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.

It happened when I was at a friend’s house drinking beer and generally hanging about with several other military couples with multiple kids. The Olympics were on and though I don’t frequently watch ice-skating events, the fit chicks in the skimpy outfits held my attention from across the room. I’m not sure this is a good thing in itself since several of them were, let’s say, not of the legal age and preferred to hold their legs up high as they skated directly in front of the camera. The image gives new meaning to the term, “her country’s little darling.” I felt dirty, but didn’t mind really. If they’re putting it out there…

Anyway, a teaser heralded the upcoming French ice-dancing team as the favorite, but of course all I cared about was the six pack the chick was sporting that she felt the need to not cover up. I was enthralled. But a foul, heinous evil brewed.

“Let’s watch the family guy. It’s hilarious,” toted the host. I agreed whole-heartedly. It is a truly funny show. But the chick with the abs was coming up. What to do?

“Is there any more shrimp?” I feigned an interest in the horrible appetizers growing cold on the coffee table in an attempt to divert attention away from the remote so I could pounce on it and shove it between two cushions, never to be seen until the light of the next day.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll get some more.” The ruse worked! I’m home free, right?

Wrong.

“I got the channel, dude,” another voice proclaimed.

“The wingman!” I muttered. “Cheeky bastard!”

He reached out his hand to grab the sacred scepter of power. Think fast!

“Is that your kid, dude?” I pointed down the hall as one of twenty carpet commandos let out a shriek perfectly timed.

“Austin? Get off of Conor, buddy,” he says sprinting toward the action. I spring the trap for the remote and have it, holding it like my own precious!

“There it is,” I hear as it’s forced from my hand by some vile cur of a … “honey?” I ask staring unbelieving at my spouse.

“It’s time for…” she says pointing the wand of Harry Potter at the tube. I must stop her. It’s time for the weapon of surety in this situation…honesty.

“But the French ice-dancing team is coming on!”

It would be cliché and hard to believe that at this very moment of crisis every sound in the 2600 square foot house full of thirty some-odd people, kids and three legged dogs stopped, leaving only my girlish, pleading voice to fill the void, wouldn’t it? But if that were the case, I wouldn’t be writing this silly story, would I? A thousand stares fell upon me not just from the members in attendance, but from the ghosts of a hundred ancestors past as my sexuality was suddenly and savagely in question. I writhed in agony trying desperately to think of any quip or anecdote to remedy the situation.

Nada! The slings and arrows commenced.

“Dude!”

“The what?”

“Are you sure those are your kids?”

“Have you gone off the farm?”

“Should we call you twinkle toes?”

“Jen, were you artificially inseminated?”

“You tight-wearing, blue-boy!”

“But she’s hot!” I insisted.

Sometimes it’s just better to shut the fuck up!

-Rudyard Kipling

Do military guys make easy targets? Does a tight haircut and a sculpted physique make us the prime suspect when shit hits the fan?

Case in point – there I was at a bar in Seoul. My buddy Shawn decides to throw a roll of toilet paper across the bar and watch it stream out across the fifty or so dancing heads. Only he miscalculates the size of the space and doesn’t realize that this particular bar is only about 20 feet across, so when the toilet paper roll reaches the other end of the room, it still has a lot of mass to it. It smashes into a bunch of glasses behind the bar, pissing off the bartender and a few patrons.

“Hey, you! I saw you thow that!” the bartender yells at me.

“You saw ME throw it?” I said stunned. Sure I was drunk and the real perpetrator was my friend who was standing near me (and was skeedaddling out the back door at the moment), but I didn’t commit the heainous act, so for him to say he saw me throw it was nonsense. Yet there I stood, accused and alone standing in the street after I’d been tossed out of the establishment.

You look like a troop. You must be to blame for something.

Down the hill I had no better luck. An American had gotten upset with a Korean man and fisticuffs were thrown. When the fracas spilled into my personal space, I was uttering the phrase, “I’m not the American who started this!” repeatedly. These incidents aren’t isolated to Asia or my youth. Here in the States I’ve been the target of someone’s vigilante mob a few times when I had nothing to do with an incident and several of my military friends have had similar occurrences throughout our careers.

So what is it about us that makes people assign instant blame to the guy sporting the military look? Sure we have a lot of tattoos, sometimes smoke like Dennis Hopper in Waterworld, and reach for a weapon as a response mechanism to any loud THUD, but other than that, why?

Have you been the usual suspect when trouble pops up (assuming you weren’t the cause, you dirty soldier)? Are we singled out unfairly when shit hit s the fan or are we just paranoid?

Sound off.

“Yeah, I’m learning it faster than they teach it. Got a test on the 9mm tomorrow.”

