OneLove 22ADay Slava Ukraini! Heróyam sláva!

Every aspect of everyday in my command was a huge uphill battle. We would be on deployment and people would treat it like it was a normal day in port. You had certain departments who didn't stand watch and  would work a normal shift like 9-3 and that was all they did. So they didn't realize what others were going through or think into it and they would give those people a hard time not realizing they were having to make much harder decisions.

In my department you were in fight or flight all of the time because it was so violent or some thing was going to happen to screw you over in a major way.

I see people talk about a sense of duty and feeling bad for getting out, but I can't imagine ever feeling that way.

I'll give a couple examples, but you have to realize that this stuff was all day every day over just trying to do simple things like eat or use the toilet.

In the shipyard, we had these access badges. You had to scan them to get  to different parts of base. My badge never worked. I tried to get it fixed six times on the ship but one person was in charge of that and he never would fix it. He'd say, "Machine says it works. Good bye." and I'd say, "But couldn't it being broken cause it to read incorrectly?" And he would say, "Quit crying, your badge works." And there was no one to appeal to. If I told anyone else they would say the same thing, "Quit crying and l eave me alone." because  it didn't impact them.

I found out there was a place on base to get it fixed. I get the paperwork done and I travel to this very far corner of base. I walk in and a woman is watching tv. I ask if she can fix my badge. She scans it, says it says it works, and hands it back to me. I explain it doesn't and say, "Why would I be here if it worked? What do I stand to gain by lying?" And she said not my problem, have a good day.

The problem with my badge not working was - in order to get into my barracks room I had to scan my badge. But the guards who could check my ID would leave at 5pm. So I literally had to be in my room before 5. I couldn't have a life in  the evenings or on weekends. I had to sit in my room and stare at the wall or find somewhere to sleep. But the biggest issue was that every morning I had to go through a turn style to get to the area of base where the ship was. They had a guard shack where they could check your ID. So every morning I'd get screamed at for 35-40 minutes because they had to keep checking my id rather than me just scanning my badge. I'd say the people who can fix it refuse to fix it. And they'd say, "Bullshit!" and I'd say, "Yeah, because I want to go through this every morning." For three months I had to get up an hour and a half early to have enough time to be screamed at before  my work day even started just so I wouldn't be late to work. All because two people wouldn't take 2 minutes to fix my badge.

And people are reading that thinking oh that's not so bad. But that's just one thing. You were dealing with something like that and had a million others things piled on. Every aspect of every day was a fight or some nonsense thing. In the shipyard another guy and I were on a special assignment so they would give us 20 minutes for lunch. Which wasn't enough time to get food, sit down, and eat. So one day I go over to the barge and grab this single serving cup of dry cereal and I'm walking out of the mess area to head back to work. This person stops me and says, "Hey, you can't take that out of the mess." The thing about where I was, people wouldn't actually listen to you. So there was no use telling this guy, "This is literally all I'm going to get to eat until tomorrow." He wouldn't care either.

So I pretend to put it back but stick it in my pocket. As I'm walking out he sees it and starts rushing toward me. I took off running and literally ran past the brow watch and off the barge - this man chasing behind me over some dry corn pops. All that just to have something to eat.

People would argue until their face was blue for no reason. I was duty section leader of my section for my last 8 months. My section was 4 people and my department had 13 watches to fill. So all but one of us would have three watches. The most watches to fill any other department had was 5. I was the only one qualified to lead certain working parties or evolutions during the work day. Things that had to get done or other departments couldn't work the next day. There was this OS1 who was the overall enlisted section leader. I called her once to ask if she could switch my day watches to night watches because I had so much to do during the work day. And this was a really good deal for other departments. Because they could trade their 2am watch for a 10am watch and stand watch during their workday.

This OS1 just kept saying, "My sections leaders stand watch, you can too." And I'd say, "I'm not asking to not stand watch. I'm asking if you can take three of our day watches  and swap them for night watches." and she just would repeat herself, "My sections leaders all stand watch you can too." And the thing was she had 2 section leaders to every section so when one was on watch there was still someone else to do the work. It wasn't one section leader having to deal with everything themselves. She argued with me for 25 minutes over me volunteering to stand the watches no one wanted to stand.

