By Grin and Barrett

Jacob threw up again.  Head pounding, Jacob grabbed a towel off the bathroom wall and wiped his mouth.  He had spent the last three hours struggling out of his bonds and limping back to his quarters.  No one, neither friend nor foe, had seen him limp his way to his temporary home, and as he struggled back he was angrily astonished that the Army has seen fit to lodge him so far from anyone else, in such a remote location.  As he washed blood and rope fibers from his wrists and forearms, another wave of nausea overcame him and he threw up again.  He gingerly wiped his swollen lips with the towel again and proceeded to wash his face.  Dried blood clung to his eyelids and cheeks like glue, and Jacob winced as he pulled scabs off of cuts and abrasions.  A large cut over his right eye reopened as he washed it, blood quickly stemmed by a strip of 100 mile an hour tape.  He observed his medical work in the mirror and frowned.  You look like an idiot.  Jacob finished cleansing his face and washed some of the blood from his hair, wincing again as his hands discovered several more small cuts on his scalp.  Jacob dried his face and hair and headed into the living room, changing his clothes before grabbing his running shoes and a clean pair of socks.   

Without a cell phone, which had been taken from him while in captivity, he would have to make the two mile walk to main post to report to the Provost Marshall’s office.  A winding road past dense trees and an abandoned school stood between him and medical help.  Jacob painfully laced his shoes up and stepped onto the front porch, squinting in the light of the fading day. 

Has it really been almost 24 hours already?

Jacob wasn’t sure what had happened to Matt, but first he needed to get to a doc and report what had happened to his chain of command and MPI.  A sound from the back of the house caught Jacob’s ear and before he let the front screen door slam, he looked past the living room to the back sliding door.  Shadows of two men crept into view and Jacob slowly closed the door, preventing it from slamming, and quietly crept around the outside of the house, behind the two who were casting the shadows.  Jacob heard low murmurs as he rounded the right side of the house, using the cherry blossom trees to shield him from sight.  As he approached the back of the house, he crouched and peeked around the corner.  Two men, one short and thin and one tall and thick, in overalls were standing under the back awning, peering into his living room through the glass door.  At their feet, a water jug with dirty water, a toolbox, and a wheelbarrow with a tarp over it.  Jacob recognized the shorter of the two.

“Sorry?”

Sorry spun around, a look of concern turning to relief as a big grin broke out on his face.

“Jacob!”

“What are you doing here?”

Sorry strode up to Jacob, extending his hand and shielding his eyes from the sun with the other. 

“I’m marking the houses back here for teardown, turning off the water, electricity, getting ready for them to level this whole area.  I thought I would stop by and say hello, but I saw…”

Sorry gestured back to the glass door, the look of concern returning to his face.

“…blood all over the living room floor.  Are you okay?”  Sorry pointed to the tape on Jacob’s face and grimaced.

“Long story.  Let’s just leave it at… you were right with your advice.”  Jacob looked at Sorry’s companion, a larger man with a dull expression on his face.  Vacant eyes stared back at Jacob, as the large man fidgeted back and forth on his feet.  “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is my nephew Samuel.”

“Samuel?”

Sorry laughed, “Hah, yes, he is only half Japanese.  He had an American father who also was named Samuel.”  Sorry’s eyes darkened slightly, “He left my sister shortly after Samuel was born.  Left for the States, straight back to Cleveland, and he has never been back.  But, hey, that is not your issue, eh?”  Sorry smiled again and put his arm on Jacob’s shoulder, “Though he is not the most intelligent young man, he is very handy to have around.”

Samuel smiled and waved at Jacob.  “Hello.”

Jacob walked toward Samuel, “Hello Samuel, nice to meet you.”

Samuel bowed slightly, “And you as well Sir.”

A sudden through occurred to Jacob, “Sorry, how did you get here?  I need a ride to main post.  I’ve got to get my cut stitched up and I need to get to the Post PMO.”

Sorry shrugged his shoulders, “We walked.  Just like every day.”

“Damn.”

The wind shifted slightly and blew into Jacob’s face from the direction of the house.  The pungent and invasive smell of gasoline stung his nose.  Sorry noticed it too, and glanced quickly at Samuel.  Jacob saw the glance, saw Samuel’s hand slide into his pocket.

“Sorry…what’s in the jug?”

Sorry shrugged again and smiled.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob.”

“What’s in the jug!”

Samuel stepped forward, vacant look replaced by something darker, as Sorry quickly stepped behind Jacob.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob, that was so much the easier way.”  Samuel darted forward, his speed astonishing for such a big man, as his fist flew into Jacob’s solar plexus before he could react, knocking him to his knees as the big man pushed him down and pinned him to the ground. 

Sorry stepped around in front of Jacob, his hands behind his back, looking down with a mixture of pity, anger, and sorrow.  “I told you Jacob, I told you very seriously what not to do.  And you did it anyway.  This one…”  Sorry gestured to the wheelbarrow, and only then did Jacob realize it was a body under the tarp, “…he didn’t have that conversation with me, and so he did not have good counsel.  You?  You did!  I gave you very good counsel, but you still chose to ignore me.” 

Sorry took Samuel’s spot, placing his knee firmly in Jacob’s back, allowing Samuel to get up and remove the tarp.  Matt was there, dead or alive Jacob didn’t know.  Blood covered Matt’s face, his hands tied behind his back as well.  Samuel lifted Matt and took him into the living room, cut his binds, and left him there. 

“What the hell Sorry!  What the hell is going on?!?”

“You went to the wrong place, did the wrong thing.  You are still guests in the country Jacob, this is not your world.  You made a very big mistake with the wrong people.”

“I didn’t know Sorry!  I didn’t know any of that was going to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t know Jacob, they never know.  That’s why I warned you.”

“What are you going to do to me?”  Jacob was frantic, as much as he tried he couldn’t break free from Sorry’s grasp. 

“You have to die Jacob.”

“Why did you let me go then?  If you’re just going to kill me, then why did you let me go?”

Samuel hauled Jacob to his feet, pushing him roughly toward the back door.

Sorry held the door open as Samuel pushed Jacob through.  “I didn’t let you go Jacob, and I didn’t have you killed.  You died in the fire you set by using gasoline to light your grill.  You and your friend both died when the house caught fire.  You were passed out from being too drunk.”