I was on the phone with one of my former Squad Leaders who’d worked for me while I was a Platoon Sergeant at the Wounded Warrior Battalion. Jeff was a Light Armored Vehicle mechanic who’d been deployed in Iraq when he was wounded in a firefight. After almost three years of evaluations, physical therapy, and treatment, his recovery process had finally been completed. Unlike most Marines who’ve been through such an experience and persevered, he had gone further still above and beyond the call of duty – he deferred a medical retirement at nearly a full 100% disability rating and applied for the Permanent Limited Duty program. Once he was screened and selected for PLD, he reenlisted for four more years and had been sent to the Basic and Advanced Armorer’s course at Ft. Lee, Virginia.

“That’s good to hear, especially from a brain-dead guy like you, fatass. Make sure you keep them grades up – I’d love to see you be the Honor Grad up there.”

“Hell, man, that shouldn’t be too hard – everyone else in my class is either a total boot or some lameass Army dude.”

After he’d returned from Iraq, a combination of Jeff’s medications, insomnia, and radically adjusted metabolism had left him rail thin – hovering under 160 lbs. at nearly six feet tall. The guy could knock back a 20 oz. Porterhouse, a half gallon of Rocky Road and a case of Guinness every night and never gain a pound. That of course earned him the nickname of “fatass”, Bhudda”, “Cartman”, “Fatty Mc Fat-fat”, or any other tasteless ‘fat guy’ name that sprung to my lips at any given moment.

He had permanent nerve damage in one arm, a severe Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and serious short-term memory loss. There would be times I was briefing the Platoon on daily events or just passing the word, and I’d see him begin staring off into space, flashback-style. Those moments would see me pull out my Zippo, waving it in his direction, and saying “Looky! Shiny! Pretty!”

“You’ll be done in three or four weeks, right?”

“Nah, they keep changing the course curriculum. It was November 2nd, now it’s the22nd… I don’t think they even know.”

“Damn, dude! Oh well, I guess that’s more TAD money for ya!”

When I first took over the Platoon, he was running about 15-20 hours of appointments and rehab every week – a significant decrease from when he’d first begun his recovery about a year earlier. He’d jumped all over my offer to be a Squad Leader, because he wanted to “do some NCO shit again instead of just sitting around on my ass”. I’d seen him around the other Marines in the Platoon, and he was already watching over them and guiding them through their own recovery process in a brotherly way – if your brother was a no-bullshit redneck with a short temper. He would help you out by being the voice of reason, and sometimes that voice was telling you to “grow the fuck up!” loud enough to be heard through the walls of our barracks building. His dedication to enforcing discipline, helping others in the Platoon, and rooting out self-pity always had a fierceness that belied his sometimes goofy, beanpole appearance. To his credit, he made a habit of coming to me when one of his Marines had just blindsided him with some dumbshit problem (DUI, bills unpaid, car wreck, etc.) and say “Staff Sergeant, I need you to go talk to LCpl Whatsisface right now, because if you don’t I’m going to choke the shit out of him.” He was a benevolent and merciful God-Sergeant in that way.

“Hey, I’ll be home this weekend. You gotta come visit – I owe you a couple of beers for helping Brandy out.”

“Ah, shut up, fatass. That wasn’t even a question – you’d do the same thing for me. And if you didn’t I’d beat your ass with an axe handle.”

After leaving my Platoon Sergeant assignment, I lucked into a million-dollar deployment to West Africa aboard a ship on a non-combat mission. Exotic locales, tons of awesome training, and everything else that people who believe the commercials join the Marine Corps to do. The day I returned, my fiancée Tanya and two kids were there to greet me. I didn’t really get emotional until moments later, when Jeff slapped me on the back and said “Welcome Home.” He’d made sure that he was there that morning with every available Sergeant from my old Platoon to greet me. Apparently, I was not the biggest asshole to work for in the Marine Corps.

A few weeks after Jeff went to Virgina, his wife called and was nearly in tears, explaining how her car had been damaged by recent flooding and would be in the shop for a long time, and she wasn’t sure if insurance would cover a rental car. She had to get to work, and there was nobody here to look at her car or try to fix it. Tanya immediately offered her my Jeep, and I dropped it off later that night with a full tank of gas. It’s one of the few times I’ve been in a position to genuinely help one of my guys, and it was just reflex – Marines always take care of their own.

“I’ll let you go, man. If I don’t catch you this weekend, I should be home for Thanksgiving.”

“Roger that, brother. And if they decide to change shit up again and keep you beyond that, let me know – we’ll bring Turkey Day to you if we gotta.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“You better appreciate it – I know your flabby ass is gonna eat three whole fried turkeys and a pan of cornbread if it’s on my nickel!”

The PLD program was specifically created by the Commandant to give combat-wounded Marines a chance to stay in the Corps and serve in whatever capacity they’re able, for as long as they can, while still being promoted competitively among their peers. Of a dozen or more Marines I’ve known that applied, Jeff is one of three that were accepted.

