced Individual, my picture would have appeared.  In the midst of our slurred conversations, I looked over and saw a driver standing outside his VW Rabbit, just standing there and staring at us.  It was obviously a mini-cab manned by a Gypsy, ready to steal a fare.

I told him, “That’s okay sir, we’ve already called a cab.”  His response made my nuts shrivel.  “I’m not a taxi driver…that’s my wife!”  I jumped up expecting to have to defend myself from him.  To be honest, it’s an ass-whipping I probably should’ve gotten.  He just stood there, so I started walking away and looked over my shoulder and said, “Y’all are fucked up.”  When left no other option, a good insult is really the only mature thing to do.

Just then a car pulled up and it was an E-7 from my unit, and he hollered, “Hey, Sgt. Hale, you need a ride?”  I hopped in to his car and it was one of those extremely rare moments when an E-5 issues a command to an E-7, “Sergeant First Class, get me the fuck out of here NOW!”  He told me as we were driving down the road, that when he got in his car, he recognized the 1LT’s husband staring at us and thought, “Shit, Hale’s gonna get his ass jumped”.

I don’t know, maybe the alcohol caused a massive hearing impairment on my part when it came to her explanation on why she was there.  It’s possible she just straight-up lied to me about her marital status.  I have no idea why he just stood there and didn’t walk up behind me and put his foot up my ass.  If I was in his shoes, I would’ve whipped some ass fast, hard and repeatedly.  In this day and time, people like me end up in the morgue.  So, as I hauled away that night, Death, thankfully, only rode by laughing.  He did honk, wave and then called me a dumbass.  That’s close enough for me.  I’m in no rush to have him pull over and roll down his window to talk.

LR Hale

By RU Rob

All too often I pick up a book and within the first 10-15 minutes put it down because I can’t stand the style of writing.  It is either written in a manner that is over-descriptive or utilizes words that an abnormal, somewhat jaded, infantryman cannot understand.  Occasionally, and it is a rarity, I will stumble upon something that I absolutely cannot put down and will read it cover-to-cover.  Such is the case with “Letters from the Sand Box” by Charles Meier.  I liked this book so much that I thought you just may like it as well, being that you are all a little jacked in your own sense.

Right after I finished the book I contacted Charles (Chuck or Big Daddy is what he prefers) via email to set up a phone interview.  This was about 8:00 am and it usually takes a couple of days for a response back, if any.  At about 12:30pm my phone rings and when I answer it is Chuck on the line.  The first thing I notice is that he sounded like he just rolled out of bed after a long night of… well I can’t be too sure to be honest with you.  Anyways, he sounded rough and freely admitted to being up into the wee hours of the morning, but withholding all of the pertinent information, like what he was actually doing.  We spoke for a good 45 minutes, with me laughing most of the time, ended the call and I am sure he passed out…again.

The book itself is a collection of emails and letters sent home while Chuck was working as a contractor in Iraq from 2003-2006.  Chuck starts out telling his life story and just how he ended up being a contractor in the first place.  It is quite funny to read the journey from small town Texas through a seven year stint as Navy search and rescue, DJ- bouncer and manager of a strip club, college student and fireman/police diver and SWAT team member.  Did I mention that he also claims to be a pilot and minister as well?

One thing that is an obvious theme to the book, Chuck is as physically large as his personality (6’4” 320lbs to be exact).  Looking at the pictures, he appears to be a modern day Viking and makes numerous references at how much trouble he had in “blending in” with the local populace in Iraq.  Some of the descriptions will leave you in stiches in his no-holds-barred view of Iraq and just how f’d up both the military and the Iraqi’s are.  If you are looking for a candy coated view of what was really going on there, do not pick-up this book.

Big Daddy also has a way with words, or should I say spelling.  When the book was being readied for publishing he would receive a copy from his editors only to reject it because everything was spelled correctly and grammatically correct.  I must agree that part of the appeal to this book is that it is written by an infantryman trapped in a contractors body and is conveyed as such.  A perfect example of this is when Chuck refers to the local Iraqi males as “hodgie” instead of “haji”.  It is the little things like this throughout the book that will make you smile and chuckle as you read it. 

