“You’re really going to box those up?” I asked. After ordering a slab of ribs that came from Sasquatch itself and being unable to finish what he started, The Mole proceeded to box them up as if he intended to race straight home and put them in a frosty refrigerator to prevent bacterial rot-gut infestation. Therein lay the problem.

“Yeah, why?” he said, unwilling to follow my logic.

“When do you intend to eat them?”

“When I get hungry later.”

“We’re going to a party for the next five hours and they’ll get rancid with gangrene,” I said. “You don’t want to eat those.”

“Stomach of a goat,” he proclaimed proudly thumping his moley gut. “You should be so lucky old man.”

At that point I dropped it. Festering meat and a healthy dose of “I told you so” sounded like a good way for my evening to end, so I let youth be youth.

So there we were, having a great time at Tequila Rain by Fenway Park in Boston. Surrounded by UFC fighters, hot chicks, and…vodka. Lots of vodka. It’s only for this reason that our Mole isn’t a full fledged douche of the week for what happened next because I can almost understand it. It doesn’t stop me from busting his balls though. You see, Mole is a twenty-two year old Infantryman and professional race car driver. As such he’s indestructible in his own mind. He downed the vodka like Lindsay Lohan after prying off her ankle cuffs. Kid couldn’t get enough of the stuff. And what happens when young people get drunk? They get the munchies.

“Time for the ribs,” Mole says around 1 am.

“I’m telling you, you don’t want to do that.” I repeated my warning, knowing it would do no good. Within minutes the half slab was devoured and Mole was the topic of many photos out of the sheer disbelief that someone was eating a slab of short ribs at 1 o’clock in the morning at a bar.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said proudly. After a short cab ride back to our hotel we parted that evening and I ate crow for being wrong about the ribs.

Or so I thought.

“Dude…he was in bad shape,” Ranger Up’s designer, Luciano said the next day. “I got back to the hotel, walked into the bathroom to take a piss, and there he was…passed out in the bath, covered in bubbles and rib vomit. I thought he was dead.”

I still haven’t stopped laughing.

Moral of the story – You can’t have your ribs and eat them too, especially if you intend to take a bubble bath.

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

BanMeTout Special Forces Camp, 14 August, 1971

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Godfather 22, out.

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

“Wait…trip flare? What the fuck are you doing with a trip flare?” I replied.

Where he got it isn’t important (especially since the statute of limitations does not apply to “acquired” military ammunition). The only thing you need to know is I had a friend in need. He was a fellow National Guardsman who was moving (after six years in school) and didn’t want to take the aforementioned trip flare with him. So he brought it to a bar to pawn it off on some dumbass. Instead he found me.

“Let me see that,” I said snatching it from his hands. As a recent graduate of Infantry Basic and AIT and (more importantly) a Senior in Army ROTC, I was practically Rambo. All I needed was a grenade pin to rip out with my teeth. And I found it.

“Dude…you want to get rid of this? That’s easy.” Before anyone could move, I had the pin out and tossed it toward the street in front of the bar. I momentarily pondered why everyone was diving for cover, but then figured halfway through the flight of the now white hot magnesium ball of fire slowly arcing over some poor schmuck’s parked car to bounce carelessly into Ohio Street. You see, trip flares light up the second the spoon is released, hence the name trip flare. It wouldn’t do much good with a delay because during the five seconds between the pin being pulled and the miniature sun lighting up, the enemy could be in your foxhole stabbing you in the face. Which is what I hoped someone would do to me when I saw an entire Kansas neighborhood lit up like ground zero of a nuclear blast as this trip flare settled in the middle of the street.

I have never been so amazed at the power of the Army Ordnance Corps as that very moment. Were Eddie Murphy on scene, he would have run around yelling, “Now that’s a fire! That’s a fire!” Five hundred meters down the road, a man walking his dog appeared and just before he fell to the ground shouting in pain and covering his eyes, I could see they were a deep shade of blue. A Stargate opened up on Ohio Street. Waiting for the darkness to reclaim the night was the longest sixty seconds of my life.

“What the fuck, dude?” my buddy yelled as he got up off the ground and turned his back to the boiling hot white dwarf as it melted the world around us. I had to cover my ass.

“You said you wanted to get rid of it right? Problem solved. Now buy me a beer.” He wasn’t buying anything.

“I wanted you to turn it in to the armory for me. You know, like amnesty. Not light up half of campus!”

“The cops are going to come down here for sure,” my other friend said. He was always the “glass is half empty” pessimist of the group, but he was probably right. The Lawrence PD frequently cruised this neighborhood and finding an illegally procured and expended piece of government hardware on a college kid was just the thing redneck cops lust over. Besides, the flare (STILL burning) was attracting the attention of a slew of sorority chicks who were moths to a flame when it came to shiny objects. Only an idiot would have stayed at the scene. Then again, only an idiot would have tossed a military-grade trip flare into the road in front of a bar.