Sorry grabbed the jug with the gasoline and followed Samuel and Jacob into the living room.  “Don’t worry, you will asphyxiate before you burn.”

Samuel smiled at that, the once dull expression replaced by a cold fury that Jacob had never seen before.  “Yes, before you buuuuurrrrnnnnnnn.”

Sorry put down the jug of gas, an odd smile on his face as he rolled up the sleeves to his denim shirt.  Tattoos covered his arms, no actual skin visible through the dark ink that decorated his forearms.  “Samuel will likely cry with joy when you burn, but not me.”  Sorry picked the jug back up.  “I truly liked you Jacob.  I truly like the U.S. Army.  You are very good for my business.”

“What business is that you backstabbing piece of shit?!!!”

“Anything that makes money my friend.  Anything at all.”

“Like prostituting little girls?”

Sorry’s smile vanished.  “Yes, as much as you cannot understand that, yes.  But you scold me in this little palaver, what is truly your death palaver, and you project moral outrage on me as if you are blameless.  Where, Jacob, did you go last night?  Why did you go there?  WHY DID YOU GO THERE!  You are not stupid!  You knew where you were going!  You knew what you would find there.  So do not play the witless fool now, the innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  You went there to find a whore and you did, and the world you entered was too strong and too real for you and your friend, a friend who now lays dead at your feet!  So please do not pass your moral judgment on me my friend, for it is your kind that keep me alive and in profit.” 

Sorry gestured to Samuel, who threw Jacob on the ground next to Matt.  With another nod of his head Samuel produced a book of matches from his pocket as Sorry uncapped the gas.  Sorry lifted the jug to Jacob in mock salute, “Cheers,” and began to pour.

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 Mr. Twisted

Now that we’ve had an introduction to higher learning for returning veterans, it’s time to go a little deeper and look at the awesome levels of douchey-ness that one encounters on a typical college campus. After all, the hardest part of secondary education isn’t the tests and essays – it’s the willpower it will take to keep yourself from giving Spartan-kicks to the chest of half the people you meet.  

The Hippie:

I’m getting this one out of the way first simply because, for those of you who haven’t attended college yet, you’re under the mistaken impression that “hippies” will be the hardest to deal with. You may think that the guy who is talking about all the “baby killers” over in Iraq and Afghanistan and how the murderous tyrannical United States of America is oppressive will make you want to refresh your rear-naked choke skills, but in reality, you’re wrong. This guy is actually quite entertaining.  

The reality is they are pure comedy – kind of the court jester of the college classroom. At some level I don’t even think they take themselves seriously. While everyone else is debating things like war and politics, the hippie will inadvertently bring levity to a discussion by throwing out wickedly-intelligent anecdotes like “bro, the reason all people in the world are so angry is because they aren’t, like, in touch with the fifth dimension and the pyramid within their soul, bro.” I don’t care who you are, that’s some funny shit and in no way can be taken seriously. Laugh at this person, pat them on the head, and thank them for being just like a movie character. 

The Cute Girl in a Rush:

In almost every class there will be a girl that comes in late to class, but will make sure every person there knows she has arrived and why it wasn’t on time. The look from the teacher that should inspire a student to sit down and shut up will only prompt this girl to loudly sigh and state how sorry she is for being late and proceed to give multiple reasons why; none of which are interesting or matter to anyone except her – and to the guy who is unlucky enough to fall for it. 

Avoid this girl like the plague. She will suck the very life from your soul because, though she will pretend to be interested, she will only be waiting for an opportunity to share more of her drama and suck you into the whirlwind of ex-boyfriends, late rent, and car accidents that is her life. Break contact and reengage with another target. 

The Agenda:

While this person can be female or male, it has been my experience that they are almost always women (feel free to add your story in the comment section). They are the person who, at every possible point in any given class, will figure out a way to work their agenda into the curriculum. I don’t care if the lecture is on George Washington’s leadership, they will manage to fire off a comment about how oil is driving the leadership of the country to oppress poor, indigenous cultures around the globe and kill baby seals. They read just enough to be dangerous but not enough to understand how wrong they are. There is no need to engage this one directly. Use indirect fire – offer up a question that you know will get “the agenda” to froth at the mouth and go on a rant. Then sit back and use it for study time while they drone on about “the man.” This is where having a laptop comes in really, really handy. 

The Nerd:

You’re not in high school anymore; this guy can be of great assistance to you. Act accordingly and use your judgment, however, because he can also monopolize your time by asking you about how many wizard points you racked up in combat and how he would have joined if it weren’t for his asthma, acid reflux, lactose intolerance, peanut allergies, sinusitis, dyspepsia, polio, leptospirosis, tuberculosis, diphtheria, and Brazilian hemorrhagic fever. 

The Other Veteran:

I was in one of my classes for over three weeks when I heard a barely-audible curse from the guy sitting right next to me after the professor made some comment about that “war for oil” going on. After looking at him for a minute or two, I finally just said “who were you with?”

“Infantry. 101^st.You?” 

Out of a class of over 50 people, we had managed to sit right next to each other. Not a single other vet in the whole class besides the two of us. I wouldn’t think so much of it, but something very similar happened in three of my classes – another fellow infantryman and one a Marine. We manage to find each other without even knowing and, believe me, it makes a huge difference. Finding others who have even a remotely similar background to you will help make the adjustment to college life much easier. No, they won’t be in every class, but when they are it will bring huge smiles and keep you from punching holes in the walls when the professor starts talking about how the military is just a tool of the industrialist, corporate machine known as the United States of America. 

And that is a subject to be covered in the next chapter – the professors: how to pass their class without assaulting the objective that is their pulpit of nonsense.

Jacob’s eyes wouldn’t open.  It wasn’t that he felt some sort of numbness, a paralysis that refused to obey his mind’s will.  Rather it was a binding of some sort that held his eyes shut, he felt his eyelids straining against the binding, but he couldn’t break it.  He listened as he lay there (Or was he hanging?  He wasn’t sure, he was having a hard time concentrating and recognizing the stimulus input from his environment, whatever environment he was in) and fought to recognize sounds, smells and textures.  He felt bindings on his wrists, which were behind his back.  He felt the burn from shoulders which have been unnaturally bent too long behind the back, and with the fingers from his left hand, he felt small bits of dirt and grime which seemed to be on a ……wood grain floor.  Jacob tried to lift his head, felt his left cheek stick to the floor, and pulled.  With a rip, his cheek came off the floor and his eye opened.  His right eye was still stuck shut, but Jacob was able to see about the room with his left.  Matt lay on the floor next to him, propped up against a wooden dresser, laying on his right side.  Matt was unconscious still, his shallow breathing wheezing through blood that dripped from his mouth, pooling under his chin.