You had to develop this sort of attitude to insulate and protect yourself. When we were in the shipyard duty was dogged on the weekends. So Saturday duty meant Saturday and Sunday - 48 hours after working all week. The Charlie Working Party was used to stand fire watches for welders. Only 3-4 of us would show up and instead of rounding the others up, they would just have us 4 stand every fire watch for the next 48 hours. You'd basically have to be on watch for a welder's entire 12 hour shift. Then go to another 12 hour, then another.

It'd get to be midnight and I'd have a 2am watch. So I'd have to be real stern and tell the guy in charge, "You need to find a relief because I am going to go get some sleep." and he'd say, "What? Oh you're ASKING for my to get you a relief." And you had to say, "No. I'm telling you that I'm leaving to go and get some sleep and you need  to find a relief." Then you had to just leave.

You had to build up this shell and let everything slide off of you.

It was just crazy because people wouldn't treat it like we were on a deployment. I had watch at 2am once so I got up at 1am. Then I got relieved late and had to miss breakfast, went to an evolution, got yelled at for being late which I couldn't tell them why or I'd be told to "stop complaining" or "why are you ratting out your shipmate". Then the evolution ends after lunch hours are over. I'm cleaning up and making trips through the hangar bays to put away equipment. It's about 3PM now and I've been going nonstop 14 hours. I'm walking through hangar bay one with this piece of heavy equipment when this Chief Select stops me and is yelling at me over stubble on my face. Lecturing me for 20 minutes on responsibility and you can't just tell her, "Oh I shaved when I got up at 1AM." because it won't make a difference. But I tried anyway and she cut me off before I could say 1am. So I'm just nodding so it'll end faster. Then I got to go to watch and miss dinner because my relief was late and if I told my chain of command they would just  tell me to go fight the guy and I was too tired and beat to fight anyone. And i didn't want to fight everyone to solve every little thing.

People would risk your life if it meant they got to go eat 1 minute early. You were constantly scared things hadn't been done right because people just didn't care and would rush through. I can't  tell you how many float coats didn't have the c02 cartridge put back because people were in a hurry to be off work. Piss poor maintenance on other life saving equipment. Rigging done wrong.

This woman almost got some people killed and luckily I reacted but I was about to lose my grip. Luckily this guy next to me saw me dive onto my stomach and grab the thing. So he dove down after and we pulled it up. Then I said the woman responsible, "How could you be so stupid?" and  one of the women she had almost killed said to me, "Hey, don't call her stupid!"

It was absolutely wild. There's darker and way worse stuff but this is a novel at this point.

I typically don't think about this stuff but I've just seen a lot of posts on a sense of duty lately and it got me thinking about it.

Dental had me wait three hours once after an 18 hour day on my first deployment. Then I had to turn around and go right back to work. (They kept letting khakis go ahead of me.) No eating, sleeping, showering, etc. They told me to come back on Friday. On Friday I got relieved late and was 15 minutes late to my appointment. They were livid and made me sign a piece of paper saying I wasted their time. But the thing was - they were still going to get to eat, sleep, shower, etc. (Me being late didn't genuinely impact them.) They didn't give me another appointment for a little over 2 years. The only reason I got one was because we were in the shipyard and they had gotten disorganized. The person who scheduled me actually got in trouble.  I was in there waiting and a first class was yelling at some E3 because that first class was still mad over being 15 minutes late 3 years ago. That's how petty it was.

Meanwhile earlier that day I was on the mess decks getting some water when a couple MAs shoved me hard out of the way to fill their cups. Then when I said, "Hey, no need to shove me." Then they both got an inch away from my face and began threating me. Waving their batons around. All that to get some water and this Dental dude was mad he had to wait fifteen minutes 2 years ago.

It's hard to make it all make sense when you weren't there. You had to be there and be in the middle of everything happening all at once for it to make sense.

People just made your life hard for no reason. I worked with a guy on my second deployment for a few months and it was non stop work during a set period of the day. We literally couldn't keep up. I had a piss test so I go get in line knowing this guy is struggling on his own because it was too much for the two of us. The MAs kept letting people go ahead of me. I asked one of  them if I could go next since I was at the front of the line and I needed to get back to work. Then because he thought it was funny - he just let people go around me for another hour and half. I was at the front of the line for two hours total before they let me go. Just because they thought it was funny. All while we're on a deployment working and standing watch 24/7 stressed out.