For all the madness, bureaucracy, and BS that can be perpetuated in the Corps on a daily basis, I can look at Jeff and think that they got it right at least one time. I’m damn proud of him – and not just because he scored 100% on that 9mm test the next day.

The kid’s a fighter, and we’ll all be better as a Tribe for every day he spends in this big green motherfucker. Fidelis.

Sunday,
19 September 2010
Combat Outpost Turbett, Afghanistan
Firefight with Herman, Hollis, Lambert, Johnson, LeMoines and Jim Spiri

{Editor’s Note: Jim’s has been remotely embedded with Marines with limited comm. Jim has captured some outstanding photos and audio and we’re going to process as time permits and release in batches. For Operational Security reasons some of our edits/photos/audio will be delayed for review.}

Today, I captured a few photos that I’ve been trying to get for years and if audios were icing my cake was complete. The enemy was emboldened this day after the local elections, not very wise.

LCpl Herman was in charge of today’s patrol, normally lead by a Sergeant, but the Marine Corps’ way is to breed competence and this patrol was in capable hands. “Contact Patrol” – this note on the orders meant action.

After the briefing, we lined up outside the command operations center and were checked for proper personal protective equipment (PPE) and water/food should we get bogged down and stay out longer than anticipated.

The day’s routine would be to check suspicious individuals in the area and run IDs. The biometrics system, which is often offline, is used to crosscheck for records of enemy combatants. Concrete hard giant dirt clods and paths by water canals make patrolling an exercise in not twisting ankles. The temperature is colder than it has been and the hint of winter is bearing down.

As we were walking through fields of cotton, chatter comes over the radio about Taliban fighters who were up the road that we had just exited. One of the farmers we came across reported that Taliban were up ahead. More comms with the Combat Operations Center (COC) ensued and we continued to move toward the enemy.

There were 10 Marines on this patrol and our always present Corpsman. I was with first team which included LCpl’s Hollis, Lambert, LeMoines, Herman and the Corpsman, Doc Johnson. Lambert was on point while Herman and I were close behind. We soon entered back onto the main ditch bank road near what is known here as the Taliban tree. Things were eerily quiet. One of the Marines spoke up as we were walking along the road, “…ok, we’re gonna get shot at today…”

I was fiddling with my camera and kidding Hollis about being surrounded and protected by a bunch of Marine Corps Boston Red Sox fans when all of a sudden shots rang out all over the place. We took cover and Lambert crossed a water canal by basically flying over this tube structure. Hollis immediately went down into the water in front of me and I grabbed him and we both crossed together. LeMoines did a surreal back flip right into the water and then grabbed my hand and I yanked him as hard as I could to right himself and get out of the canal. My 30 plus years on these Marines is balanced only by the extra weight they’ve got to carry which inhibits their movement.

Returning Fire

More shots rang out and Marines returned fire. As this transpired, my Chinese made audio recorder decided to screw up and I had a hell of time trying to get it to work. I’m messing with my audio recorder and taking photographs at the same time while keeping an eye on whether bullets are getting too close to my ass. It’s a good scene for a movie and one I look back on and smile. Hell I was with Marines, what’s the worse that could happen?

Marines go straight towards the fire to pursue the enemy as soon as possible and there was no way I was going to stay behind. LCpl Herman, directed me to stay with him, which is exactly what I wanted to do.

Our patrol was in comms with another squad that was pushing down from the north hoping to squeeze the enemy into the open. As we continued more shots rang out. At this, LeMoines, the one carrying the “big gun” says, “I’m gonna lay down some fire, get ready, here goes…” He begins to take a step forward and brings this big weapon up to his chest level aiming straight forward pointing down the road to the north.

Maintaining Comm - Maintaining Calm

From my right eye I see where the enemy is firing from. From my left eye, I see LeMoines who appears to be nine feet tall with what seems like a 20-foot long weapon. He begins to fire and march forward yelling some things I can’t remember, he is adamant and direct. I have my eyes trained on him and I can feel my right index finger holding down on the shutter button snapping three photos a second. The noise doesn’t bother me.

I’m next to Herman and everyone looks to be ok. The flak vest that usually is ripping my shoulders and back apart feels no heavier than a feather. We move forward at a brisk pace. All I can hear is the sound of my feet and the others with me crunching the dirt and rocks underneath.

A suspect is spotted on a roof to the east across the canal, friend, foe, or innocent? Marines identify him as a combatant spotter. A shot is zeroed in on him. We continue forward, to the north, alongside another adobe wall this time on our left, or the west. We come to a break in the wall and two Marines take up positions for me and the others to cross. Shots ring out and I can’t figure out where they are coming from. Multiple shots ring out and we move close against the wall.

Earlier in the fight an M-203 grenade launcher was engaged and it suppressed the enemy firing at us. The surrounding tall bamboo type vegetation is perfect concealment. We come across a position from where the enemy had been firing at us at relatively close range and discover a dozen or so spent shells we gather as evidence.