As Chuck describes it, Letters from the Sand Box is the perfect read while sitting on the shitter.  There is a twist at the end that will leave you in awe at his strength and willingness to live life to the fullest and he will do it in a sense that will have you pissing your pants in laughter.  While I don’t want to reveal it all, let’s just say there is reference to a “leg lamp”, you know, like the one in “A Christmas Story”.

I recommend Letters from the Sand Box to you for its simple yet powerful message.  Chuck quotes a toast that one of his SEAL buddies taught him and I believe it is fitting: “I have been around the world twice, talked to everyone once. I have seen two white whales screw and a monkey try and fuck a football.  I’ve been to Maine, Spain and Spokane.  I know a man with a marble head and a wooden cock.  I’m a lover, fighter, a rooten, tooten, hooten, looten, skydiver, I drink everything from rum to cum….Every day is a blessing, every meal is a feast, Every sunrise the promise of a new adventure to come, every sunset a little break in the action.  And I am the one-legged man in the ass kicking contest.”

While there are only 156 pages to this book, the message you will receive is priceless.  You can find Letters from the Sandbox on Amazon.  RU Rob recommends it.

We here at the Rhino Den don’t have enough hours in the day to keep you both informed and entertained so occasionally we have to go “outside the wire” to bring you good stuff.  The following is one such case.

By RU Contributor Mad Medic

Q: How is the Army like sex?

A: The closer to discharge you get, the better you feel.

April 29th 2009.  Oh man I thought I could walk on water.  My last day in the Army.  I’d already turned in my clearing papers, signed out from my unit, and took one last chance to look around the post. I made one last visit to the PX before I drove out the gate, got on I-70, and began the long trek back to my home town of San Diego.   I drove for at least five hours before I even thought of taking my uniform off, but as everything was packed up, that wouldn’t work.  I still had my beret in the passenger seat of my car, as if I might get out on post.  The freedom was going to my head quickly and seeing that no one was out and about in western Kansas, I took the opportunity to find a deserted road and see what my Mustang could really do.  I chickened out at 130mph, but DAMN what a ride!

I drove all day, from roughly noon when I left Fort Riley until around 2100 (whoops… 9 PM) when I finally got a hotel room for the night.  It wasn’t until I got into the hotel room that I took off my uniform.  For approximately 3 more hours I was still, technically a soldier.  I didn’t pop my boots right away.  I didn’t rip off my top, and throw it into a ball on the bed as I used to do in the barracks.  I just sat there for a long while, delaying as long as I could the moment when I took my uniform off for the last time.  I finally got around to it, and I don’t think I ever took more care taking a uniform off.  I laid it out on my hotel bed and just stared at it.  No longer would I wear the craptastic beret or worry about the crotch ripping out of my ACUs.  I wouldn’t have to worry about oil getting all over my tan boots on motor-pool Monday.  I wouldn’t have to deal with Physician Assistants who think they’re god, or Officers who remind you of their rank at every opportunity.  No more NCOs that think if I’m not trying to go to Ranger School or Airborne or SFAS then I’m not worthy to trim their short hairs.  None of that.

But I also wouldn’t ever have anyone call me Doc again.  People wouldn’t stop and look at me with admiration when I walked down the street.  I wouldn’t have my brothers and sisters that I could depend on for anything.  I even started to miss that PFC with a serious under-bite and a massive case of cranial-anal insertion; the one who pissed me off nearly to the point of violence.  Was I actually going to miss that son of a bitch?  No way.  And then it hit me.  My views on serving were always going to be ambiguous.  I had loved being a line dog, until I lost guys, then it tore me to pieces.  I had hated being in the WTB, and losing a woman I had already started making plans to marry, but it got my life back on track, and reminded me that I was still alive.