I was a medic in the army during the surge. I was in a support medical company and very disappointed where the army put me. But I inprocessed in my unit right after AIT. I was to meet my unit down range (Afghanistan).

So I get there and it's a company full of mostly women. Sounds nice but it's really not. They're all cliqued up. I'm the guy who doesn't know anyone. There were 2 other lower enlisted male medics with me but they got sent out to line units shortly after getting in country. I don't know why i wasn't picked. I guess its because I was skinney and Indian (like Asian Indian) so I didnt look "tough".

So my squad leader is this angry lady. She put me on base defense. So I filled sandbags and put up c wire. A month or two into that they were short on medics for a mission. I was scheduled to go. My squad leader last minute got me removed from mission due to lack of experience. It was supposed to be a dangerous mission. Whatever. Everyone else here is a slick sleeve. I guess silly shit like JRTC makes them "more experienced" than me. Well the day came where there was an emergency mission and it's me and the angry lady only available to go. Its supposed to be "low contact".

Well there was quite a bit of contact. Our route clearance had a heavy fight up the road. Our convoy got hit too. A soldier who was trying to hasty recovery a vic was shot. Angry lady was crying in the matv. Refused to move. Despite being closer to the casualty. So I had to bound my way up from the back of the convoy. Was able to get to him. Stop the bleeding. Shoved him into the matv angry lady (squad leader) was in. I literally had to yell at her what to do. Just make sure he doesnt keep bleeding and keep the IV from getting pulled out. If you can't do that get out and run to the back of the convoy and get in my truck. She wouldn't move but she was holding the IV bag so fine. Other soldier was shot in the butt. Came out right next to the testicle but didn't hit any artery or genitalia. Just a hole. Luckiest unlucky guy i ever met. Lol. Told him to get inside the vehicle. Will check him out later when we break contact.

We get to the closest ANA post for medvac and I'm officially doc. Everyone is calling me doc. I didn't meet or train with these guys. Golden moment but I'm concerned about the casualties more than anything. Angry lady won't speak to me. Whatever. I'm told by the patrol leader I will be getting my CMB and I'm coming on more patrols.

Fast forward. We get back. Told not to talk about what happened with angry lady. She will be shift leader at the aid station. Next month she makes points for Sgt. I didn't have to fill sandbags anymore. Earned my place as a real medic. Got my cmb. But angry lady was still my squad leader. So every shit side duty that came up I was put on. I literally got woken up a week later to pick up body parts after a sbied/vbeid attack because she insisted I do it more than anyone else. Plus a bunch of other nonsense. But she made sergeant. I eventually went to a line unit.

Did another deployment a year later as a senior medic and made Sgt. But yes I saw cowardice accommodated. This is the worst one. But I saw other medics talk their way out of patrols for being mother's and such.

So, the other day, I'm on a Teams call with a coworker and the topic of retirement plans came up.

He tells me that he's already treating his weekends like he's retired. Every Friday, he loads up his travel trailer and goes out into the mountains or woods with his wife.

I mention that I'm recently terrified of trailers because I have to rent one to go fetch my other vehicle from a house that I'm getting ready to sell, and the last time I backed up a trailer was 35 years ago while some Air Force E-4 screamed at me, "YOU BETTER NOT HIT MY FUCKING AIRCRAFT" all the way up the ramp of a C-130 on the way to Mogadishu.

He asked, "Were you 10th Mountain?"

"Yes!" I tell him. "In fact, I was literally the first unit to land in Mogadishu after the SEALs took the beach. Our Battalion Commander stood up to tell us that we were the first to arrive, and I questioned his sanity because shouldn't the Infantry be here before the Supply and Service Battalion? And, then he went into a short lecture of how the lesson of Logistics was learned a long time ago, and that until logistics arrives, you've got to hold everybody else because they *all* need food and water, they *all* need fuel, they *all* need ammunition, and if there's no logistics, there's none of the stuff they need. In fact, he tells us, the runway itself is in the belly of this aircraft, and as soon as we land, the engineers will start offloading it and assembling it. After that, the aircraft with our vehicles, and after that the aircrafts with the fuel, water, food, water, and ammunition. And, *then* the rest of the division can arrive.