Jacob looked about the room he was currently held in.  Barrels lined the same wall that held Matt’s dresser, a wide double door to the right occupied that entire wall.  Opposite the door, to the right of the wall where Matt lay, shelves with numerous cartoon festooned boxes, wrapped in plastic wrap and marked with colorful numbers, starting with “1” at the top left and ending with “57” on the bottom right.  This Jacob took in within seconds, his mind whirling to absorb every detail of the room he could, process every bit of data he was able to while he was left alone with Matt.  Jacob tried to flip onto his right side to see the wall behind him, but the effort sent shards of pain through his ribs and hips.  He glanced back toward Matt and caught his reflection in a small oval mirror on the floor, leaning up against the wall next to the dresser, right behind Matt’s feet.  The face that greeted him startled him, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own, battered and unrecognizable.  His right eye was caked with blood, dried shut, and he could see the crack in the congealed and dried blood on his left, where the blood had broken from the dried blood on the floor.  Eh, so that was the binding, my own blood….  Jacob tried to turn again, the effort of which produced a blinding pain in his ribs and forced the air from his lungs.  He tried to draw a breathe, but the pain in his ribs wouldn’t allow it.  He coughed and wheezed as he tried to breathe, willing the muscles in his side to stop spasming, but before he could calm himself, he passed out again…..

Chunder Maclin was the closest thing to the physical manifestation of the Big Boy restaurant mascot that Jacob had ever seen, complete with bowl haircut, ill-fitting overalls, and shit-eating grin.  He stood just over 6’4” and tipped the scales at over 300 pounds.  Chunder was standing over Ralph (pronounced Ray….poor kid) Polstone, guffawing and slapping his knee as Ralph grabbed his glasses from his face to rub the red welt that suddenly appeared from the rubber band in Chunder’s hand.  Chunder laughed at one of his friends, pointing his finger at Ralph’s head and slapping his knee again.  Everyone at Anchor Point High School looked on, some in amusement, some in disgust, some with admiration, all with curiosity.  Jacob sat with his friends, wondering how long he could watch, wondering how long poor Ralph could hold out before crying in front of everyone.  Ralph was Jewish, the son of construction foreman Zeke Polstone, though none would ever guess by Ralph’s timid demeanor.  Where his father was strong of both character and body, Ralph was weak, and this weakness beckoned bullies like Chunder.  Chunder made a regular sport of hurting Ralph in some manner every day.  Sometimes it was minor, sometimes major enough that Ralph didn’t come in to school for a few days after.  Though Ralph denied it to school authorities, Chunder was the one that stapled “Faggot Polack” on Ralphs’s back with the T50 heavy duty construction stapler.  The punctures had gotten infected, and Ralph almost lost the top layer of skin on his back to the surgeon’s scalpel.  He had missed two weeks of school, but Chunder was right back on him the day he got back, hounding him with “Pussy-ass Polack,” and “faggot polack,” never mind the fact that Ralph wasn’t Polish, he was Jewish, but Chunder has convinced himself that the name Polstone somehow meant that Ralph was Polish, so Polack jokes it was.  Today was just another day in Ralph Polstone’s life, dealing with his bane.  Chunder pulled the rubber band back again, put the tip against Ralph’s upper lip and nodded his head to those sitting close by.  “Ladies and Geeeentlemen,” he whispered, “come one come all to see the fantabulous fat lip of that faggot Polack Raaaaaaaalph Polstone.”  Chunder released the back of the rubber band, covering his mouth and letting out a loud “OOOOhhhh, Holy Shit!” as the rubber band sliced Ralphs’ lip, blood splattering the cafeteria table, causing those sitting by to push their chairs back.  Chunder laughed again, slapping his knee and rubbing Ralph’s hair, “AAAAHHH, Hahahaha, you pussy Ralph!  You little Polack pussy!” 

Jacob didn’t remember leaving his seat in the cafeteria, getting up from his table, or walking over to where Chunder now stood over poor Ralph Polstone.  He didn’t remember picking up the cafeteria chair that stood empty at the table next to Ralph’s.  But he did remember tapping Chunder on the shoulder, “Chunder?”  Chunder turned, still laughing, “What do YOU want dickhead?”  Jacob answered with the chair, smashing it over Chunder’s head with every ounce of strength he had.  Chunder collapsed in an explosion of blood, his forehead splitting open just over his eye, spraying bright red blood all over the floor.  Jacob was expelled from the school by the end of the day.  Chunder Maclin returned to school after a night in the hospital, and never harmed another soul.

Jacob heard voices, and woke to see that Matt was gone.  There was a lawn chair where Matt had been, back of it flush to the wooden dresser that Matt had been propped up against.  Another of the young men in black suites sat there, only his suit top hung over the back of the chair, the sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to reveal a sleeve of tattoos covering both forearms.  He was smoking a cigarette, eyeing Jacob with amusement, smiling when Jacob looked up at him,

“You fear vedy bad, yeah?  You prory fear vedy sheety.”  His English was raw, Jacob could barely make out his words, but he got the gist of what the young man was saying.  He nodded his head and croaked out the first words that came to his head, “Where is my friend?”

The young tough took another puff from his cigarette and stamped it out with his foot before standing up.  He gestured out the double doors, “He’s gone.”

“What do you want from me?  I’m an American citizen, I think there has been a big mistake.”

“Sorry man, you much biggah probrems now….” With that he walked out the room, leaving the door open.  Immediate rays of light flooded the room, and Jacob looked around in disbelief.  Had he really left him all alone with the door open?  What bigger problems was he talking about?  Jacob didn’t take the time to analyze his situation too much, he wriggled over to the dresser and inched his way to his feet using the dresser knobs.  Once on his feet, he hopped over to the double doors and peeked out.  Jacob stared in disbelief.  Morning light shone on his face, and with a start he realized that he recognized his surroundings.  The double doors opened into the condemned portion of housing, only a quarter mile from his quarters.  He was back on Camp Zama.