“What is that?” a petite blonde asked, emerging from the bar shielding her eyes. “Did you do that?”

“I’ll hang here,” I said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

It’s an annual thing – Army units have to expend all remaining ammunition in their accounts by September 30th or they don’t get any the following year. The logic goes like this – if Uncle Sam gives you 10,000 rounds of ammunition and one fiscal year to shoot them off, then failing to do so means you don’t need 10,000 rounds of ammunition. You probably only need 9,000 rounds and therefore you get a smaller allocation the following year.

So to avoid getting their ammunition accounts cut, most commanders set up a range in late September to go gun crazy before the end of the fiscal year. When you think about it, that means most commanders are cheating the system to ensure they have more ammunition than they really need, which puts an unnecessary burden on the logistics of the Army, but that’s beside the point. This story is all about how one dumbass, butterbar Lieutenant (me) planned, coordinated, and executed one such range and nearly got a lot of people maimed doing so.

The sheer volume of the ammo we had to shoot was staggering. The breakdown went something like this:

15,000 rounds of 5.56 ball ammo for the M-16
10,000 rounds of 9mm ammo for the pistol
7,000 rounds of 7.62mm for the M60 machine gun
2,000 rounds of 40mm grenades for the M203 grenade launcher
8 hand grenades
15 claymore mines
1 AT-4 rocket

The first indication that this range was destined for lore were the elderly Korean civilians walking leisurely downrange. No matter how much our interpreter implored them to leave (through a bullhorn), they were intent on gathering up rare indigenous roots for some pagan ritual (or just to sell at a local market) and had no interest in petty American qualifications.

“Should I put a round downrange near them to get our point across?” an NCO asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

In hindsight, I’m an idiot. Thankfully this NCO was a good shot and the tracer round that flew over atashi’s (the Korean word for gentleman) head had the desired effect. He picked up his one-eyed dragon wheelbarrow and left quickly, probably to inform his local politician that Americans were trying to kill him.

Didn’t matter. The range was officially open.

The second indicator that this was noy your standard range was the fact that we had every weapon in our arms room on the same firing line. Normally we break up weapons systems into different ranges here in the U.S. The M16 has it’s own range, the M9 has a smaller one, and the M-60 has a longer one. Not in Korea. Realistic training is the name of the game there because hey…in combat would you split up your weapons into different zones? Hell no. So we had everything rocking at the same time, which was perfectly legal at this point. Major Good Ideafairy’s guidance was clearly being met – “Don’t come home with a single round of ammo.”

In hindsight, he was an idiot to tell me this because inexperienced Lieutenants don’t know how to interpret orders, just follow them. So I did exactly what he said to do. There was no way I was bringing a round home.

By mid day, it was hot and blowing off ammo as fast as possible made many barrel’s scorch. Someone joked about a barrel glow bright red from all the ammo we were shooting…until it wasn’t a joke. I’ve never yelled “CEASE FIRE!” so loud and flapped my arms so frantically in my 24-year career. I looked like Tiger Woods trying to deflect alimony suits.

With a ceasefire in effect (and no one injured), I figured it was time to walk down range and throw the 8 hand grenades we brought. Too bad only six of them exploded. Now I had a real problem. I couldn’t leave a dud on the range or some atashi like the previous one might step on it while collecting snipes. Luckily I had a stroke of brilliance.

“Let’s keep shooting and hope someone hits them.”

In hindsight…. this actually was a good idea, though I don’t recommend it. Within an hour of resuming fire I heard two distinct explosions downrange that could only be the two grenades that didn’t detonate. Cool. Now it was time for the big toe-poppers, but again, the Gods of EOD challenged me.

“There’s only two fucking clackers!” Sergeant First Class Snuffy said. We had fifteen claymore mines, but somehow the detonators had all disappeared. It was time for another stroke of innovative genius, but I was tapped having used mine for the day. Seconds later I heard one of the few phrases I hope to never hear again.

“Don’t worry sir. I know how to get rid of them,” Sergeant First Class Snuffy said. Major Good Ideafairy’s guidance echoed in my head again – “Don’t bring anything back,” so I nodded my head weakly. It was time for a red-barrel ceasefire anyway, so off he went with two other troops and a bag of mines. What could happen?

Thirty minutes later I was halfway through an MRE when my eyes wandered over a densely foliaged part of the range. There I beheld our masterful Sergeant First Class Snuffy waving his arm over his head. “What is he…” I said as I choked down a dehydrated beef patty. Suddenly he dove for cover and BOOM!!!

“Jesus Christ!” more than one of us yelled. While explaining himself to the Sergeant Major after lunch, we learned that Sergeant First Class Snuffy had daisy-chained all fifteen claymores to two clackers to detonate them. He told his two soldiers, “when you see me wave my hand and dive for my life, clack away.”