All these things flashed through my mind as I removed my black, pin on, Combat Medical Badge.  I laughed a bit when I thought about the time I lost my damnits (the backings to pins which you always lose and yell DAMNIT) and the thing stuck into my chest.  I remembered when LTC Walker pinned it on me in the 225th FSB Battalion conference room because there was a Hawaiian rainstorm outside.  I opened up the left shoulder pocket and pulled off my lucky “Smart Ass” tab that I picked up at Camp Buering.  In my own little display of rebellion I had worn it literally every day I wore ACUs, though underneath where it wouldn’t be seen.  I pulled off the 1^st Infantry Division patch, smiling how I swore to myself after MG Batiste had screwed me out of an award on my first tour that I would never fall under them again.  I removed the U.S. Army, and the nametape that said Bailey, and stuck them together, then moved to the Specialist rank.  I still remembered Charlie Battery 2/11 FA giving me “blood rank” at FOB Dibbis.  Back when we wore DCUs, the whole battery had lined up to shake my hand then pound the two metal disks into my clavicles.  The worst had been the PA who had made like he was going to slam me, and smiled when I flinched then lowered his hand to rub them in.  I realized that if I told that story again people wouldn’t get the pride, and even joy I felt when I used my Gerber to pull the rank out of my skin.  I removed the Electric Strawberry and smiled at the fond memories, of the pride I felt having been a part of the first combat formation to go to war from the 25th Infantry Division since Vietnam.  I reminisced about the drive from Camp Virginia to Kirkuk.  How I had missed the Super Bowl, and how I had once dreamed of being a Ranger, and how my Platoon Sergeant smoked the dog shit out of me every time I couldn’t recite the Ranger Creed.

Lastly I removed the flag.  I had had this one flag that I had rotated from uniform to uniform.  It was dirty and frayed, and somehow that had more character to it.   I don’t think people, perhaps not even my own family except my dad could understand the pride I felt wearing that flag every day.  If there was some nobility in sacrifice, I had been prominently displaying my willingness to step up and display that trait.  And now it was all over.  The missions would go on.  The guys would go out, but without me.  My war was over.

I stared at that uniform until midnight.  It was official at that moment that one of the most important parts of my life was gone just like that.  The euphoria was gone and I had to face the future.  Sitting in my skivvies I slowly folded my uniform, reverently as if saying goodbye to a friend.  In a way I was.  The Army is a family.  It has to be or no one would stay in.  I would be alone, I would have to forge my own destiny, without people easily able to recognize my merit, or understand my worth.  The great things I had once done would never be understood by anyone that had never been there, I was more alone now than ever I felt in Iraq.  Where else could a 19 year old nobody have done half the things I had done.  Who but the movers and shakers could understand what it is like to physically shape history with my own hands and actions?  It was a long time before I got to sleep.

The next day I picked up my dad in Denver, we saw the sights in Avon Colorado, then moved on to Vegas.  Buddy, let me tell you, I had no problem dropping a good portion of my separation check there.  I hadn’t been this free to go hog wild in years.  Way back when, if I could have chosen my homecoming, it would have been in Vegas.  I smoked a cigar that cost $50 bucks, and almost cried when it was done (it was that good), had Whiskey that was old enough to drink itself, a steak so tender you could cut it with a fork and so succulent that I didn’t know who was drooling more me or the steak, and a former Raiders cheerleader doing her best to make me spend a little more of my hard earned cash.   I must’ve been in Valhalla.  I got a kick out of my dad having actual intelligent conversations with some of the strippers, him being both officer and gentleman.  To top the night off I won $200 bucks at the Bellagio then spent that all on booze.  I don’t have a clue how I got back to my hotel room but I had a shit eating grin the whole night.  Somehow though I don’t think people would understand why.    

I was all smiles when I finally got home and thank God my parents had a plan to keep me busy because to be honest had I been allowed to languish over the summer I would have thought about what I had lost.  I would have thought about the future, and I would have wondered how I could possibly live a life worthy of the sacrifices of those around me.

Civilians do not understand the isolation that Veterans feel.  How can they?  What possible comparison can they make in their life to what it’s like to do even a peacetime hitch in the Army, let alone go to war?  I have nine medals and ribbons for 6 years.  Even explaining an ARCOM or an AAM is grating, or why I take so much pride in a piece of ribbon and brass.  They can’t understand why I laugh at how the Army Service Ribbon is compared to the Gay Pride Awareness ribbon.  To them it’s just a bunch of pretty colors.  To me it is quite literally blood sweat and tears.  Nor can I easily explain what the Combat Medic Badge is, let alone how much that little badge means to me.  Long after I am gone, I will still be a part of 225th Brigade Support Battalion’s history, being one of the first in that unit to receive a combat badge of any kind.  Long after I have gone to senility I will still have been recorded on the rolls, of 2-16 Infantry in the hellish time that was the “Surge.”  With all that in mind, is it any wonder so many civilians just don’t “get” me?

By RU Contributor Solomon G.