BY Grin and Barrett

Jacob heard the girl’s cries once he walked another 30 yards or so, soft sobs that hung about the edges of the dark hallway, sliding off the walls with a mourn that Jacob felt in his stomach.   The men had taken another turn after the initial T, and the hallway here was even darker than before, no traces of the boisterous sounds from the slots or remnants from the flashing neon lights.  This certainly isn’t for Joe Tourist, Jacob thought.  Yoshi and Matt walked up front, with Jacob just behind.  The soft crying came from up ahead on his right, and Jacob hissed a quick “pssst” as Matt walked past the open door, the privacy of which was only provided by a thin curtain.  Matt continued on, laughing at something Yoshi had just said as Jacob slowed to a stop.  He was now just outside the curtained room, and though his mind screamed at him to mind his own business, continue on, his feet refused to budge.  Jacob was startled by a muffled curse, a thump, and sharp cry.  Matt and Yoshi were 20 feet ahead of Jacob when he called out.

 “Matt!”

 Matt turned, affable grin on his face, still laughing at Yoshi’s last remarks, “Jake.  Come on man, what are you doing holding up the parade?”

 Jacob looked at the curtain and placed his hand on the edge.  He looked again at Matt, but it was Yoshi’s face that caught his attention.  Yoshi’s happy-go-lucky visage had changed, his face was a stony mask, eyes dark and humorless.  “Don’t touch that curtain.”  Yoshi’s posture had changed, he reminded Jacob of a Jack-in-the-box, wound tight and ready to spring.  Yoshi, you prick, you’re not what you seem are you? 

 Jacob didn’t have the chance to comply with Yoshi’s direction, however, as a short pudgy man angrily threw the curtain aside and stormed out of the room, his shirt front hanging wide open, shoes dangling from his left hand.  Impatiently he shoved his way past Jacob and headed farther into the dark receding hallway, shouting a curse at Yoshi as he passed, gesturing angrily back at the room he just left.  Yoshi muttered something to the man but kept his eyes on Jacob, whose eyes were now fixed inside the room.  The curtain had stuck on the door-frame, giving Jacob full view of the interior.  The orderly flow of the room surprised Jacob, immaculate in neatness and cleanliness.  A wicker screen cut the room in two sections, a large chair on the right, covered in colorful cushions, and a low white futon on the left, straw mat beside it with a pair of tiny sandals.  A young girl sat on the edge of the futon, wrapped in a white sheet and crying.  Holy shit, she can’t be more than 11 or 12.  She looked up at Jacob with fearful eyes, one which was quickly swelling shut.  Bruises marked her shoulders and neck, blood escaped a cut on the side of her mouth.  Jacob looked up at Matt and Yoshi.  “Matt, brother, this is bad.”

 Matt walked back to where Jacob stood, pushing  back the curtain with his hand and peering inside.  “Oh my God Jake… she’s just a kid.”  Jacob looked back at Yoshi, where any semblance of hospitality had been replaced by outright hostility.

 Yoshi shoved Matt and Jacob away from the door, “You go now.”

 Matt pushed Yoshi back, “Go my ass!  Someone just beat the shit out of that little girl, I’m not going anywhere!”

Yoshi postured up on Matt and Jacob, sticking his chest out and pushing Matt violently into the hallway wall, “YOU GO NOW!  You go now or it gets very bad here for you!”

Matt grabbed Yoshi’s lapel and attempted to fling him away, but Yoshi grabbed Matt’s hands in his own, turned to his right, and hip tossed him into the wall.  Matt hit the wall with a crunch and landed in a heap at Jacob’s feet.  Jacob turned to his friend, “Matt!”  But before Jacob reached Matt, Yoshi had his hands at Jacob’s throat, hands overlapped in a cross-collar choke as he slammed Jacob up against the wall.  Yoshi brought his leg back and aimed his knee for Jacob’s crotch, bringing it forward with a loud grunt.  Jacob turned his hip at the last moment, and Yoshi’s knee slammed painfully into the left side of his leg.  Yoshi brought his knee back again, and Jacob stuck out his left leg, planting his foot on the top of Yoshi’s quad, preventing him from brining his knee forward.  Jacob put his left arm over the top of Yoshi’s hands, grabbing his own right collar in his left fist as he brought his right arm back.  You picked the wrong dude.   Jacob swung his right arm forward, bringing his fist to the left of his own face as his right elbow exploded Yoshi’s nose.  Yoshi’s grip immediately went slack and Jacob brought his left fist upward under Yoshi’s extended arms, catching him on the chin and dropping him like a sack of manure.  As Yoshi fell, Jacob caught his falling head with a right kick, cracking his head back and leaving him with mess of blood and bone where his nose had been.  Yoshi dropped and twitched violently then went still, his eyes half open gazing at the wall. 

 Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God

Jacob stood for a moment, rational thought momentarily fleeing him as he fought to grasp his options.  He heard Matt groan and he turned thoughts to his injured friend, still lying at the base of the wall.  Jacob crouched and checked Matt’s head for blood, “Matt, are you okay bud?”  Matt groaned again, wincing as Jacob traced the back of his head checking for injury, “Ow!  Shit dude!  What are you doing?”  Matt sat with a start, knocking Jacob backward into Yoshi’s lifeless body.  He stared at Jacob and Yoshi, mouth open in a disbelief.  Jacob grabbed his friend and lifted him to his feet, “We gotta get out of here Matt, we gotta get out know.” 

Jacob and Matt turned back the way they had come and began jogging down the hallway when Jacob suddenly grabbed Matt’s shoulder, “Wait brother, we gotta get the girl.”

Matt just stared at Jacob, realization slowly dawning amidst the emotional trauma, “The girl?  Shit….yeah, you’re right.  Okay, let’s go get her.”

Jacob and Matt ran to the room and looked in.  The girl sat there, wide-eyed, shivering, and mumbling under her breath.  Matt looked at Jacob, “What are we supposed to do with her?  Waltz out of here, covered in blood, shuffling a half-naked little girl in between us?”

“I don’t know Matt, but that dude on the floor is dead, and any minute somebody’s gonna’ stumble over here and find him like this.  If we’re still here, we’re either dead or in prison, though I gotta’ think it’s gonna’ be dead and I…..I’m not leaving that little girl here.”

Matt looked from Jacob to the girl, “Ah hell.  Let’s see what happens.  We’ll take her out the way we came.  Time to Ranger the fuck up.”