The firing stopped. We maneuver west into some fields and wait as another squad links up with us. The enemy seems to have vanished.

Two cobra helicopters approach our position. One of the Marines yelled out “oh great, now the fun is over…” And that was the end of the firefight.

As we waited in this field in small canals for the other squad to come into position, all the Marines bummed cigarettes from one another. These warriors are young and really not concerned at the moment how damaging smoking may be to their health. I can’t figure out how they can smoke and hump these fields on a daily basis.

These Marines aren’t arrogant but trained to eliminate the enemy. After the firefight they feel good for the simple reason of being able to do their job. As we walk the road and come nearer to the base, everyone is kind of quiet and gearing down for being bored until the next firefight while they are deployed on this tour. It is said that war is generally 95% boredom with 5% a total adrenaline high speed rush.

That evening I downloaded the photos from my flash drive to the Marine’s computers. I saw in their smiles that they survived another day and the photos were a small trophy that captured the reality of the day.

Somehow shooting a photo of a US Marine firing his weapon at an enemy whose land harbored terrorists that attacked us on September 11th strikes me at my core. I cannot explain it any further than that.

I stayed up late that night and went over to the CMOC and listened to Sergeant Jimmy Bernard and Doc Grabowsky jam on their guitars.

I was chewing on a toothpick while most of the others were sucking on dip or smoking a cigarette. I was in Afghanistan. It had been another eventful day and I was still coming down from it all. I had called home and discussed actions briefly and told Candi I would be leaving soon and start the long journey home.

She wanted to know if I was satisfied with the results and I told her it was just the right thing to do in order to close this chapter out. What I did not tell her was what she probably already knows. I wanted so much to have done this with my son Jesse.

Captain Zepeda is the perfect company commander for me to have been linked up with in order for me to close this chapter. I am convinced that it was the Lord’s sovereign will that I come to Combat Outpost Turbett. Sam Dillon and Jimmy Bernard were placed in my path by the Lord to come here. These things I know to be true.

This is how the day of September 19, 2010 ended in COP Turbett for me. I went to sleep and was very tired now. My whole body was sore and I did not know it until I laid down.

Audio 1 Patrol and Firefight Part 1

Audio 2 Patrol and Firefight Part 2

Audio 3 Patrol and Firefight Part 3

Audio 4 Patrol and Firefight Part 4

Audio 5 Patrol and Firefight Part 5

Audio 6 Patrol and Firefight Part 6

Reporting,
Jim Spiri In The Stan

Candi, I love you and soon I’ll be home

Preparing for Patrol

Donate money to keep Jim Spiri in Afghanistan!

All funds go directly to Jim Spiri. The more funds we raise, the more time Jim can remain abroad giving us an unvarnished look at our conflict in Afghanistan. All monies remaining in this account upon his return will be donated to Soldiers’ Angels. Not a single dime will be kept by Jim Spiri, Ranger Up, or Devil Dog Brew.

UPDATE!

Jim is back home now and all is well. We’re still helping Jim cover his expenses so we will still raise money to support Jim with more stories, photos, and audio from Afghanistan to follow.

“Quit smirking,” I snarled at the plebe in front of me. “I’m not sure why you think it is funny that you just got your ass kicked.” The kid actually hadn’t gotten his ass kicked, but he had just lost one of his four mandatory plebe boxing matches in a close decision. Apparently a lot of other people had joked with him about it – how much boxing sucked, etc. and he thought that I was going to have the same reaction when he explained how he had done.

“You should be fucking pissed off man. I’m not sitting here telling you that you need to be a professional boxer or that you should go and sulk in the corner, but you just got beat up because someone else either had more skill or wanted it a hell of a lot more. Is that funny?”

“No, sir,” came the prompt response.

“Look man. I’m not going to sit here and tell you I know what combat is like. I’ve got one year on you and I sure as shit haven’t been there, but I know that, if nothing else, finding that killer instinct when someone is trying to knock you the fuck out is important.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed.

“You need to make a decision man. You’re either gonna be a guy that laughs off failures or you’re gonna be a guy that learns from them and works hard so they never happen again. I know if I had to follow someone out the back of an airplane into combat I’d sure as shit want the guy who had done everything he could to be the best warrior he could, and not the guy who laughed off his failures as unimportant. How about you?”

It was my sophomore or “Yearling” year at West Point. I had successfully finished the dreaded plebe year and Camp Buckner, which meant it was time for me to have my own plebe and have my first military leadership position. My roommate and I each were given two kids to look after – it was our job to teach them how to succeed as a freshman at West Point. One of our four was a skinny, baby-faced kid with big ears by the name of Paul Carron. He was the subject of my current boxing is equal to life rant.