Oh. My. God.

At this point I figured I was too fucked to continue any semblance of a military career and started cutting my Lieutenant bar off my collar. But the mission wasn’t complete. There was still more ammo to expend and as much as I’d screwed up this range, I wasn’t a quitter. No one was dead after all. Just scared shitless. What we needed was a night fire!

In hindsight…we didn’t need a night fire. But we did it anyway. After all, tracers are really cool. Is there anyone who’s served in the Armed Forces who hasn’t ogled at the site of pretty red lights flying downrange at nearly the speed of sound and bouncing into the stratosphere? Who hasn’t wanted to shoot those same tracer rounds straight up into the air directly over the firing line?

Straight up!? Again I screamed ceasefire while flapping my arms, only to realize it was night and no one could see me. As I ran to the firing point where I’d just seen tracer rounds fired vertically over the line, I recognized my buddy (another Lieutenant) aiming his pistol straight up in the air and pulling the trigger as fast as he could.

“Dude!” I yelled. “That shit comes down! Aim downrange!”

“Alright,” he says before turning the danger knob up a thousand notches. “When are we gonna fire that AT-4?” he asks me.

AT-4? Oh mama.

Incredibly, though I offered it to every troop several times, no one wanted to fire the AT-4. I took this as them being so appreciative of me skillfully running this range that they wanted me to have the honor of firing it myself. In hindsight, the fear of grievous bodily harm coupled with the burning desire to abandon this range from hell was palpable. Nearly every man had had a brush with death at some point (there were other incidents that I’ll leave out for brevity) so firing off the biggest Roman Candle the Army made was somewhat daunting.

In hindsight, I will never fire that sonofabitch again. Being dark as five feet up a bull’s ass, there was no way I could have been expected to read the directions on the missile casing, despite the flashlight dangling from my web gear. So I simply aimed it downrange, checked the backblast area (which was not clear) and fingered the weapon for the BOOM!!

“Those triggers are sensitive, aren’t they?” Lieutenant Colonel Bearclaw, my Battalion Commander asked me two days later while I stood at attention in front of his desk. I would have responded had I heard him, but the ringing in my ears was persistent. There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, so I had the impression I was Phooked.

“Let’s see,” he started. “Sniping at a civilian, destroying two weapons, firing dud-producing rounds, shooting at hand grenades, firing up but not down range, daisy chaining mines together, and firing an anti-tank weapon without clearing the backblast. Are you really even surprised this happened?”

“Uh…,” I stammered. “Yes?”

“Not you,” he replied. “You.” He glared at Major Good Ideafairy with the white hot intensity of a million suns. When I realized who he was addressing, I leaned ever-so-slightly to my left so he could get a clear shot at him.

“Sir?” Good Ideafairy replied.

I’ll never forget Bearclaw’s response.

“He did exactly what you told him to do-shoot off every round. And though the ends don’t justify the means and he is the dumbest moron in stupidville (his actual words), he at least showed creativity in accomplishing his mission and didn’t let petty obstacles, like civilians in the line of fire, stop him. I hold you responsible. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

I was a cartoon character leaving a puff of smoke and a dangling hat behind me.

Major Good Ideafairy didn’t say much to me for the rest of our time in Korea. We all live with some regret and in hindsight, I was his.

There’s an old saying that says everything happens in three’s. If that’s the case, douchebags of the world, please stay the hell away from Nick. You don’t want to be the third troll to try and pick an unprovoked fight, or if you are- just remember I told ya so.

The strange and curious case of d-bag number two started on a perfect early summer night. Team Rhino fighter (and resident hottie) Jordan McDonald had just won via 1st round TKO, the after party was awesome, Nick and our buddy Rob were properly socially lubricated, and even though I’d drawn DD duty, I got to drive Rob’s M-3, top down, chilling out, and Rob encouraging me to rip it through the gear box. Life is good.

Enter the toolbags.

Sitting at a red light in downtown Myrtle Beach I hear a voice behind us.

“Hey fuckers, yeah you, you fuckers, you want to fucking go?”

I turn to see a Civic full of drunks, one of which is leaning out of the back car window to yell at us. Why is he yelling at us? None of us have any idea. We had not seen this gentleman all night, nor did we know him or anyone else in the car, he just thought it was a good idea to yell. “Yeah you! Fuckers, let’s fucking go!”

“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! WHAT?!” Rob busts out, laughing the drunken cackle of a man who cannot believe a perfect stranger would utter such words for no reason.

Since Tackett and I had been working covert Ranger Ops in Vegas let me take a moment to ask the question, what is it in the water these days that makes the youth of America think this is a good idea? Has the bulk of plant Earth totally, completely lost situational awareness and perspective on when it’s a good idea to fight?