Jacob entered the room first while Matt dragged Yoshi’s body in, hiding it behind the wicker screen.  Matt went back to the door and watched the hallway while Jacob approached the girl.  Jacob dropped to one knee, reaching his hand out to the little girl, “It’s okay sweetie, it’s okay.  We have to go now, okay?” He pointed to himself and then to Matt, “Me, him, we take you out.  Okay?”  Matt reached his hand toward her, but she cowered and shifted back on the bed.

 “Jake, dude, somebody’s coming!”

 “Please baby, it’s okay, we’re going to take you someplace safe.  Do you understand me?”

 “Jake, hurry man, just grab her so we can get the hell out of here!”

 Jacob turned back to the girl, reaching out and grabbing her by her tiny bruised shoulders.  She opened her mouth and screamed, clawing at Jacob’s face as he stumbled off balance, falling against the bed.  Part of his mind registered Matt cursing and shoving someone, the sounds of blows on body and the curtain ripping.  The girl was on top of him now, pummeling him with her tiny hands, screaming in Japanese.  Jacob flung her off and stumbled to his feet, turning to Matt as a wooden club smashed into his face.  As Jacob fell, he saw the girl run screaming from the room, white sheet trailing like a wind-blown cape.  Stars danced before his eyes like droplets of black water and he felt, more than heard, a deep exhale as he passed out.

By RU Contributor Antonio Aguilar

Ah, Cherries, FNGs (Fucking New Guys), we all love them. The Army has an official policy of no hazing and that’s all well and good. Hazing can go too far, but that doesn’t mean you can’t welcome a new guys properly. When I got to my first active unit I didn’t get welcomed properly. Instead I was put in the driver seat of a standard transmission car and told that I was DD for a trip down the Autobahn to Kaiserslautern. It was my first time driving a standard and I drove so bad that the gate guards asked me if I was drunk. It didn’t help that my buddy “Head” was hanging his massive head out the door leaving a trail of puke up the hill to the front gate. Being the knuckle head that I was in my formative Army years, a good “welcoming” might have helped me adapt a little better, but who really knows?

Now I can neither confirm nor deny that the following really happened. If it did, I think it was funny as shit.

Sometime around 2003 or 2004 we might have gotten a new Lieutenant to replace the last one who had a real anger problem. Both were Rangers, and the first one soured me to the thought of another Ranger LT. I might have woken one morning to see some new person lying on a bed in our platoon AO with no blanket or anything else really. He looked like a little kid, and he was sporting a bandage over his chin. I can neither confirm nor deny that the night prior, part of our platoon might have gone on a raid to the unit he was formerly with, stacked in proper raid fashion, and crashing into his sleeping area to zip cuff and blindfold him. I can confirm that had this happened, it would have taken multiple people to wrestle him down and that might have explained the split chin. I can also confirm that he was the kind of leader to take it all in stride, in spite of possible joking threats that he could have been left in that condition in the middle of Haifa Street. He would have seen it as all in good fun, and after our layout, he came over and helped me and my gunner pack our BII back into the truck. Hey, it was better than being taped to the barrel of a tank and left up their all day.

Lieutenants don’t really count as FNGs. A real Cherry is a private, fresh out of basic training or someone still paying on their GI Bill. When three show up at once it’s great, great fun. Of course they would be welcomed in to the unit with all sincerity; my job often being to sit down with them and show them how to put together their MOLLE gear and get all their stuff set up right. There may or may not have been an elaborate plan to jack with these three new guys mind’s before this though. Junior NCOs may have ambushed them outside to make them do a layout, cursing and screaming the whole while. Meanwhile, our platoon sergeant, a self-proclaimed “dirty mick” may or may not have set up a Satanic looking service in our platoon AO, with all of us sitting around like diabolical worshipers, wearing chem-lights taped to our heads and listening in enthralled silence to our PSG as he explained to us that we were about to go raping and pillaging through an Iraqi village (something we never really would do).

“And we will kill their babies…” The FNGs may have stumbled into the dark, blacked out room at this point. “…and we will eat the burned babies and eat the burnt babies and WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!” This may or may not have been the key word for everyone to leap from their seats and surround the wide eyes, terrified new guys, cursing and screaming and raging at them; chasing them into the LT’s sleeping area. This may or may not have been the same LT welcomed in a similar manner a short time before, and the new guys may or may not have found him seated at a computer, wearing a Stetson and a green wool tanker’s trench coat, typing away in big red font.

Continue reading Cherries…

What is your favorite cherry story?

This is also not a fairy tale. This is a story about survival. The rest of it just kind of happened…

I’ve always considered myself a proud American. I was taught to respect the flag and what it stands for. Support all those that defend it. Honor the fallen, never forget the sacrifices that were made. Always hold the importance of freedom paramount. America is the greatest country in the history of the world. Some call it old school, traditional, even right-wing. It is that. And more.

I’ll admit it. I’m an effin’ girl on some things. One of those things happens to be a man in uniform. It isn’t a cliché or a lie when we say this. All women feel this to some degree or another. If not, they’re hippies, they don’t deserve your manly awesome-ness, and you don’t want that on your junk anyway. We all have our preferences as well, as to which dress uniform color really turns our crank. Don’t believe me? Ask. If nothing else, you’ve got a great pick-up line now.

Years ago, a Marine friend tagged my desk at work with the quote, “and though she be but little, she is fierce.” by Billy Shakespeare. Fierce. Yeah. I own that. I’m a working mom with two firecracker kids that I’d give my life for without even taking a breath first. Family and friends are the same way, just with Pendleton whiskey instead of a juice box. I work for a government agency and my job is to prevent Academia (Hippies) from wasting too much money on crap they don’t need or just to keep them from generally fucking-off with the taxpayer’s dollar. I’m REALLY good at it. I’m called the AuditAxe, Nerd-Herder or the MoneyBitch. Again, I OWN the fierce, in everything I do.

Enter the United States Rangers. Or, one of them at least. Having knowledge of OPSEC regs, we will further refer to him as “Captain Ginger”. Call him on it, I dare you.
Captain Ginger’s first approach to me was filled with flattery, detailed compliments and sweet words. He spoke of his military career briefly, with few specifics. OPSEC, of course.

OK, fine. Dead sexy military guy? You have my attention. (See previous discussion on uniforms-are-panty-dropping-weapons.) Now let’s see what you’re made of.
The following is my moderately accurate recollection of the discussion. Please know that this wasn’t done to be mean, just who I am.