I won’t lie. When I first feasted my eyes on Paul I thought, “This kid is gonna have a rough time.” So my roommate Nate and I did all things that Yearlings do to make sure he’d succeed. We pushed him on knowledge, we tore apart his room and uniform to make sure they wouldn’t get in real trouble with the upperclassmen, and we PTed the crap out of him. The whole time I was waiting for the kid who looked like he was twelve to crack.

He just never did.

He would get this scrunched up look on his face, find a new deeper reserve, and keep moving. Over time we realized that Paul, the son of a Sergeant Major, was just never going to quit. Later that year, so impressed with the way he had performed, we asked him to represent our company in Sandhurst – an extremely rigorous international military competition that takes place over a nine mile obstacle course. It struck me as he completed the course next to me and we all collapsed from exhaustion that this baby faced kid had become a leader in his class. He worked hard, cared passionately about those around him, had maintained the NCO sensibility bestowed on him from his dad, and would not quit in the face of adversity or back down to any challenge. Paul Carron was going to be a great officer.

Years later, as I was going through the Captains Career Course, I bumped into Paul at Fort Benning. He had just taken a job as a platoon leader in 3/75 – he would go on to be an XO there as well. We grabbed lunch to catch up and I realized that while he looked every bit the part of the kid, he had changed markedly. His time in the real military had sharpened his focus on the need to train hard and take care of his soldiers, but he was also keen on how he fit into the Army and how he could make a difference in the larger organization. He sat there for an hour and explained his outlook on what he would contribute as I listened intently and provided what feedback I could. It was one of those awesome moments where you realize the kid you used to mentor had surpassed you as an officer.

We went our separate ways and bounded the occasional message back and forth, but in short order Army life pulled us both away to our own challenges and I lost sight of him again. Years later, I’d receive multiple emails from my West Point classmates letting me know that a letter Paul had written to the Washington Times had been published. The letter, included below, called several in the Hollywood and political arenas to task for their absurd comments about our Armed Forces. I couldn’t possibly have been prouder.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR. Published in the Washington Times 24 March 2006.

CAPT. PAUL CARRON
U.S. Army

At this point Paul was a Ranger Instructor at 5th Ranger Training Battalion. Coincidentally, one of the Duke students I had mentored had just returned for a weekend to celebrate his graduation from Ranger School in Durham. I asked him how it had gone and got the usual Ranger School gripe stories. He paused though and told me that one guy had been particularly hard on him and that he thinks the guy knew me.
“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah man. This guy was a Captain but he acted like an NCO on crack. If anyone fucked around even a little he was on them. Always relaying stories he had experienced. He just kept saying, ‘The work you do here makes all the difference when you get out there. You have to make a choice. Are you going to be the guy that just tries to slide by and brush off your failures as good enough or are you going to be a freakin warrior and try to crush every mission? I know who I’d want to follow. How about you?’”

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Captain Carron,” he responded.

“Paul Carron?” I asked.

“Yeah that’s it!”

It was my turn to smirk.

A year later, Paul was awarded the MacArthur Leadership Award for exemplary service and leadership, an honor awarded to only a handful of officers each year. He was on his way to making those changes he had begun to form early in his career. I’d expect nothing less.

Paul died in Afghanistan on September 18th, 2010, three days after his 33rd birthday. It was his fifth deployment. He left behind his loving wife Susan, his two-year old daughter, Madeline, and his unborn son. He also left behind the hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers, much like me, who had the pleasure and honor of serving with him and being touched by his passion, kindness, character, and devotion to duty. He is the best our country had to offer, and I miss him dearly.

Rest in peace my friend.

{Editor’s Note: Jim’s been out of touch with limited comm for an extended period of time, we’re relieved to report he’s safe and back at Camp Dwyer. Great updates are on the way.}

Blackhawk Pilot, Army Captain Kinney, discusses “Dust Offs” aka Army Medivacs and compares  mission differences between Iraq and Afghanistan. Captain Kinney has been in the Army 6 years and every deployment has been with the Marines.

Blackhawk Pilot Army Captain Kinney

Listen to AUDIO Interview Here:DustOff26Aug2010CaptainKinney

Noisy AUDIO of Actual Dust Off:

An Apt Description - The Dust

Reporting,
Jim Spiri In The Stan

Candi, I love you and soon I’ll be home.

Donate money to keep Jim Spiri in Afghanistan!

All funds go directly to Jim Spiri. The more funds we raise, the more time Jim can remain abroad giving us an unvarnished look at our conflict in Afghanistan. All monies remaining in this account upon his return will be donated to Soldiers’ Angels. Not a single dime will be kept by Jim Spiri, Ranger Up, or Devil Dog Brew.