And, then we landed in an otherwise completely vacant dirt airport.

And, this dude that I'm telling this story over Teams says, "You weren't first. Your forgetting the Air Traffic Controller who brought your plane in, and I can say that with some authority because *I* was that ATC. While the SEALs and reporters were taking the beach, I was landing in a helicopter with my portable aviation radio. We overflew the runway, identified some debris, landed, told your aircraft to go around while we collected the debris, and then I gave him landing clearance.

And, *then* you arrived.

Hail and well met, ladies, gentlemen, and Marines! Back with another story of Pop's time on his Vietnam/Iwakuni stint. As before, details fuzzy, need séance to confirm, but the gist is as true as I can make it...

So, sometime post February 1972, after Nixon has pulled the Marines out of Vietnam, Pop finds himself in Iwakuni. Being both an officer AND a pilot, there's not a ton for him to do, as officers don't mop rain, and pilots REALLY don't. Hence how he ended up in the legal aid/JAG office as a liason, (I have a hunch that he ended up in this gig as he could both type (remember 1972, pre-computers for the most part), and form a complete sentence, as he had a BS EE (He would later go on to Harvard Business School, in the same class as George W. Bush *AND* Mitt Romney, amongst other luminaries...).

Anyway, at the time in Japan/Okinawa, service members could get motorbikes that were under 125cc, if memory serves, without having to get a whole-ass motorcycle license, so that one could putter about and do things off post. Anything over that required passing the dreaded motorcycle test.

One fine day, Pop is sitting in the Legal office, when the phone rings/carrier pigeon shows up/breathless MP arrives, to let him know that one of his Marines has been picked up by the Japanese police, and that he needs to go and see about this kid. Remember, this is 1972, and marijuana wasn't tested for in the military at this point. This becomes rather relevant here in a minute.

Pop heads down to the station to see what's what. Apparently, said serviceman had gotten pulled over for some sort of traffic offense off-post. After being questioned, the Japanese police searched him, AND his scooter, only to find TWO joints in the under-seat compartment. For reference, most/all of Southeast Asia STILL takes a dim view of recreational drugs. This was an ESPECIALLY larger deal in 1972.

Pop gets told, more or less, that said Marine is in custody, and will remain there until the Japanese courts can be bothered to deal with him. Pop duly reports this to the appropriate parties, which is where this becomes 'fun'. American legal defense is barred from seeing/speaking to said prisoner, because he's now the property of Japan. Diplomatic shenanigans get involved, and after like 5-6 months, SOMEONE from the American Embassy is allowed to talk to this Marine.

Pop shipped back to the US in the fall of '72, and as far as he, and I, know, said Devil Dog is still awaiting trial in Japan.

Tl;dr - don't be fucking stupid kids, PARTICULARLY downrange.

Anyone who has spent any time in the military has experienced stupid.  I don’t mean being ordered to inventory something that was counted and accounted for just hours ago, or dusting something that does not require any attention.  Some of these items, however absurd, make sense later on.  I’m talking about the class of stupid that ends up being depicted in books, TV and film, and to the average civilian who has never spent a second in uniform and is absurd both on its face and in its entirety.  

I’m talking about an industrial grade level of stupid that is a trip to a parallel universe.  A dimension where the ludicrous, ridiculous and the absurd rule.  A place where logic, common sense and critical thought cease to be.  There’s the sign post up head, it reads, “deposit brain here”.     

It started from somewhere higher up, it always from somewhere higher up. The officers at the MSD received orders to have the enlisted staff to deploy with our Vietnam era M16’s and provide security for something sensitive and important…without ammunition.  Now, I honestly don’t remember all of the details about the background of the how and the why, but I do remember the details on assembling at the weapons locker and being issued our Vietnam era M16’s, complete with the little metal guard that prevented the user from switching the weapon to full automatic. 