We didn’t say anything to these guys, they are in a car behind us and we had never seen them before in our entire lives but yet this dude starts flapping his gums. Oh and the car you just started yelling at has two Army Rangers and a guy who has Brock Lesnar’s mass and twice his aggression when it’s go time. Genius idea assclowns.

Rob’s completely justified laughter only spurs more shit talking from our new acquaintance. The light changes and their car speeds off. Sober and wanting nothing to do with a car of drunken morons, I give them a little distance before putting the car in gear and heading down the street after them. Unfortunately, the next light is red.

They stop.

I stop behind them.

The car door opens. Shit talker’s friend gets out of the car, at a stop light, at 2am, on a major street in Myrtle Beach, SC.

“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath.

“What the fuck?” Nick says from the back seat. The buddy starts walking towards our car.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, stopping right in front of Nick’s position in the back seat, driver’s side.

“Seriously, are you fucking serious?!” Nick asks the now slightly perplexed guy. Nick shakes his head, let’s out a heavy sigh and in an oddly calm and low voice cuts right to the chase: “I think this is really fucking dumb, but if you guys want to fight then I will get out of the car and fight you all right now.” It was the kind of deadpan response that said, “This may be Myrtle Beach, and we may be from out of town, but we are not your dad’s golf buddies.”

Shit Talker’s friend, his bluff completely called, turned to look at me.
“No one is fighting anyone,” I calmly tell him. “Your buddy talked shit, we laughed at him for it, that’s it. Now go back and get in your car,” I finish with my “don’t fuck with me, I’m an NCO” voice on full display. Rob starts giggling.

Shit talker hangs his head, and without another word of any kind, heads back to his car, jumps in, and they speed off. Nick finally erupts.

“What the fuck is it?” He asks Rob and me. “Is there some sign on me that says ‘fuck with me,’ really? I swear to God the next retarded motherfucker who tries to start shit with me for no fucking reason is getting pounded! I’m sick of this shit!!!”

Somewhere lurking, is douchebag #3. When we will run into you and what mutant form of popped collar, self entitled, drunken lunatic fringed, basket case you will be – I’m not sure. I do know, however, that messing with the 5’8” by 5’8” Italian in the Ranger Up shirt with a shit eating grin on his face is the last thing you want to do. So, honey bunny, as the great Samuel Jackson once said “Bitch be cool.”

While the bulk of this story comes from Crigger, when alcohol is involved we at Ranger Up like to infuse many perspectives to ensure a truthful recount.

For once this story isn’t about an act of incongruence by a member of Ranger Up. Instead it’s about an act of sheer stupidity enacted upon us by a vertically challenged apoplectic douchebag.

There we were, finishing up an average night of Rangeriffic partying in Vegas after UFC 114 at the Mandalay Bay’s Foundation Room with James McSweeney and MC Hammer when a little shit hit the fan. We were hungry, but the closest sustenance was 41 floors below us in the lobby. With our go-mugs in hand we stepped into the elevator along with a few other party goers when things went amuck.
I had not been paying attention much at this point, as I was enjoying the terrific buzz coursing through my body.

Reed’s Perspective

From my vantage point, the first exchange started when we piled into the elevator. Someone else said (maybe one of the girls) “are we all trying to fit in one elevator” and Lex said to no one in particular something like “yeah, it’s going to be a little scary.” (i.e. There were some big boys in the pack and it was going to be tight.)

Just as Lex had entered, then turned around to face front as the doors closed, Napoleon was already nose to nipple on Lex and says “Oh yeah? What’s gonna be scary? Who’s scared?” There was a lot of silence in between the first few comments, primarily due to the fact that no one realized who or why this guy kept speaking to an elevator full of strangers. On the 3rd or 4th comment he spit directly at Lex was when everyone in the elevator realized that some elevator midget tossing might be on the docket.

Moments before the Douchepocalypse.

Back to Crigger

Nick, chipper after a night of partying, casually says to the short, bald, Steve Austin wannabe, “It’s all good man. No need to be angry tonight! You’re going home with three girls.” Most people would have taken this at face value since his intent was to say, “lighten up dude.” But not this guy. He was chemically unbalanced and listed severely on the side of roid rage. If ever the term Napoleon Complex fit a small man, this was him…with a bottle of gay juice. And Nick had inadvertently just pushed his wee little button.

Due to imbibing on bourbon (and not really caring about anything other than my growling stomach) I must admit that I didn’t catch the next few words that were exchanged until Frodo Baggans (sans the hair) looked the hulkingly large Lex McMahon in the face and said, “You scared?”

That caught my attention. This runt had 235 pounds of Lex in front of him, Nick’s square 5’8” by 5’8” physique flanking him, and me (my nickname is Thor) behind him. Professional fighter Dale Hartt held the opposite flank while Reed Kuhn took notes for the eventual police report. Somewhere 40 floors up Matt Phinney’s spidey senses tingled (until his drunken brain told him it was a false alarm). In their hotel rooms Tommy Batboy and John Tackett felt a disturbance in the force, jumped out of bed, and loaded their Armageddon arsenals. In short, this guy was surrounded and facing his own personal Chosin…and Chesty Puller he wasn’t!