I had a truly genuine smile and thanked him for the flattery and each one of his compliments. Then I proceeded to let him have it with 5’2’’ of Scotch-Irish sass.
“So is this your way of casting out a line? What then? You try and set the hook on any woman that actually nibbles? If so, I’m not the girl for you. I don’t need saved. I don’t need rescued. I have my shit in a moderately small pile. My kids and I are a pretty self contained unit. I’m not looking for someone that is in the right place at the right time, I’m looking for the right one. Old fashioned? Maybe a bit. Oh well.”

I then thanked him profusely for his service. I explained how much I respect his dedication and sacrifice. I let him know that I couldn’t possibly explain how much his honor means to me. I thanked him for being the Hero that my son wants to grow up to be. I asked him to please be safe and take care. I apologized if I came across as harsh, thanked him again for his sweet words and wished him well. This is where I thought it would end.

Yeah, no. Did I mention he’s a Ranger?

You all know the phrase “We will not tire. We will not falter. We will not fail.” He did not do any of those things. You could even go so far as to say he did “Ranger Up”. He never backed down. Quite the opposite, Captain Ginger came back, with a smile even. He not only took my hits in stride, he saw it as a challenge, maybe even attracted him more. He didn’t hesitate, stepped up, disarmed me and pretty much took control of the situation. Because well, that’s what Rangers do.

Flash forward to April- I’m online looking up Ranger info for my son. He has always been obsessed with anything military and has developed a great relationship with Captain Ginger and now wants to be a Ranger, a West Point grad, and every other cool thing 9 year old boys dream of. As I’m looking up the Ranger Creed, I’m also chatting online with my friend TL, stationed in Tikrit. I was having a rare Girly moment and whining/bitching about the fact that the Captain’s deployment had been extended, throwing the ever-present DOD monkey wrench into wedding discussions. His return date had been moved from June to Oc-fucking-tober.

JM – “A Ranger? I had to fall for an effin’ Ranger? Fuck, what was I thinking.”

TL – “It’s love, jack-ass. There is no thinking involved. Suck it up. He wants to marry you so you’d better start acting like a Captain’s wife, for Chrissake. He’s not with you because you’re a delicate princess.”

JM – (reading out loud) “ranger truck, ranger baseball, ranger school, ranger up”

TL – “Yup. That’s exactly what you need to do. Ranger Up.”

JM – “What? No, it’s some website that sponsors that hot Green Beret MMA guy. What are you talking about?”

TL – “I know what it is. It’s a crazy cool site run by combat vets. And I’m talking about what you need to fuckin’ do. Ranger. Fucking. Up. You’ve got this.”

That was the first time I understood the term “Ranger Up”. And at that very moment, I knew my arsenal just got a secret fucking weapon.

• I’ve said it to friends that need to step up a bit.
• I said it to my brother when he makes a Sally-strength drink.
• I’ve said it to my daughter when I hear 5 year-old screams from the bathroom about a spider.
• I said it to my son after be blocked a lacrosse goal with the opponent’s stick right to his ribs. The fierce mom in me had to really hold back and not pound that other little bastard into the turf, though. And whatever you do, don’t start trying to mock lacrosse. It is one of the most honorable games ever. Besides, it’s played at West Point so it’s got to be tough as Hell. But that’s another story.
• I tell myself to Ranger Up. At work when I’ve had my fill of dealing with the barrage of stupidity and just need to last 15 more minutes. On the freeway, when every jackhole in a Prius pulls in front of me. At the gym, when I don’t think I can possibly do any more reps. When I feel like I’ve had it with playing both Mommie & Daddy.

The time I need it most is when the kids are in bed, emails have stopped, and I don’t have to be the strong rock for anyone else anymore. Laying in bed alone, missing his touch, his kiss. Ranger Up. Scared that the phone won’t ring, more scared that it will. Ranger Up. Wondering if… Ranger Up. Counting down to October because in December, I’ll finally become the Captain’s wife. Hells yeah! Ranger The Fuck Up!

I know why TL gave me the “Ranger Up” weapon. It’s because it is necessary for my mission. I go to the gym, but I’m no Kelly Bruno. I own guns and enjoy shooting but I’ve never had any desire to blow rounds through an M16, even though it has been recommended to me as a stress reliever. That’s not my deal. I don’t need to put my ass in the place of thousands of highly skilled Armed Service members that handle that shit just fine.

Warning – The following statement may offend any Feminists in the fray (and they can bite me).

I know my place. Yup. The fierce, sass-wielding hardass knows her place. It’s at home. Writing emails, making care packages for soldiers I’ll never meet just because it’s something I’ve always done, keeping the bills paid, the family cared for, keeping the cell phone powered on, charged and on my person at all times-just in case, supporting all of our troops always, not just on Friday or during parades, teaching my son the importance of putting the flag out every single day and what it stands for.

I’m the “other” branch. The Home branch. I am fierce. Fierce in my protection, fierce with my love. I will protect your home from the inside as you protect it from the outside. I will be at the door with open arms when you return. I will not tire. I will not falter. I will not fail. I will Ranger Up.

Even though the Hero gets the girl, I told you it wasn’t a fairy tale. Fairy tales are bullshit made up to get our kids to go to sleep so we can watch UFC without interruption. And besides, chances are pretty good your Knight in Shining Armor is nothing more than an idiot wearing tin foil.

But, sometimes your knight drives a humvee and wears a crisp green uniform and a tan beret.

If you’re lucky…and fierce.

Put that on a t-shirt, Nick.

In post cold-war Berlin, and having no real mission in life, my infantry battalion continued to train as if the proverbial “balloon” were to go up, even though we knew we had no chance of ever seeing or even having any sort of real mission to support. Because of this we were mocked as the “Parade Brigade.” Subject to numerous parades and becoming experts in every form of inspection known to mankind, I honestly believe that because we had no wartime mission, our Brigade Commander believed that the next best thing we could do was to be the best dressed, have the cleanest equipment and be inspected…continuously.

We had just returned from a live-fire exercise at the Wildchicken, the coldest known training area known to mankind in Germany. And, because we were Infantry, this automatically triggered a TA-50 (personal equipment) inspection from our chain of command. Normally, this was conducted by the Company Commander and First Sergeant, but this time we drew the Battalion Commander and Command Sergeant Major to personally inspect our gear.