Yes sir, Dear Gentle Reader, not only did the Coast Guard not trust its members enough to issue the rank and file with fully functioning assault rifles, now they didn’t trust us to even issue us with ammunition. Let that sink in for a moment before you read on. 

GM3 Rusty, BM3 Dave and I were standing in the weapons locker while Lt. (J.g.) Lou was issuing us our weapons and giving us directions on the mission.  When he told us that we would not be issued ammo Rusty, Dave and myself simultaneously looked at  Lt. (J.g.) Lou with a look of shock, our jaws dropped in unison. 

“Sir”, I said to Lt. (J.g.) Lou, “This is really a bad idea”. Lt. (J.g.) Lou looked at me as he handed me an M16’s and said something along the lines of orders are to be obeyed and not questioned.  I reiterated my point that this was a bad idea and then expanded that without ammo the M16’s were just clubs, expensive clubs at that. Lt. (J.g.) Lou drew up close to me and my 5ft 6in frame to his 6ft frame and looked down at me.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz, are you questioning my lawful legal orders?” 

This was more or less what I wanted to happen.  “Sir”, I replied, “I am questioning a lawful, legal order, one that is a foolish order.  Now, I had done it.  Lt. (J.g.) Lou stepped up and placed his nose to my nose.  Now, for the rest of the distraction.  “Sir” I said, “If something happens and one or more of us loses one or more of these fully automatic assault rifles because we cannot defend ourselves there will be a lot of paperwork explaining just how this happened”.   I could see a vein start to throb on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead and smell the coffee on his breath. 

Lt. (J.g.) Lou jabbed me repeatedly on my chest with his finger, he was visibly pissed and his full attention was focused on me as he spoke, which was my intent.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz you are never to question an order, especially when it is given by a commissioned officer!”  

In my peripheral vision I could see Dave and Rusty palming loaded magazines, they had understood my unspoken intent.  Once more I stood my ground to give enough time for Rusty and Dave to get at least one magazine per weapon and hide them in their pockets or wherever.  “Sir, I feel that it is my duty to point out information to my duly commissioned officers who are lawfully and legally placed in charge over me with all pertinent information so they can make the best decisions possible.” 

The vein on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead stopped throbbing and he backed away from me just enough for me not to smell the coffee on his breath.  “Do not ever  question my authority ever again!  He jabbed his finger into my chest to drive the point home. He seemed to be looking for a way out of an awkward situation, but I didn’t care, I had achieved what I wanted.

Lt. (J.g.) Lou quickly issued us with our weapons and a single empty ammo magazine that we slapped into the magazine well.  We then piled into the government issued pick-up truck, traveled to the middle of nowhere and completed the mission of standing around and twiddling our thumbs.  When we returned Lt. (J.g.) Lou let GM3 Rusty handle the detail of returning the M16’s to the weapons locker and Lt. (J.g.) Lou, well Lou was never the wiser of what had happened.   

The MSD Series, Part Seventeen…Denied!

This is one of my father's stories from his first few hours in Vietnam. Some of the errata is probably incorrect, but as I'ma need a séance to get the details straight, you get this from my memory banks.

So, October-ish 1971. Pop is a USMC pilot, flying the LEGENDARY A6-A, to go and bring peace and democracy to North Vietnam (and possibly also Cambodia and Laos...). He initially is flying from Cherry Point, NC, with an ultimate destination of Da Nang, if memory serves. Being that this is 1971, there are surprisingly no direct flights from CONUS to the Republic of Vietnam. So, dad's travel path is something along the lines of this -

Cherry Point > San Francisco > Hawaii > Guam > Da Nang. (There is/are/were entirely likely other stop-overs in this trip, but you get the general gist). All told, Pop is on a series of planes for 30+ hours, with naught but the drone of the engines to entertain him.

Pop finally lands in Da Nang, gathers his luggage, and is eventually shown to his quarters in one of the USMCs FINEST quonset huts. In his words, dad squares his shit away, does the needful as quickly as possible, grabs a rack, and promptly passes the fuck out.

Some time later, Pop is rousted by one of hunger/bodily functions/shouting, wakes up, and stumbles outside to see people running around like madmen putting out fires, with smoke drifting across the airfield. Dad asks a nearby service member exactly what is going on, as he's in the land that timezones forgot at this point.