Since the beginning of time, men have strutted around in loin cloths, boasting about being the Alpha male. Whether or not it was effective in conquering the opposite sex is still out to the jury. In any case, if the loin cloth and occasional grunt didn’t work, he could simply swing a club over the head of his sweetheart and drag her unconscious body by her hair into his dwelling, for a lifetime of submissive companionship…

Fast forward to the 21st century; men haven’t changed much in their quest for the attention of the ladies. Some douche bags drug their women with roofies (or floories-if you’re a Hangover fan). Other jackholes over-power their women with physical force and fear to get what they want from them. Then there’s this unique band of brothers that completely shatter the respect and confidence of the American public.  These assholes use their positions as military training instructors, recruiters and even top level military leaders to abuse those in their leadership chain. What the hell…

Now, the 1900s was where the true growth of America’s military took place. We learned to fly, blow all kinds of shit up from far away and travelled the world to kick the crap out of bad guys in their own backyard. But it was also a time where we committed all kinds of lewd acts towards women and truly embarrassed the shit out of ourselves.

There is no way I could catalog every documented incident that took place, but a few truly stand out. In 1991, the Navy’s Tailhook scandal shook the country. Here we are, fighting in the gulf and these clowns (nearly 4000 semen- er, Seamen) decide to go primal while at an aviator symposium in Vegas. Close to a hundred women file complaints of sexual assault and harassment. Then, the initial report points blame to a low-ranking enlisted man. Really guys? Eventually, many were forced to retire, lost promotion opportunities or “just quit” serving due to the fall out. I guess what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas after all.

Jump to 1996 and Aberdeen proving grounds. The incident here was once labeled as the Army’s Tailhook. Twelve soldiers, a commanding officer and NCOs were accused of sexually assaulting female recruits under their command. Dozens of counts of cruel acts, such as rape and sodomy were filed against these assbags. Fortunately, many of them got convicted for their actions- one is serving 25 years.

Senior leaders were not immune the horny-goat weed epidemic. The Army’s top enlisted, the Sergeant Major of the Army, was accused of sexually harassing a few of his subordinates. Command Sergeant Major Gene McKinney was eventually acquitted, but the black eye left on the face of the Army would remain for a while. One of the Air Force’s top enlisted leaders also took a plunge into the immoral pool of adultery and unwanted sexual contact. CMSgt William Gurney, who held office as Command Chief of a Major Command, was eventually convicted of several UCMJ violations and was punished under Courts Martial. He was sentenced to 20 months confinement, reduction to rank of E-1 and a dishonorable discharge. Totally, freaking embarrassing.

More recently and still steaming up the headlines is a pair of Air Force basic military training instructors who were accused and now facing counts of aggravated sexual assault and violating general orders to stay away from basic trainees! Many of these trainees are teenagers, young women who left their parents homes straight into the trust of these predators! As brash as these guys were, leads me to believe this was not the first time these guys ever tried anything like this… It was the first time they got caught! For shame…

I realize the military is just a snapshot of American society. The men that committed these acts may have done the same things as civilians. However, they were not. They used the positions entrusted to them by the officers appointed over them and the confidence of the American public to help feed their need for perversion.

I will NEVER apologize for being American. However, I must apologize for allowing these whale shit eating mongrels to wear a uniform of the United States Military. These idiots mar the character of every loyal, respectful warfighting American. What they’ve done is shameful, but it cannot and will not be the reputation of our Armed Forces. Keep it real guys, keep it smart and for the love of baby Jesus, keep it in your pants!

Submitted by RU Fan LR Hale

It was REFORGER (Return of Forces to Germany), 1990, and I was an intel analyst E-5 assigned to a Field Artillery Brigade.  I was riding down the autobahn in the S-2 expandable-van, with another sergeant driving.  He looks over at me and casually states, “I hope SPC (name withheld) doesn’t jack off in your cab again.”  I busted out laughing and said, “I have an idea.”  But first, a little history on the events that brought us to that conversation and the awesome ass-reaming I received later…verbal ass-reaming that is.

The previous field exercise (FTX) was about 10 days long, in the middle of a heat wave in Germany.  I always worked the night shift and my boss, the S-2 (Intelligence) Captain, covered the day shift.  As is the case with FTX’s, we all kept weird hours and therefore, ate at weird times.