As every platoon does, our platoon had the “guy”, the guy who is overweight, an E-4 who thinks and bosses everyone around like he is an E-12 and is also the subject matter expert on… everything; our guy was Summers. To top it all off, SPC Summers was white as a ghost with freckles and bright red hair, and I am talking red on the noodle like a dick on a poodle.

The pre-inspection chaos started a few days before the brass came around and we had already been scrutinized countless times, laying out our gear according to the anally detailed diagrams that went so far as to give widths of each piece of clothing and equipment and ensuring that each soldiers layout looked EXACTLY the same, sans the one or two pieces he was missing. Tent poles and pegs were painted, overshoes were wiped down inside and out…you get the painstaking detail that was required.

The day of the inspection came and, at the last minute, we were instructed to take a 3×5 note card and write down any items that we were missing and place it at the foot of our sleeping bag. We were all decked out, spit-shined boots, starched BDUs, fresh haircuts, the works. SPC Summers was nervous as hell as he was actually going to get some face time with the CSM and he was bucking for a job as his driver. Just before the BC and CSM showed up, Summers took off to the latrine.

This was the opportune time to leverage a little revenge on the I-know-more-than-you-because-I-am-the-greatest-Specialist-ever Summers. Eight little characters quickly scribbled on his 3×5 card and the trap was set. The other two members of our mortar squad were the only other ones to know what was going on, all we needed now was a little luck.

The Battalion Commander and Sergeant Major showed up and started the inspection, because we were the Mortar Platoon, we were last and the suspense was killing me. Slowly, the inspection team made its way though the ranks and FINALLY started at our platoon. We were the 2nd squad and the anticipation was like playing hide-and-seek as a kid, just when you get the best hiding place ever…you’ve got to piss…bad… because you are so excited that no one is going to find you.

Our squad comes to attention and Summers, being the gunner, is first after the Squad Leader. The Battalion commander comes in front of him and immediately picks up his 3X5 card…oh my god…YES! A quizzical look falls across our Lieutenant Colonel’s face as he looks at Summers’ name tag and begins a dialogue that goes something like this…

LTC: “SPC Summers, what equipment are you missing?”

Summers: “Sir, I am missing one tent pole and one mitten liner.”

LTC: “Is that all?”

Summers: “YES SIR!”

LTC: “Sergeant Major, do you know what this means?” showing the card to the CSM still with the perplexed look.

CSM: With a small smirk, he immediately catches on; you can never slip one by the ole salty one, “Sir, why don’t you ask SPC Summers?”

LTC: “SPC Summers, it says here that you are missing ‘Balls 2 EA’, would you care to explain!”

Even though we are at attention and trying really, really hard to maintain some military bearing, a couple snickers slip out from the platoon. His face now as red as his hair, Summers is starting to sweat as he has no idea what is going on, but has a pretty good idea that he is about to be embarrassed, bad. SPC Summers is so flustered he can’t even muster any sort of intelligible answer.

Summers: “Sir?”

CSM: Interjecting “Sir, I think that someone in the platoon is implying that SPC Summers is lacking testicular fortitude.”

LTC: Still confused “And what exactly does that mean Sergeant Major?”

CSM: “Quite frankly Sir, SPC Summers has no balls!”

The platoon has completely lost it, is now openly laughing and fully knowing that we are about to get the holy living shit smoked out of us.

LTC: Keeping a stone face, pausing for a second “Well SPC Summers, your equipment looks good, but I would work on replacing your missing items.”

Summers: Stammering, completely humiliated “YES SIR”

The Battalion Commander and Sergeant Major continue down the line without incident, but as the Sergeant Major stood in front of me, I could have swore that there was a little twinkle in his eye and a slight smile as if he was giving me a high five like he had done something just as mischievous as a young soldier himself.

My First Sergeant, Platoon Sergeant, Squad Leader, NBC Sergeant, Training Room Sergeant, and every other position in the Company that somehow contained “Sergeant” in it smoked my squad for the remainder of the day, but that didn’t matter, Summers never did get the CSM driver job and for some strange and odd reason my platoon was told to stay away from anything that had to do with the Battalion Commander.

I have many a funny story about my good friend Dobbs, but the only thing you need to know right now is that right before CMTC, Dobbs bought the most spectacularly absurd wrap-around sunglasses. They looked like they were straight out of the 80s, yet somehow tactical. No one has seen anything like them before or since. The only thing they were missing was the shutters and bright red finish and we were in a Max Headroom Pepsi Commercial.

Anyway, Day One of Dobbs wearing these ridiculous shades, he had the most amazingly productive day ever, solving three major issues inside of four hours. SSG Roff looked at him and said, “Dobbs, what’s gotten into you? You’re on fire!”

Patterson chimes in, “It’s the shades.”

Lawrence adds, “It’s definitely the shades, sergeant.”

We instantly all agree that his special powers come from the amalgam of contorted plastic wrapped around his head and I announce, “Dobbs, when you’re wearing those you’re like a Transformer. You’re not just Dobbs anymore. You’re Dobtimus Fucking Prime.”

A nickname was born.

The Mission

I had only been with the mortars for about three months when we hit our first CMTC rotation in beautiful Hohenfels, Germany. It was the first mission for that rotation and our battalion commander wanted to “place his hairy eyeball” (we never really knew what that saying meant but he said it a lot) on every officer in the Task Force and discuss the mission at hand. When his impassioned speech concluded, he dismissed all personnel that didn’t have to attend his operations order.

“Yay, I can leave!”, I briefly thought.

Then I realized I was now a battalion asset. This was going to be a long afternoon.

My friend Jared, feeling sorry for me as he left the TOC to go join his platoon, took the opportunity to emblazon my dust-covered HMMWV with cute notes like, “Nick is a stupid penis-head”, “Nick loves gay cow sex”, and “Nick loves the Yankees”. While the first two were reasonable attacks, the latter was a bridge too far, and reciprocation was a moral imperative.

The REAL Mission

Now is an important time to note that I always go too far with this kind of stuff.

Never one to shy from abusing authority, I called into my fire control center and got the 10 digit grids for all of Jared’s vehicles. Dobbs and I pulled out Ye Olde Hohenfels Mappe and headed out. The plan was simple. Dobbs would pull up and bullshit with the guys while I pretended I had “Lieutenant Business” with Jared. In each cargo pocket I had a can of spray paint. I planned on leaving a lasting impression.