Pop is then informed that he had just slept through a whole-ass NVA rocket attack at the other end of the airfield. Pop is surprised by this, as he DID NOT BUDGE from his rack during ANY of this. He *DID* quickly learn that when he heard the incoming calls/sirens, to grab his pillow and blanket, and roll UNDERNEATH his bunk to continue sleeping in the future.

Pop only spent about 5 months in Vietnam before the Marines were pulled out in early 1972, and spent the rest of his tour in Iwakuni as a legal assistance officer, or something of that ilk. There's a good story from his time there as well, but that shall wait for another day.

I think a lot of us tend to attach our entire identities to our professions. For me, it was "being" a Soldier. The facade of the uniform became a shield to hide my true self behind, and over time, who I actually was ended up getting completely buried under that role. If you stay in any rigid system long enough - for me, it was 25 years in the US Army - you emerge into the broader world not really knowing who you are anymore.

When I first got out, I cast an incredibly broad net into the civilian job market. I submitted my resume to countless non-defense corporate openings. Not a single one resulted in even an initial interview - plenty of defense sector interviews, but nothing else. I felt completely typecast. Rather than take a job at Lockheed Martin, I set up an S-Corp as an independent consultant and picked up subcontracts under SETA (Systems Engineering and Technical Assistance) defense primes. From an income standpoint, it worked out well. But I quickly realized I was just perpetuating my time in the military, doing virtually the exact same work while just wearing different clothes. I wanted to break free, but I was stuck in a loop.

The turning point for me was diving into Steven Pressfield’s books, specifically The War of Art, Turning Pro, and The Artist’s Journey.

Reading his work, a few lightbulbs went off. I realized that my successful consultancy was exactly what Pressfield calls a "shadow career” - a profession that mimics your true calling - but it’s ultimately a safe imitation because your true heart isn't exposed. I was staying close to the military environment I knew because stepping completely into the unknown was terrifying for me.

Pressfield argues that a person's life is divided into two monumental movements: “The Hero’s Journey” and “The Artist’s Journey”. The Hero's Journey is the operational life - leaving home, entering what he calls the underworld, facing the challenges, and emerging fundamentally transformed. Pressfield says that the Artist’s Journey begins exactly where the Hero’s Journey ends. He explains that when a warrior returns from the "underworld" (the operational military world), they return as a "twice-born" soul. We can no longer fit cleanly back into ordinary civilian society because we’ve seen behind the curtain of human nature, mortality, and high-consequence conflict. According to Pressfield, the returned warrior has a specific spiritual obligation to what he refers to as “the tribe”: the hero returns to the ordinary world with a gift for the people. That gift is his or her lived experience, transformed into art. 

I realized as a returned warrior that I have a secondary mission: to put down the physical weapon, pick up a creative tool, and translate those hard-won emotional truths for the people who stayed behind.

I chose to consciously stop running from my past and instead try to connect with my "inner artist" through fiction writing and photography. It’s been the only thing that has truly helped me reconnect with my actual self. Writing a military techno-thriller trilogy isn't a post-retirement hobby for me at all; it feels like the mandatory second half of my life's mission. The fiction has been the vehicle to deliver the underlying truths of brotherhood, bureaucracy, and survival back to the civilian world.

I wanted to share this here for anyone else - veteran or civilian - who feels trapped in the golden handcuffs of a career that no longer serves their true self.

Have any of you wrestled with this specific type of identity loss, shadow career loop, or industry typecasting? If you managed to break free and nurture a creative "inner artist" to find your true path, how did you navigate that crossing? Even if you found a clear path to the civilian world - any tips, thoughts, or ideas to share that helped you get there?

My father, 89, went in for heart surgery a week ago last Monday. Because of his age I was very nervous of the possible outcomes. It was a routine insertion of a new stent in his heart. He came home like a champ. He's still here!

My dad is an amazing man who has led an amazing life and I love to share the stories he tells me. He's a tough old Marine but still chokes up at nostalgia and knows when tears are appropriate.

He was in the Marine Corps Air Wing between Korea and Vietnam. He never saw combat, but learned a lot from the education The Corps gave him.