Another sergeant had the midnight munchies and made his way to my van, knowing I kept a case of MRE’s stashed under my passenger seat.  It’s zero-dark-thirty, several generators are running to power the Brigade TOC and he’s on a mission.  SFC “Smith” opens up the passenger door and looks up to find the young Specialist sitting in the passenger seat in mid-stroke, giving himself a one gun salute.

SPC Doe quickly leans over and pretends to be tying a boot, greeting SFC Smith, who acts like nothing happened and inquires about the MRE stash in my truck.  Smith reaches under the seat the stroking SPC is sitting on, grabs an MRE and bolts, keeping a straight face.

SFC Smith informed me shortly thereafter about catching the Specialist in the act of evicting-the-squatters, pissing himself laughing and telling me I needed to hose up my cab ASAP.  The E-6 I mentioned earlier was present since he worked the night shift with me.

Fast forward to REFORGER, we’re rolling down the autobahn and I have been reminded of the prior incident.  My bright idea was to reach for a blank piece of paper, draw a huge dick on it, complete with an arm, the hand firmly grasping it, with ejaculate erupting from it…with a huge circle around it and a slash through it.  It was clearly the international symbol for No Jacking Off!  I tape it to the lower right windshield, proud of my artwork.

During the exercise, we received a visit from V Corps Artillery Commander, a Brigadier General.  While the one-star is visiting our Colonel and TOC staff, his cheese-dick aide spots my “No Jacking Off” sign…and after they left, mentioned it to the General.  General-contacts-Colonel; Colonel-contacts Command Sergeant Major, who in turn contacts S-3 Sergeant Major…who tells me to remove the sign.

REFORGER continues on, without a word spoken to me.  We return to garrison and go through all typical procedures of post-field bullshit, and still nothing is said.  Days later, our brigade commander holds an after-action-review  with the primary staff, including the E-7’s and higher, and the colonel starts naming off things that went wrong during REFORGER, his voice rising with each fuckup he shares.

“Even Sgt. Hale, off all people, Sgt. Hale has a GODDAMN NO JACKING OFF SIGN TAPED TO HIS FUCKING WINDSHIELD AND THE GENERAL SAW IT!!”

The Brigade CSM said he would handle it.  After the AAR ended, I found out about my name being mentioned because every E-7, E-8, Captain and Major made it a point to tell me that the CSM was going to chew my ass, and then they would walk off laughing.

I decided to get this over with, so I went upstairs to the CSM’s office and was he wasn’t there.  So I went back to S-2, did some paper shuffling, and went back to his office right before 1700, only to be told that he was gone for the day.  So, I too left, dreading to have to wait until tomorrow to get bitched out.

The next morning, I walked into brigade HQ’s building and there stood CSM Woodley, sipping a cup of coffee.  I immediately went to Parade Rest and said, “Sergeant Major, I understand you need to speak with me”, fully expecting to be told to go upstairs to his office and get screamed at behind closed doors.

Instead, he gets a little smile on his face, and says with his classic lower Alabama southern drawl, “Yeah, Sgt. Hale, you know what you are?”

“No, Sergeant Major.”

“You’re dumber than a fuckin’ doughnut.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“You’re dumber than fuckin’ dirt. The General saw your dumbass sign in your truck and told the Colonel…and you get mentioned by name in the AAR…now I have to chew your ass.”

“I understand, Sergeant Major, and I apologize.  It was put there because…”

He cut me off, “Shut the fuck up, I don’t care. Don’t do that shit again or I’ll kill you. Now take charge of yourself and move out smartly.”  By then, his smile was a little bigger as he turned to walk off and I made a bee-line for my office.

I thought it was odd that my ass-chewing took place in the lobby of our HQ’s building, but as I sat at my desk and thought about it, I realized the subtleties of it.  The CSM had a duty to perform because I was out of line.  However, I believe because he chose to rip me a new one in the lobby, in a matter-of-fact tone, not screaming at me behind closed doors in his office, and the little smile on his face that grew a little more by the end of the ass-chewing, told me he kind of liked my sign…and he probably knew why I hung it. I’ve even included his closing line when dismissing co-workers who are annoying me with their presence or whining, “…now take charge of yourself and move out smartly.”

CSM Woodley, wherever you are, I’m still dumber than a fuckin’ doughnut.  Thank you, Sergeant Major, for the compliment.