But there he stood talking shit. He had to look nearly straight up to see Lex as my hands slowly positioned for a rear naked choke in the case that he decided to strike. Nick snuck a leg in between his for a Judo throw as Dale Hartt pulled a ninja hood over his face. So props to this guy for not backing down. But the sheer insanity of the force he faced meant only one thing – he was a complete idiot.

“You don’t want this,” Lex said calmly. Still he pressed forward. His girlfriend stepped in between us. Still he jacked his jaw. The elevator door opened and I alerted security to avoid a massacre. Still he talked shit. What was it with this dude? Was he brain dead? Or was he the Andy Kauffman of pugilism? For a second I wanted to alert a special ed teacher that one of his students had wandered off without his helmet. But I thought better of it and for the most part we kept our cool and tried to walk past him to the nearest restaurant. Nick was getting bored and said, “we’re done here man, have a good night.”

Yes...these look like good guys to fight...

Dan Ostrower’s Perspective

I had taken the next elevator and was rushing to catch up to the guys. The door opens at the bottom and I am happy to find Nick standing by the entrance “waiting” for me with a new “friend”.

I notice the rest of the guys standing around the perimeter hanging out, a mini-strike force consisting of raw power (Krigger & Lex) a quick reactionary force (Dale)and my co-embed Reed keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings since I took a quick break upstairs.

I walk up to Nick, drink in hand, with a solid buzz and absolutely no clue what I was walking into. In other words- fat, drunk and stupid.

At this point I find myself standing side by side with Nick and a drunken Frodo Baggins look alike that I presume to be another facebook fan or friend that I haven’t yet met.

As the dialogue continues I notice said Hobbit becoming increasingly belligerent towards Nick, and Nick’s complete disregard for such animosity adding further fuel to the fire.

In light of Nicks complete and utter calm and the hilarity of the proposition, I continued to knock down my drink as we start walking towards the restaurant with the now increasingly irate Hobbit in tow.

With our chosen restaurant in sight and the Strike-force ready to get their feed on, Nick made a quick overture of reconciliation to end the ass-clownery from the Hobbit and hopefully call it night.

Nick’s Perspective

I want to eat. I have done nothing to this guy, have no idea why he wants to fight me, and don’t care. Eat then sleep. That’s my plan. I’m pretty much in Ranger School mode.

Baggins blocks my fucking path. “You think you can take me, don’t you?”

“Nope. I want nothing to do with this. You look like a tough dude.” I lied, giving him his eighteenth out of the night. “I’m really sorry for whatever it is I did. Have a great night.”

“Oh, you think you can leave that easily? You can’t,” the Hobbit adds, stroking his precious.

I’m done. I try to walk around him. He blocks my path.

I look at the bouncer. “Dude, do you see this?” He nods.

I take a step back. Baggins moves a step forward. I take another step back. No we’re cha-chaing.
My aggravation level is rising fast. I’m not 18 anymore, so I am perfectly willing to “back down” to the aggressor to not get in a fight, but an infantryman has his limits and after the military and 22 years in combat sports my instinct when I am met with aggression is to destroy.

I am fighting that instinct with everything I’ve got when Reed walks over to help out.

Reed’s Perspective

Thinking Nick must somehow not be getting the logic of the situation across to Frodo, I walk over and point out to the guy that he is really the only person there who wants to fight (since he kept repeating the same questions towards Nick and Lex : “You wanna go right here?”) He also continuously offered up mindless rhetoricals like “you think cause you’re big you can take me?” or “you think cause you got your boys you can take me?” Never liking to leave a question unanswered, at least three times I point out that if by some miracle he bested a thousand pounds of ex-military beefcake and 170 pounds of ex-military and professional fighter Dale Hartt, he would surely still spend the rest of the night in a hospital or a jail. “The only way you sleep in your bed tonight is to just leave them alone,” I emphasize. Amazingly, he perseveres. “I’ll fight anyone. I’ll fight everyone.”

Back to Crigger

Blah Blah Blah is all I heard Reed say. I was tired of this. We were all too weary (and yes, drunk) to lose our cool, especially knowing that once we did, the situation would get fugly at ludicrous speed. Nick stopped answering, but Baggins continued to close the distance between them. His girlfriend (the only voice of reason on the Hobbit’s side) got in between them and tried to defuse the situation, but Frodo stuck his hand past her and poked Nick.

“You only want to fight because you got all these guys with you.”

Oh no, you didn’t.

Nick suddenly had a crazy look in his eye. Troops and barn animals shudder at this gaze. “No…I want to fight you because you’re a fucking faggot!” he erupted.