The game plan had been to be on our best behavior. It was the night before Tim Kennedy’s title fight. Nick had been abused, much to my amusement (Hey, I’m not going to lie about it) by Tim for the past three days as he acted as Tim’s throw dummy/punching bag in the days preceding the fight, so he wasn’t really in a dancing mood. Furthermore, we’d extended the offer to have Ranger Up super fans, Sarah Fetters and her father Doug, come along for the trip. The Fetters are wonderful people, but we hadn’t met them before, knew they were strong Christians, and we weren’t sure what Ranger Up level they were comfortable handling, so Nick put me on strict orders to be good and not purposefully try and instigate a Sodom and Gomorra situation. Finally, our buddy John Tackett had been cleared by Home-6 to come out, with her giving me strict instructions not to let him get arrested or end up in another homoerotic workout video. Orders firmly in hand, the command decision was made to have a chilled night in the hotel bar for a couple of drinks, no more, and retire to bed at a reasonable hour. Sometimes, my friends, you don’t go looking for trouble, trouble just finds you…

John Tackett’s Perspective

There she was – rail thin with a nose that didn’t quit. She spotted right in on Tommy from across the bar. He was like catnip for this skank. As she began moving, I took in the whole of her: shorts a size too small and showing off thighs as big around as the average guys arm, she locked onto our little Batboy like a heat seeking missile. Tommy was doing his boisterous, laugh and talk too loud thing as I watched her walk snatch a drink from the bar and drunkenly saunter over. She stopped inches away from him and cleared her throat.

Tommy’s Perspective

“Excuse me, did you say something?” I asked slightly surprised to find the girl right next to me. We’d seen her around the weigh-ins and hotel all day, talking to different fighters and hanging out with some bearded dude who looked like he also had an affinity for things that made you super skinny. As so often happens in my life, opening my mouth was a bad idea.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said smiling, as she moved uncomfortably close to me.

Sarah Fetter’s Perspective

It’s always a bit of a surreal experience to meet people in person that you have previously known only through a computer screen. So after introductions all around, I joined the Ranger Up guys in the hotel bar. I sat down to listen and observe. I knew of most of the people there so when a chick walked up and started talking to Tommy I thought “she must be with them or they know her from somewhere”. As she continued talking and using Tommy to prop herself up, I began to see the truth…this was a Ranger Up story in the making. They literally did nothing to provoke this encounter, but nevertheless, they would embrace it wholeheartedly. Enter: The Crazy Chick.

Tommy’s Perspective

“So are you guys here for the fights?” She asked us, still staring at me. Tackett, Nick, and Joe Namee, owner of CTC Austin (the gym Tim trains out of) all looked at me wondering where this was going.
“Yes,” I told her. “We are all friends of Tim Kennedy and he’s fighting for the belt tomorrow night.”
“Oh, wooooooooow!” She slurred at us. “That’s so cool, so like what do y’all do?”
“Nick and I make t-shirts,” I tell her pointing over to Nick. “What do you do?”
“I’m a bartender in Austin, it’s a pretty cool job. Here you want my shot?” She says suddenly putting a shot of Jager in front of me.
“You didn’t roofie this did you?” I asked her. Normally this is a joke. I was not kidding.
“NOOOOOOO!” She squealed laughing at me. “I’ve been roofied before, and I’d never do that with a drink!”
“I’ve been roofied too,” Nick calls out, giving out a factoid I didn’t know about him before, but yet didn’t surprise me.
“Did you get roofied by steak, cause that’s how I’d do it,” Crazy Chick chirped merrily.
“Excuse me, but umm… what?” Tackett asks her, recovering his wits faster than the rest of us had and asking the question we all were thinking.
“You guys have all seen the Hangover right?” We nod. “Well you know how they get the tiger calmed down by feeding it the roofied steak? That was my idea. I came up with that years ago! If I was ever going to roofie someone, that’s how I’d do it, with steak.”
“Your parents must be proud,” Nick quips.
“P.S. Why do you have a preferred roofie method?” I ask. Teamwork is important at Ranger Up.
“Because what guy turns down a free steak? Seriously if a girl walks up to you and hands you a steak, are you going to turn it down?”
She’s serious, that is what none of us could believe at first. Somewhere inside her chemically altered head this was not only a good idea, it was THE idea in terms of delivery method of a narcotic designed to make you black out. Had we taken a moment to really chew this one over (no pun intended, but if Nick wants to note that if he had written this part, it would have been intended) we might have tried to change course (again, Nick notes this would have been the second level of the pun), but we simply had to know the mechanics of this thought process.

“But how are you going to get the steak into the establishment? And for that matter, what if they don’t serve food? Or maybe it’s like 1am and the kitchen attached to the bar is closed, or for that matter what if the place serves food but not steak, only burgers. Would you then roofie the burger?” Nick asked. Enquiring minds now legitimately wanted to know. Alack, all we got was a puzzled look on Crazy’s face. “Huh, I never thought of all of that,” she said, genuflecting on these new developments.

“For that matter,” I intoned, “isn’t it so much simpler just to put the roofie in a drink that you know will always be at the party? I mean isn’t that why the frat boys on every major college campus use that method, because with drinks it’s that easy?”