By RU Contributor Mad Medic

When I was a private I spent money like it was nobody’s business.  Thankfully I wasn’t stupid enough to walk onto a car lot and buy a car at 30% interest (but that has happened).  I’m not kidding.  Once I turned 21, I spent every last dime getting to the bar, drinking at the bar, paying for remotely good looking women’s drinks so they might sleep with me, and finally staggering back to my barracks very much not with said woman. I could do this because I knew when all was said and done, the DFAC was there and I could always have chow, and the barracks were there so I’d always have a place to stay.

Every once in a while you’re get one of those sloped headed window licking short bus riding Privates that weigh a buck soaking wet and marry a woman that’s 400 lbs. because she’s the first woman that ever slept with him.  Then he over-spends on something, acting like it’s still just him, even though dumbass didn’t use condom sense and his wife has started punching out kids like a C-130 over a drop zone.  He’s probably gotten a STAR card, and bought all those awesome things AAFES has, and forgotten things like diapers, formula, or haircuts.  Those Privates get squared away quick or they get the boot.

Still, with those idiots it’s usually because they don’t know any better, taking them aside and smoking the dog shit out of them, then counseling to emphasize the seriousness of their failures usually gets them to pull their head out of their asses. It’s a crying shame we can’t do that with Congress.  You see, Article 1 is pretty clear that it’s the Legislature that has control of the money, and while it is so exceptionally easy to blame the President for spending like it’s going out of style; the real blame lies with Congress which lets him spend like that.

Apparently, in February alone the Federal government had a deficit of 578 BILLION dollars.  That’s not just what they spent, that’s what they spent more than they took in.  Even an 18 year old private with a blank check couldn’t spend that much.  Hell, give me a whole brigade of 18 year old privates and they couldn’t booze up, buy cars, or pop out kids even close to that number.  So why is it that roughly a Mechanized Battalion sized element can spend like that and think its ok?

What’s worse is that Congress isn’t comprised of 18 year olds.  At some point every single one of these congress critters has had to do their taxes and balance their checkbook.  Are you seriously going to tell me that this level of douchefuckary is an attempt to be like 18 year old Privates?  That deficit alone is bigger that the entire DOD budget.  Did we somehow buy another military when I wasn’t looking?  The roads where I live all have pot holes, and Pennsylvania as a whole is even worse, so let’s ask seriously, where in the flying donkey fuck is all that money going?  Are you going to tell me that we’ve somehow made the economy better? Because if you look at the numbers, (not the labor boards) unemployment is still sitting at about 10%, not exactly an increase.  Hell, Senator McCain of all people is calling for us to go into Syria.  I’m sure our military will be real effective with spit wads and harsh language.

For what they’re spending there better be a lot of big screen TVs and gold plated toilets.  If I could go somewhere and see smell or touch some vast monument I’m not aware of, or if there were a secret war on with Aliens or some tinfoil hat squad stuff like that I might actually be ok with this.  But until someone points out the giant penis shaped monument to Bill Clinton (because you know it’s coming) or I see some burning space ships in the atmosphere, I’m going to go with we bought Jack and Shit.  Even every Congress Critter living it up on your dime couldn’t explain even closely the steaming bag of cocks that is the federal budget.  Maybe if they’re all snorting Gold- Laced-Pure-Colombian with hundred dollar bills off an escort’s ass, which they then use to light real Cubans after finishing off all the top shelf booze in DC, but they can’t even say they’ve done that.

What’s really scary is that even a Private with a shiny new STAR card has more sense than our own Congress.  Worse, at least with the Private you can drag his ass back to AAFES and return that big screen TV.  You can’t do that with Congress.  So for not manning-the-fuck-up, and not grabbing your balls and sounding off like you’ve got a pair if you’ve gone along with this, I say to you Congress “you are complete and utter DOUCHEBAGS!”  I cannot think of any steaming bag of dicks that is more deserving of losing their jobs than you are.  (Dear God please tell me they can’t file for unemployment!!!)

by Mister Twisted

I started to write this article in the vein of the last couple, whereby I would give a rundown of the candidates and how ridiculously bad they all are, but I confess, I lost motivation — and creativity. The simple fact is, I’m sorry.