We arrive, shoot the shit a little, and I ask where Jared is. They point to a Bradley. I walk to it, turn the corner so I am out of sight and start spray painting what Jared prefers to do to goats and pigs while I giggle to myself. It was at that moment that a) both the driver and gunner of this BFV came around the corner and b) I realized this was the platoon sergeant’s vehicle.

MOTHER FUCKER. Messing with the LT was one thing. The guys may have even let it go down. Spray painting bestiality comments on the PSG’s vehicle…well…infantry law pretty much stated that I needed to get my ass kicked.

The driver screamed out, “LT P just fucked with S’arnt Z’s Bradley! Get him! Get him!”

Fight or Flight!

The jig was up. I needed to pop smoke ASAP. In my mind, Dobtimus Prime had the vehicle running, foot on the gas and brake, and the second my ass hit the seat, he was gonna drop the hammer and we’d be homefree before most of the platoon knew what hit them.

As I continued running, my confidence was building. Even though the 3rd platoon guys were echoing the assault charge in earnest, there was still lots of confusion and I had a good lead. Seconds before, I had heard the HMMWV engine roar to life. I was going to make it! As I turned the corner, I saw my oasis…driving away at top speed.

Fucking Dobbs had left me.

I kept running for another minute, but my fate was inevitable and I decided to turn and let the ass-kicking commence. As I spun on my heel to face Jared’s platoon, I felt like I was re-watching the movie Braveheart. A mob of forty was descending upon me and they were going to get their revenge. The first few idiots charged ahead, but the majority stuck together and held the line.

Fastest guy got there first and instantly regretted it as he realized he weighed 155 pounds and I did not. I threw him like a rag doll just in time to duck under a punch from number two guy. I shot a high crotch single on him, picked him up, and slammed him as hard as I could into the ground. He let out a pathetic gasping sound. Then the mob hit me.

When Mobs Attack:

For those of you that have never been attacked by a mob, you should know there is no way to win unless you have two katanas and your name is Miyamoto Musashi. The fact that you bench press 400 pounds or just got your BJJ purple belt really doesn’t matter at all. You are going to get beat up. I have been attacked by several mobs, but I chalk that up to bad luck and not anything that I did. Nevertheless, I have developed five helpful tips for minimizing damage:

Nick Mob Rule number 1: Protect your limbs. If you leave them hanging out there, some jackass is going to yank an appendage one way while another guy jumps on the pile, and next thing you know your shoulder is out of socket.

Nick Mob Rule number 2: Protect your face. People get exhuberant in mobs. You want to avoid concussions and eye pokes and keep your wits about you as long as possible.

Nick Mob Rule number 3: Protect your genitals. If the reasoning for this rule is not obvious, I implore you not to follow it.

Nick Mob Rule number 4: Build a frame. If you are lying flat on your stomach or back, all the weight of the mob is on your rib cage. No bueno. I find the wrestling “turtle position” to be most advantageous as you can support lots of weight and use your elbows and knees to protect your head and vital organs.

Nick Mob Rule Number 5: Hurt one guy as quickly as possible. The others may feel bad and stop to help him. And if they don’t, well, at least you got one of those bastards.

At the bottom of the pile…AGAIN.

The mob hit me like the All Blacks Rugby Team. I got rolled several times while they doled out punishment, but quickly built my frame, turtled up, and started crawling as best I could, looking for my victim. A wayward leg hit my arm and stayed an instant too long and BAM, it became my property. As the mob continued to bull me over, I dragged this poor soul down with me. I pummeled him, elbowed him, torqued on his leg, pinched him, head butted his ribs – I did my best to do whatever I could do with whatever body part I had that wasn’t being thrashed at any given moment to bring him pain.

The guy started to scream bloody murder. I continued.

Finally, I heard SFC Z screaming for everyone to stop.

They did.

I stood up and apologized to the sergeant I was just assaulting.

“Holy shit, sir! You okay?” Sergeant Z asked.

“Why do you ask?”

Jared was laughing.

I looked at my hands.

Blood. I could feel it pouring out of my nose and mouth.

I felt my face with my hands.

More blood.

I did the nose and teeth check.

Whew. Still present and unbroken.

“I’m good, Sergeant Z. Sorry about that. I meant to spray paint that your LT fucked goats and pigs, not you.”

This response seemed reasonable to all parties involved. I love the Military.

“Did Dobbs just fucking leave?” I ask.

Jared was laughing his ass off now as he reenacted how quickly Dobbs sped into the sunset. Jared being Jared, there were 107 iterations that needed to be physically acted out. My three favorites involved a Lethal Weapon style hood slide, a cartwheel-summersault-backflip into the gunner’s hatch, and one version where Dobbs caught a wave on a surfboard that apparently had miraculously appeared at the opportune moment.

“Great leadership, sir”, Sergeant Z threw out.

“You really seem to be making a difference over there. I’m sure Dobbs just went for help”, chuckled Sergeant Robb.

“Dude, you’re like the worst platoon leader, ever”, added Jared with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Return Home

I hop out of Jared’s HMMWV as my guys notice that I am completely fucked up.

“Sir, what the hell happened?” asked Roff.

“Dobbs left me to get my ass kicked,” I answered.

“What?” Lawrence chimed in.

“You left the LT?” Patterson asked. “Damn, man! That shit’s cold!”

Dobbs smirked an uncomfortable smirk and tries to walk away as the guys bust his balls.

“Hey Dobbs!” I shout.

He turns around.

“You’re not Dobtimus Prime. You’re not even a Transformer anymore,” I declared in my command voice.

“You know what you are, Dobbs?” I ask as I walk up to him and poke my finger into his chest, letting the anticipation build.

“You’re a fucking Gobot!”

Epilogue

I pissed blood for a couple days.

The paint that I used could not be removed or painted over. Apparently the special paint the Army uses on Bradley Fighting Vehicles isn’t the same as the Krylon I had handy. The vehicle had to get repainted at higher, so SFC Z fucked goats and pigs for the rest of the rotation. This was incredibly amusing to me.

SSG Roff and Austin had a mock serious intervention with me claiming I was too hard on Dobbs. Demoting him to Bumblebee or Jazz was one thing, but a Gobot? A Scooter he was not.

Dobbs eventually got his Dobtimus Prime moniker back.