Little did I know mentioning higher education was about to turn this from “interesting night” to “shitshow” in the blink of an eye.

“Hahaha, that never happened to me at (insert Texas regional school here) when I was in undergrad and I don’t really hang out with frat boys now that I’m in grad school.”

“You’re in grad school?” Nick asked a touch surprised, as we all where. “What are you getting your degree in?”
“I got my undergraduate in business management and I have my master in English education.”
“Cool, when’d you graduate with your masters?”
“Well, technically I’m still getting my masters,” she answered.

“So you don’t have it,” Nick asked, “You’re a candidate for a masters degree.”

“Well yeah, I guess, but it’s still better than what you guys have,” she said sarcastically.

Uh, oh. I already know the second she decided to get cocky Nick was going to start really fucking with her, and I will have no choice but to support him.

“Where you going to school?” Nick asked.

“Token Regional Texas School”, she answered.

“Oh, so it’s like a Bachelor’s degree.” Nick asked with a smile on his face, the rest of us started giggling.

“What, screw you! (Insert Texas regional school here) is a great school, and I coulda gone to UT!!!” It was here she made her first mistake. You either do something in the Ranger Up world, or you don’t. It’s that simple. There’s no room here for woulda, shoulda, coulda- a price must be paid.

“So why didn’t you? You know if you could get in and all, why’d you just settle for like, another bachelor’s degree?”

“What, fuck you!” Crazy screamed at Nick, catching the attention of several tables nearby. Then she compounded her problem.

“So where do you have YOUR degree from!?!?” She screams, literally, at Nick.

Nick, has two of the most prestigous degrees on the planet with a BS from West Point (I confess to my fellow NCOs, I do in fact work with a ring knocker) and an MBA from Duke. Act like a jackass though he may, but unless you have a pair of degrees from the Ivy leauge, you’re not going to up pedigree Nick.

That said, there is a fine line between making fun of someone who deserves it and coming off as snotty, which is oftentimes the case when people turn to educational elitism.
I can tell Nick doesn’t want to go down this path, and uncharacteristically, he backs down, saying, “It really doesn’t matter. I was only joking. I’m sure it’s a great school.”

She persists. “No seriously, asshole, where is your degree from?”

Knowing Nick had absolutely no intention of name dropping, and being the person responsible for this chick being at our table, I figured it was my job to save the crack head from herself.

“You don’t want to do that with him,” I interject quickly.

“Oh really, I don’t huh?” She sneered at me. “Why not? Seriously, where’d you get yooooooooour degree from.” She once again taunted towards Nick. Strike two.

“Sweetie, you really, don’t want to play that game with him.” I tell her, making what I think is a passable attempt at being nice. Nick’s face is one of pure Zen, waiting to see which way this choose your own adventure is going to go.

“Whatever, come on big shot, where’d you go to school?” Strike three, you’re out. At least I have the good Karma of knowing I tried to save her from herself.

“I received my Bachelors Degree in Mechanical Engineering from West Point and I have an MBA from Duke,” Nick said calmly and nicer than I think I would have, had I been in his position.

“Oh that’s suuuuuuuuuuch a big deal!” Crazy Chick fired back, reminding us for the 8th time that night she had the maturity of a 5 year old.

“Better than a bachelors and a half,” Nick coughed out with a smirk.

This is the part where Cameron goes Bezerk

“FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU!!!” Crazy screamed, making me wonder if security was going to be called.

“I hate you!” She said leaning in towards him, poking him in the chest. “I hate you, I hate you so much I want to take you upstairs and hate fuck the shit out of you!”

Nick looks over at John and me: “Did she just say that?”

“I believe she did, Nick,” John replied. I concur.

Nick turns to Doug and Sarah Fetters: “I’m sorry”. They laugh. Clearly, they are ready for the full monty.

I put my hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Nick, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in a situation like this before, but I’d take her up on the offer, if nothing else it’ll be an adventure,” now that I was off the hook for our melodramatic friend’s presence it only felt right I should stir the pot a little.

“I fucking hate you guys!!!” She yelled in reply, for the 5th or so time.

“Why do you hate me, I didn’t do anything to you. I was supporting you and your desire to hate fuck Nick, why are you mad at me?!” I asked, feigning being upset out of the right corner of my mouth while trying not to burst out laughing out of the left. Tackett somehow kept his look of mirthful serenity in place.

“You’re right, I’m sorry I’m going to go buy you guys some shots!” She exclaimed, happy again and suddenly turning and running towards the bar. The collective group was left to exchange looks of shock.

“Did that just happen?” Tackett asked, breaking the bemused silence.

“Yes, I believe it did,” Doug Fetters answered.

“I think she just gave me syphilis,” Nick added.

Ten minutes later she came back with a tray of Jaeger shots.

We quickly downed the shots, this times sans roofie jokes, while our new friend announced to the group that she loved the UFC and was its master.