Why am I sorry? Because I work in politics. And the sad reality is that the political process and what it produces saddens the shit out of me. I talk to people on a daily basis that plead with me by saying things like “why can’t you send out plain, well-written arguments that lay out the facts in black and white?” You know what? I would love to. But the unfortunate truth of the matter is that politics is not about ideas; it’s not about who has the most logic on their side or who has the most well-reasoned argument. Very little of that even matters because it’s about something else entirely.

It’s about marketing.

I’m not joking. If you want to learn how politics truly works, watch a few episodes of the HBO series Mad Men. Now take out the hot red head and that’s what politics really is — sending messages to people through various sources of media that they will ultimately respond to.

It’s the exact same methodology that companies like Pepsi, Nike, Coors, and Ford use. They can’t make an advertisement that lays out all the logical reasons why their product is good because nobody would respond. Instead, they use hot girls, edgy photography, hip music, and a cool catch-phrase to get your attention.

The end result of all of this being, of course, that you see numerous commercials and receive countless emails telling you that the world will, in fact, come to an end if you do not vote for them or their cause. They operate on the premise that you won’t give them money or vote for them unless they scare the crap out of you.

Possibly even more depressing is the reason why political personalities and groups do this — because it works.

Consider that the average American does not study history, has little interest in politics outside their immediate realm, and was never part of the government or those charged with protecting it (hence the .45% Ranger Up shirt). The average American is not what we would call “informed.”

Another way of saying it is, if you’re reading this, you’re not an average American.

You were probably in the military or in law enforcement (or at least know someone who is); you probably take the time to read something every day; you like to be informed; you care about more than just the score of the game; you have drive to be better. If you didn’t have all of this, you wouldn’t come to a site named “Ranger UP!”
So where does this leave people like you and I? People who know that things can be better but are aggravated to no end about the process required to get it that way. I used to carry an M4 through crappy village after crappy village for my country, and now I’m writing fund-raising letters for political causes making less money than I was as an lowly NCO. And that’s saying something. I have to go to a Brazilian jiu jitsu class and have my 300 pound Black Belt instructor kick my ass on a regular basis just so I can feel like I’m doing something.

My point is this: We’re not normal. People who hang out on sites like this and find humor in things like Tim Kennedy answering his door with an M4 and having a plan to kill everyone in the room are a minority. Unfortunately, some of us start feeling pressure to change that “abnormality” in order to conform; to start down the long, dreary road of “compromise.”

Don’t.

Just don’t do it. Embrace the fact that you know more about the world and find “political incorrectness” funny as shit sometimes. Be arrogant about the fact that you know what’s right and you are willing to fight for it. And don’t let the marketing of politicians and interest groups tell you otherwise.

Be informed. Be smarter than the ones running for office and those helping them — it’s not hard, and you’re probably already there. Just don’t feel the need to change it when they say “well, that’s not how we do things here…” The reality is, it should be YOU who are telling them how “we” do things here.

Don’t accept the platitudes of politicians telling you that we need to “compromise” to get things done — we don’t. Call them out on their stances. Check out what they have actually stood for — and more importantly, voted on — in the past instead of listening to them speak or debate. Refuse to accept their fancy speak and slick campaign slogans — vote for what they’ve done, or don’t vote at all.

There will, as usual, be a huge campaign for people to get out and “just vote.” Nonsense. Here’s the blunt truth: crappy politicians who don’t represent you don’t deserve your vote. Make them know it.

Politics, in its essence, is about the adjudication of power. But here’s the ultimate irony: those who understand sacrifice, those who aren’t afraid of the world out there, those who challenge themselves to be better, we already have power. We just need to be careful in who we let share it.

Mr. Twisted

Moving sucks; there is no easier way to say it! Having grown up as an Army-brat and then joining the Army myself, I moved so frequently that it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Every 2-3 years, a moving truck with stinky, toothless crack-addicts would appear at my door, go to work with a flurry of activity…then haul all of my crap out to the truck and drive away, reappearing at my new location with my treasured items. Now, I have to pay for everything and it sure seems like a shitload more work. Why can’t I just hire Harry Potter to come and wave his wand with a “Movimus” spell and magically pack and move everything for me?

Now the time has arrived again. I have delayed the inevitable but it still has snuck up on me and now is the time for action not because I necessarily want to, but because I have to. I have to move. Not a simple move where I load up my car and simply drive a couple blocks over and then unload, but a full blown, pack everything in boxes and a big ass rental truck to drive across the country type move.