Saw that one coming.

From this blog (and Facebook) you may only know Nick as a drunken rowdy when in reality he’s a professional guy with a cool head. But block his path, physically prod him, and accuse him of cowardice and the hyperlocks that keep him in check are off. Even a lethal cocktail of a Ritalin and Valium won’t stop his Italian blood from boiling over. If it weren’t for the uber bad security dude holding him back, Nick would have shined the Mandalay Bay’s floor with Napoleon’s pancreas (I prefer the spleen, but Nick’s still a little young). I give the security guy all the credit for avoiding a bloodsport because the rest of us would have merely watched. Dude deserved it.

Then Nick served up the ultimate insult. “Here’s my card,” he said. “When you sober up in the morning, if you still want to do this, call me. We’ll fight in a cage. Fair and square.”

I openly laughed. Lex heckled. Dale Hartt let out a “daaaaammmn.” The dude’s girlfriend stepped up and took Nick’s outstretched card and said, “you hunka hunka burning love.” It was epic. Only a challenge to have a dance-off would have been more hysterical. He had no recourse but to back away, but not before Nick reached over, shook Frodo’s hand, and delivered the backhanded coup de grace.

“Looking forward to your call.”

At that point there simply was no point in taking anything seriously.

Until ten minutes later when we stepped into Raffles diner and Tommy and Tackett crashed through the ceiling, rappelled to the ground, and violently aimed mini guns at everyone in the place screaming “Bad boys, bad boys..whatcha gonna do!” That’s when things got awkward.

This time last year I was in Afghanistan. Because of my unit I more often than not travel on civilian flights. I was carrying a blue American Tourister bag as my garment bag. I finished my tour in Afghanistan, packed my bags and caught a military flight home. All in all it was a great trip!

14 months later I pull the same blue American Tourister bag out of my closet, and throw in all the stuff I will HAVE to have for the fight. You know the necessities. I brought my fight shorts, mouthpiece, banner, suit, hat, weight cutting gear, and running shoes. Threw it all in my bag and headed off to the airport. Checked in, and checked my “would be nice to have bag” and headed up to security, and here is where the real adventure began. I have been an NCO for 6 years. I think I’m a pretty decent one, but today my brass and ammo check skills were lacking.

I took off my awesome cowboy boots, watch, pull out my laptop, and take off my jacket. I’m such a disciplined traveler. I hate those people that don’t know the routine. As my blue American Tourister carry-on passed through the scanner they stop it, and take a closer look. Then I hear them say to each other “you ain’t going to like this.” They informed me that they have to search my bag, which is fine or course. The TSA rep digs through every one of those little pockets, and pulls out a single 9mm round.

They asked me to step into the search room. After a thorough strip search they decided to “test” my bag for residue. Reminiscing that the last place my bag was used was in Afghanistan didn’t really bode confidence that my bag would come out clean. Needless to say it was not a surprise that it came back with explosive residue on it…

I showed them my military ID, and try to explain that it’s no big deal. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by 4 TSA reps and a Fayetteville police officer. The police officer who was apparently in “special forces” looked at my ID and asked why I had a goatee in the photo, and then asked if the ID was real….. siiiggghhhh….

I’m now sitting at my gate B3 waiting for my flight.

The Dumbass Chronicles: RU Nick & Friends

by Mac, Nick, and Jared

It was a frigid day in Friedberg, Germany, home of the 1/36 Spartans, and it was sergeant’s time. That meant that the officers could all do important officer things like…well…wait around for the sergeants to be done. Nick, Jared, Adam, me and a few other out of control Junior Officers were drinking coffee and other tasty beverages having the normal BS session, when our latest plan to confuse and anger the fine American Citizens that resided within Germany was hatched.

We were reading the “Letters to the editor” portion of The Stars and Stripes, where angry Americans bantered for months regarding the price of gasoline in Europe versus America, discussed why the local Esso station was allowed to sell porn, and of recent note – whether The US Army’s decision to kit out the entire force with the coveted Black Beret of the Elite Ranger Regiment was a good idea or sacrilege.

We noted that the only people that should care – the 75^th Ranger Regiment – had already driven on with their Ranger mission and gave the Army a big “F-You” by donning the tan beret (which is a lot more comfortable in the heat anyway). The rest of the known world, however, fought bitterly in the editorial column. That morning there was a particularly ridiculous set of angry people in the Letters to the Editor, and we were laughing our asses off…but slowly, the more we realized that the Stars and Stripes was a great vehicle for our amusement, a plot began to hatch amongst us…

Already known as the troublemakers and the comedians of the 1^st Armored Division, and having accomplished the famed Detective John Kimball Assault on the telephone network of Kosovo – we created a fictitious character known as Timothy Spartanovich, an American Expatriate living and working for AAFES in Saarbrucken, Germany. Utilizing yahoo.com, we quickly created an email address, which come to think of it, we may still own, and Jared was charged with drafting a letter to the editor and serving as the point of contact.