Sarah’s Perspective

She proclaimed with a great deal of (I’m sure) heartfelt emotion that “I’m just realizing that I know more about UFC than aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall of you!” Oh, and this might be a good time to mention she is going to take over Dana White’s job someday. Apparently, her bachelor’s in business management and her ha-masters in English education, along with a bartending resume and a rich Daddy that works for the oil company are the perfect combination for such a career path. God help us all.

Nick’s Persepective

After such a profound proclamation of knowledge to a group of people she clearly must have known were in the fight industry, I was expecting her to regale us with tales of Sakuraba, Severn, or maybe the Frank Shamrock/Tito Ortiz fight. Perhaps discuss the up-and-comers that she felt were on the rise? Something – anything – that would show that somewhere in that seventy pound body there was a functioning brain.

I started asking her simple questions like “Who are you favorite fighters?” After floundering for a bit she came up with Randy Couture and Chuck Liddell. Now I love me some Randy and Chuck, and they are two of my favorites of all time, but if you proclaim universal mastery you better come with something stronger than that. I can pull a random dude off the street that’s never watched a UFC and the three guys he’ll be able to name are those two and Brock Lesnar.

Tom and I throw her more softball questions so she doesn’t lose it again, but when she didn’t know who Mike Goldberg was, I simply asked her, “Have you ever actually watched a UFC?”

She, of course, loses all control of her body and voice once again.

Tommy’s Perspective

It was at this point, dear friends, I did what any sensible person would do: I E&E’ed the fuck out of Dodge. Seeking shelter and refuge at a table of Strikeforce employees across the bar from us, I sat down and started talking about the fights. Two minutes or so later I get a text from Tackett: ‘help.’ As I am deep in conversation I don’t hear the text chime rock off.

John Tackett’s Perspective

Buddy’s only half the word Tommy.

Nick’s Perspective

When Tom the coward abandons us, she reasons she will not be having sex with Tom tonight and as I am closest to her, she makes me her next target of opportunity.

“I’m going to sit on your lap,” she proclaims and starts pushing the table aside.

“Please don’t.” I answer.

“Trust me. You’ll like it,” she slurs as she continues towards me like a coked out, disease-ridden juggernaut of crazy.

“Nicholas Palmisciano!” comes the stern maternal voice from Ginger Kennedy.

“I’m not doing ANYTHING!” I shout like a four-year-old to Tim’s wife.

Sarah’s Perspective
At this point, as it finally dawns on Crazy chick, in between doing shots and crying, that Nick isn’t going to let her straddle him in the hotel lobby, she tries a different tact to get near him – using me. Apparently, we needed to stick together and if push came to shove, I was going to fight the RU guys on her behalf. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

To further increase this tie she decides to try and sit next to me. In order to accomplish this she has to squeeze herself and her enormous purse in between the tables. There is not enough room for a drunk/crazy/high chick with a purse the size of Rhode Island to navigate, so she ends up spilling Nick’s drink on him.

She spends the next 20 minutes randomly proclaiming “I am innocent in this situation” to whomever is sitting by her. Then she passes out at the table for the first time.

Nick’s Perspective

She didn’t spill me drink. She rocketed my completely full Hendrix Maritini, straight up, with three olives, or as I like to call it “A little slice of heaven brought down here on Earth” into my groin. This was not a beverage to be trifled with. There are people’s lives that mean less to me. Furthermore, I now looked like I had wet myself. I wanted to gut her right there on the spot and turn her into a Ranger Up wall trophy, but it was the Fetters’ first day with us. I instead used the diversion to flee, leaving Tackett trapped between the wall and the skank.

John Tackett’s Perspective

I hate you both.

Tommy’s Perspective
Finally she passes out and John crawls over the table to join us. Ten minutes or so after Tackett joined me I look back to see Joe’s morally flexible nephew, Ryan leaving the bar with our friend.

Nick is shouting “Don’t do it” at the top of his lungs while the rest of the BAR laughs. This is made all the more awesome because they enter into a clear elevator and the entire establishment watches their ascent.

Ten minutes later he comes back alone.
“What happened?” I asked him as he sat back down and ordered another drink from the waiter.

“She told me she had a bottle of Gray Goose in her hotel room for the first person who’d claim it so I called her bluff. She walked up to some door, didn’t have any sort of hotel key in that purse of hers, told me her friend had the key and he’d be along shortly and she’d just wait. She also told me really loudly that this guy wasn’t her boyfriend or some shit. Anyway, she said to just leave her so I did.”

“You can’t just leave her at the door!” Joe told his nephew, “dude that’s messed up!”

Be that as it may when Ryan went back to find her she had disappeared.

I saw her the next day at the fights, sitting next to her friend that “wasn’t her boyfriend.” She thanked me for a wonderful “fun” night and hoped we could hang out again. Swear on my combat scroll.