I’d rather chew on tin foil.

I have to admit, when I was still in the Army, I never had anything nice. Why? Because I knew that I was moving in a couple of years and it made absolutely no sense to buy nice furniture only to have it scratched or broken while on a boat going overseas. Ahh, the days of barracks furniture that were handed down from soldier to soldier, held together with 100-mile-an-hour-tape, and decorated with a newly bought flat-sheet from the PX. It made life so much simpler. It was cost effective and so worn out that it was comfortable at the most basic level.

A couple of weeks ago, Barrett wrote about how he has accumulated a certain amount of trinkets and collectables “because it’s cool.” I absolutely cannot say that I have trinkets, but I have a metric ton of crap! Why on God’s green earth am I still holding on to an old LBE magazine pouch? I don’t have an LBE to attach it to, not that I would wear it anyways. I was going through my bookshelf and found my Mortar Platoon SOP book. I think it is probably time to get rid of that as well. I really can’t see myself laying in a section of 120mm mortars in my backyard anytime soon or using BLACKHORSE to encrypt my grid location, the home owners association may have issues with that.

Have you ever noticed that higher quality furniture is A LOT heavier than the crappy ones? I am just now realizing this. I remember buying a $49 dollar dresser that I could easily wrap my arms around and lug wherever it needed to go. Now I have to have an extended furniture dolly, front and rear road guards with reflective vests, and clearance from the next higher echelon just to move it across the room. I am dreading trying to get that behemoth of wooden delight out of the bedroom and onto the truck and don’t even get me started on the armoire!

Oh how I want to go buy a rack of German beer (the Germans pack better when they have a buzz) sit back and just revisit the days of past as all of my crap just magically disappears and reappears. But alas, a job awaits me across the country and this shit isn’t going to pack itself!

Nick, Tommy, and Crigger love writing, but conquering the world takes time and effort, so we need help. Ranger Up needs new writers and we’re taking the Rhino Den up a notch by hiring 2-4 talented narcissistic assholes from any branch of service to join our team.

The Job:

1) Write no more than one article a week and no fewer than two articles a month.

2) Articles have to be over 600 words and under 1200 words.

3) Articles will focus on military/police/fire/first responder stories, current events and how they affect the military/police/fire/first responder community, or Emilio Estevez, as we believe he probably feels shitty now that Charlie Sheen gets all the love.

4) We have three flavors of acceptable writing: Funny, Funny, and Serious, but with a Funny Twist.

5) Payment: $100 or $100 worth of gear per accepted article.

The Contest:

Week 1:

By 20 March 2011, submit a Douche of the Week article to business@rangerup.com. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 4-6 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Week 2 assignment.

Week 2:

By 27 March 2011, submit a personal story of a ridiculous situation you were in to business@rangerup.com. Be funny. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 2-4 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Job at Ranger Up and an additional $100 gift certificate.

The absolute winner with the most likes total will receive a $250 gift certificate in lieu of the $100 and the opportunity to embarrass him or herself in a Ranger Up Video.

Week 3:

Ranger Up announces the winners on 5 April 2011.

Perks:

1) Awesomeness.

2) A magical unicorn that will take you wherever you want to go*
*Unicorns only available while supplies last.

So, here’s how the story goes. In the heat of battle, a Gurkha, fighting alongside some Brits, decides that his life is in danger and he needs to skeedeaddle from the target area ASAP. But he also knows he has to positively identify the Taliban target his unit came to neutralize when he gets back to camp. With bullets whizzing by his head, he makes a decision and lops off the head of the already-dead Taliban they came to get. His unit exfiltrates the AO and all go home safely.

But upon hearing that one of his Gurkhas decapitated a terrorist, some snooty British Officer decides to punish the soldier. That’s the Cliff’s Notes version of the story. The full read is here.

So we ask, Ranger Up nation, what do you think? Did he do the right thing or is he a barbarian that doesn’t need to be in uniform? Was he merely administering the same treatment to the enemy that they’ve shown us, or did he go too far and violate the rules of civilized warfare? Was he following orders as he saw them or is he a bloodthirsty savage? Is he to blame or is his chain of command for not putting, “no beheading of bad guys is allowed” in the Operations Order?

And what if it was an American soldier? What would we have done if a US Army soldier cut of a head in order to E&E from a hot LZ?

Sound off.