(While a complete transcript of the letter has been destroyed for evidentiary purposes, the gist is located within the letter contained below).

To whom it may Concern:

I would like to take the opportunity to address the recent decision of the Chief of Staff of the Army to require United States Army Personnel to wear the Black Beret. During my two and half months of Air Force Service, I was privileged to see videos and pictures of the most elite Infantry Unit to walk the face of the Earth, and I am in awe that the rest of the Army is going to strip the Ranger Regiment of their most distinctive identifying emblem, the Black Beret.

I can see clearly that this yet another feminist ploy to get their manicured fingernails into places where they simply don’t belong and soften the capabilities of the Army. The Black Beret decision is nothing more than poor fashion sense at its extreme. I can envision Soldiers primping and curling their hair to ensure that they “look good” in their beret, and I am sure they will not give the beret the proper respect and care it needs.

The Army has become more and more soft over the years, as indicated by the numbers of women entering the force, stress cards being used in Basic Training, and the amount of candy in the Meals, Ready to eat. I am glad and thankful for my decision to leave the Air Force when I did.

This is nothing more than a female ploy to sneak into the Ranger Regiment and then the Special Operations community at large. These women think they are as good as our elite forces. They’re not. They should just accept it and not try and join these units.

A woman’s place is not under a black beret.

Sincerely,
Timothy Spartanovich

Quickly, Jared dispatched the email to Stars and Stripes and provided a cell number for one of those pay-as-you-go phones so we’d have telephonic communication. Within a few days, Jared answered the phone from the giddy editor, who knew what kind of arguments this would start, and provided the confirmation needed. Two days later, lo and behold – our letter appeared prominently in the newspaper.

For the better part of two and half months, soldiers, family members, civilians, and people within the United States began to answer and condemn the words of Timothy:

“How dare you make comments about the service of women in the Army?”

“How can this be a feminist plot? Tthe decision was made by a MAN!”

“You must be joking, comparing Candy in MRE’s and the Black Beret as weakening the Army?”

For the most part, we were silent as church mice – generally just listening for commentary and strategically placing ourselves in locations in the chow hall that gave us the most feedback from the soldiers. But every time a Spartanovich conversation begain to die down, we would occasionally create characters to help throw fuel on the flames, like Vladimir Banditchev’s (1/37 Bandits) insightful letter about how women in his native Ukraine weren’t allowed to wear shoes, never mind berets. Or, Sandy Providerowski’s (The Support Battalion was known as the Providers) poignant letter fighting Spartanovich by highlighting the fact that under their new female battalion commander, the unit had set up a BSA in record time, and perhaps “men were the problem, and the Army would be better with fewer of them and more women”.

No matter what we wrote, they ate it up! No one – editors or readers had a clue that there was a hoax, regardless of how ridiculous we made the letters. After all, if it was in print, it had to be true!

So, of course, we pushed the envelope.

We had offended all the women in the military and had barely scratched the surface of what Stars and Stripes could do. We needed something that would rile everyone up to really get Spartanovich the place of honor he so deserved.

So “Tim Spartanovich” went back to his writing desk and brainstormed ideas that would shock the entire military community into action. What topic would invoke such a response that it would overwhelm Stars and Stripes? What issue would force people to jump out of their chairs and respond to the sheer idiocy of our words?

The idea washed over Jared in the dead of night: legalizing drugs. Tim suggested that soldiers be allowed to use legal drugs while they were in Europe. The letter went something like this:

Dear Stars and Stripes,

Soldiers stationed in Europe should be allowed to use drugs in places like Amsterdam where they are legal. We let soldiers that are under 21 drink in Europe, but that’s against the law in the United States. As long as soldiers are living under the rules of Europe we should let them use drugs. As long as they don’t do it on duty it should be fine. People say that pot is a gateway drug, but that’s not right. People use drugs all the time and they don’t have any problems at all.

Sincerely,

Tim Spartanovich

The response was overwhelming. Every commander who had a drug problem in his unit felt compelled to respond. Editors at Stars and Stripes giggled with glee. There hadn’t been a single topic that brought so many responses before. They were counting the Hamiltons all the way to the bank. People couldn’t help but be sucked into the sheer moronic trap that Tim Spartanovich had once again set.

And then…

A Senior Ranking Non-Commissioned Officer, who had cut out the articles and posted them to his bulletin board was searching the internet to discover the genealogy of the name “Spartanovich”. His search was fruitless, which he found odd.

He asked LT Levichev – “Is this name from Russia, Chechnya, Ukraine, where?”

Levichev looked at him as confused as ever.

His mind raced, as he was always one to question things he could not understand. Perhaps this was some sort of anagram – code for a villainous invasion from Austria. Still the meaning, evaded him. Slowly, he put his thumb up against the last name of Timothy – covering the last four letters and A LIGHT BULB appeared!

