Salute magazine has been serving the military community since 1985 by offering coupons to military shoppers and…dare we say it…incredibly provocative journalism. Salute graciously graced their graceful pages with Ranger Up and made us the cover story for the August/September issue. You can find Salute in most Commissaries and PX/BX’s across the country. Read the full story below.
You never forget your first.
I was twelve the day I met my first Army Ranger. I remember it like it was yesterday. Twas a fine summer morn in Somerset, Massachusetts, the duck capital of the world…Okay, it may not actually be the duck capital of the world, but there are a lot of freaking ducks there to the point where there are actual DUCK CROSSING SIGNS. During winter, while kids in other towns made snowmen, we were forced to make snowducks. Hell, there was an even a bill to make a giant Trojan Duck that would rest at the town’s entrance. Anyway, for whatever reason, Somerset loved it some ducks. One duck in particular, a female creatively named “Quack” by the moms of the neighborhood, was a particular fan favorite as she would eat directly out of your hand and all but let you pet her.
When Quack was around the kids were happy, the moms were happy, and there was much rejoicing. And those duck crossing signs would keep our ducks safe…until that moment.
Quack, with ducklings in formation behind her, led the march across the street. Around the turn came a car with a teenager at the helm. He hit his breaks. The neighborhood held its breath as the car came to a stop.
Ducklings fled in all directions. All four were healthy and safe.
But alas, there was one victim.
My mom screamed out as she saw Quack on the warm, heartless pavement. Her chest and part of her neck were crushed, but the duck was still alive, making horrible clacking noises. Some of her guts were exposed. I wasn’t even a teenager yet and hadn’t been exposed to a whole lot of death, but I was pretty sure this was a done deal.
In less than two minutes, every man, woman, and child in the neighborhood was blocking traffic in a circle around quack. My next door neighbor yelled, “Someone needs to get help!”
That’s when Mr. Peterson ran over from across the street.
Mr. Peterson, also known as Major Peterson, had served on active duty for many years, both as an enlisted man and later as an officer. He was now in the National Guard and spent his military time as the National Guard liaison and cadre member to the Ranger Training Brigade. He was a big friendly bear of a man, and we just knew him as the guy that roughhoused with us.
As he busted through the throng of people, it was clear he was looking for the injured human. His sharp eyes quickly took in the situation and his posture changed rapidly when he realized the victim was…well…a duck.
“You have to help!” one woman pleaded.
Mr. Peterson, looked at her, nodded, and said, “No problem”. Everyone looked relieved. The Ranger was going to save the day. I wondered what kind of medical magic he was going to perform. Maybe some medical trick learned on some long lost battlefield that us mere civilians weren’t privy to.
He gently picked the duck up, placed one hand on the top of its head, while the other cradled its body at the base of its neck.
With two quick movements, Mr. Peterson had violently and rapidly snapped the duck’s neck in two. It was out of its misery.
Instantly there was commotion. Some people yelled at him for killing it. One woman half struck him in tears. Mr. Peterson was incredulous. “What did you want me to do? Perform reconstructive chest surgery? It’s a duck!”
My neighbor looked at him with murderous intent, “It’s not a duck, Carl! It’s Quack!”
Mr. Peterson shook his head, grabbed the duck, and walked away.
Everyone left started crying…except for me and my brother.
It kind of Quacked us up.
Since Crigger has recently been accused of being a misogynist we thought it was only appropriate to include other RU work that has raised the ire of feminists…and actually most reasonable people for that matter.
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 75th 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 1st 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…
Pissed off one day after being inundated with Che Guevara t-shirts Nick started Ranger Up in 2006 in the midst of an anti-military, graduate school environment. He simply wanted to build an online home for those who serve to visit and feel at home. He never imagined Ranger Up would grow to be what it is today.
Nick served as an infantry officer for six years and as a sarcastic jackass for his entire life, and upon reflection, believes that he is lucky to not have been dragged into the woodline by his superior officers and beaten about the head, neck and shoulders. His friends want all junior leaders to know that Nick is not someone to emulate. Whatever bad luck voodoo doesn’t permanently affix itself to his bulbous ass will most likely become a part of your genetic makeup and next thing you know you’ll be the battalion UMO or NCOIC of the latrine burning detail.
Nick has pissed off Miss New Jersey, pretended to be a member of the X-Games, been arrested dressed as a superhero, and created fictional characters to harass his chain of command, a deployed task force, and the Stars and Stripes. Legend has it that he even touched Mikhail Gorbachev’s birthmark.
Other than his propensity to be an idiot and his innate ability to avoid punishment, there is nothing special about Nick. He isn’t a hero. He isn’t a tough guy. He isn’t a big deal. He just cares about the men and women who protect our nation and believes there is a special place in hell for those who mock their service.
Nick has a BS from the United States Military Academy at West Point, an MBA from Duke University, and received the Bobcat, Wolf, Bear, and Webelos badges while in Cub Scouts.
The Wolf badge is his favorite.
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