He didn’t even stop to think it might be anyone but us as he rolled into the bowling alley where we sipped coffee nearly three months after Spartanovich was born. He eyed the group of us up and down and said, “Spartanovich, Providerowski, Banditchev?”

We smiled.

“Fucking Lieutenants,” he said with a smirk.

And with that, he walked out.

Spartanovich went into hiding that day, but he’s always there, lurking just under the surface, waiting for his time to come again…for other stupid, childish, sophomoric assclowns to pick up his mantle and ride into the editorial pages…and when that day comes my friends, it will be glorious…and you will get a free t-shirt…

The Dumb Ass Chronicles: Tempting the Mighty Gods of War

“Hey Doc,” I said uncoiling the string on the pyro I’d just pulled from its stock cardboard packaging.  “I’m about to do something dumb and you won’t be able to stop me, so don’t even try.”

“Yeah, like I could fucking stop you even if you hadn’t said that,” Doc T growled wearily at me as I finished putting on my gloves.

I looked up at him with a wicked, knowing little smile on my face as I finished getting the simulator ready to go.

* * *

In hindsight there is part of me that is amazed I can still type what happened next while looking at my computer screen with both of my eyes.  Never mind hear the gloriousness that is Lizzy Hale’s voice coming through my headphones.  Usually, when one taunts the Gods of War in such a brazen and callous way he ends up in the hospital or worse, as opposed to simply a weeklong shaving profile.

It’s like pissing on a rain turtle in March at Ft. Lewis, WA while calling the Rain God a pussy on the only partly sunny day you’d seen in the two weeks you’d been out in the field.  You know that it’s going to pour rain as soon as that last drop of piss hits the ground, because your insolence demands it.  There are some things you just don’t do.

As I was uncoiling the method of my own destruction, I wasn’t thinking that way.  I was too busy reveling in another field problem being done.  Enjoying the tired haggard looks on my students’ faces from my latest operations plan.  Too proud, too confident I’d been there, done that.  Too tired myself to notice I was holding a mine simulator booby trap and not a detection “whistler” noise-making device.

I had done this dozens of times before with whistlers. At the end of our field problem all pyro must be expended and rather than take the five minutes to rig all the leftovers up to something, spool out the wire and detonate, we just grabbed the fuckers and threw them as we pulled the string.  It takes a whistler about a second and a half to activate, more than enough time for it to hit the ground a safe distance away from you.  Whistlers are all white.  The pyro tube I was holding in my hand was yellow with a white top.  What had I been telling my students for the past two weeks? Oh yeah “attention to detail,” that’s right.

“You sure about this?” JJ, a fellow instructor, asked me. I just smiled the same “I’m invincible” smile that Bellerophon must have had on his face as he mounted Pegasus and tried to ride to Mt. Olympus.  I grabbed the end of the string firmly, lowered the end of the pyro tube towards the ground, and pulled the string.

Click!

I heard the click and two things happened as fast as my synapses could make them so.  I turned my head the other way and thought:

SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

BOOM!

The booby trap went off about six inches from my hand and two feet from my face.  I stumbled back as my ears rang and eyes watered.  My nose felt I’d just gotten done sparring with my old Muay Thai coach when I wouldn’t listen to him about covering up after throwing a hook to the body.  The whole experience reminded me of the time I was a private and my Spc-4, Goldsworthy, had thrown a flash bang at my feet without telling me about it.  I hadn’t liked eating that banger, and I certainly wasn’t a fan of what I’d just done to myself.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  You jackass!”  JJ said from on top of the wall, laughing so hard that he almost fell off.  “You should see yourself right now!”  He choked out, trying to keep his balance.  “You, (smirk) should, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”  He gasped before finally giving up and just continued laughing.

“God damn it,” I said wiping my fingers across my upper lip, confirming the blood trickling out of my nose.  “Doc you got any ice?”

“HOLY SHIT Sargent!  You’re bleedin pretty good!”  One of my students told me as he rushed over, staring incredulously.  The look begging to know why the hell I thought that had been a good idea.

“I’m fucking fine, go away.  I just need some ice,” I snarled, ignoring the pleading eyes of my PFC.

“No, first you need to get that cleaned out, and all I have is alcohol swabs,” Doc T told me with a smug, satisfied, smirk.

“Come here.”

“That sting?”  Doc asked as I winced as he ran the first swab across the gash on my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I growled, determined to not let the sting show anymore, but failing miserably.

“Good,” Doc T told me smirking as some of my students started to crowd around.  “I’m going to have to do this at least twice to each.”

There’s a lesson to be learned here, I think…something about safety maybe?  I vow to never do that again…to be an example.  Hold on, one of my instructors is on the phone…there’s some extra C4!

Be right back!