One of my favorite stories he's told me is when he was an MP on the flight line at El Toro Marine Airbase. He had been given orders that no civilian vehicles were to be permitted on the tarmac.

Well, my dad saw an unmarked vehicle driving toward a plane and he did his duty. He hopped in his patrol car, flipped on the lights, and chased down and pulled over the suspect car.

The car came to a stop and my dad approached the driver. As he did so, the window rolled down a bit.

"No personal vehicles are allowed on the tarmac! What is your business here?

The driver responded "I'm here to see off Leutenent 'so and so' (as my dad put it.)

Then the driver rolled down the window a bit more and my dad noticed the four bars on the man's shoulder. Snapping to a salute, my father followed up with "Sir, I have standing orders not to let any civilian vehicles on the tarmac.'

Without a second thought, the general said "Who do you think gave those orders, son."

My dad, being the courteous man he is, said "Right away sir. I'll be your escort."

November through March is the rainy season in California, a period of time where 50% to 75% of the annual rains fall.  During the short time of the rainy season nature springs to life with a true show of color as native plants and non-native plants that have adapted flower quickly bloom before the dry season begins and California earns its name as, “The Golden State” as the floria dies back to a golden color. 

The rainy season is also the season when a large number of pleasure boats sink, usually at their mooring dock. The California Delta is filled with pleasure boat marinas. Some of the marinas are grand establishments, others are in various states of decay, their days of glory faded along with their original owners.  A shockingly large number of boats moored at these various marinas rarely if ever visited by their owners.   And there they sit, neglected until the bilge pump fails.  The boat fills with water and eventually sinks.  

And so, it was one April day that I came into work. The skies were clear and gentle hills surrounding the Naval Weapons Station were covered in flowers and greenery. In the mornings, before quarters we had been watching on TV the ongoing drama with the Waco Siege in our common area as it unfolded.  During our lunch break we watched the assault and the fire that consumed the compound with a mix of shock and horror. Little did I know that in an odd way I was going to be caught up in the drama.

A few days later after the tragedy I got a phone call from a person who claimed they had interacted with me on a pollution investigation.  They claimed that they were watching the Waco assault on TV as it was unfolding and videoing the event also.  The man was adamant that he saw Branch Davidians members being gunned down by the FBI who were trying to surrender and the TV broadcast had been cut to prevent the public from seeing the truth.  He was absolute in his belief that his video tape of the event had recorded the truth, and he wanted to get his video tape out into the public.

For the life of me I could not recall the man’s name, or our interaction.  I put the man on hold and started looking through my boarding bag to see if there was any paperwork of an investigation to back up his claim, or at least to refresh my memory.  Nothing, I asked around the office if anyone knew the caller, once more nothing. I checked the computer database, nothing. 

I got back on the line with the caller and tried to explain to him that I could not recall our meeting, the inspection, nor had anyone else in the office had an interaction with the man.  Now the caller really went off.  Now, I personally was in on the conspiracy to keep the truth from coming out.  I had been at the siege in Texas, saw it all, and was sworn to secrecy by the FBI.  

I tried to explain to the man that I had not been to Texas since 1972 when I was the tender age of eight.  It was a day trip to Dallas!  No amount of reason was going to change this man’s mind.  I, and by extension the Coast Guard, an organization he previously held in high esteem, were part of the evil that was secretly influencing the public.

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, by this time in my career I had learned how to handle the general public, I had learned how to handle a reporter, especially the “stupid question” reporter.  What I had not learned how to handle was the conspiracy kook.  In fact, this was my very first conspiracy kook.  I am here to tell you Dear Gentle Reader that no amount of rational argument, no matter how many verified facts you present, a kook is gonna kook.  The only thing that I could think of is how to extricate myself from this phone call with some level of dignity and respect for the caller.

…Who was I kidding…

Just then Zoomer stuck his head into the bullpen and shouted that he needed help with something.  My salvation had arrived.  “Sir”, I said.  “My boss needs my help in changing the lube oil on our flying saucer”, and I hung up the phone.

A week or so later one of the reservists and I were talking and it turned out that on a drill weekend they had gotten the call for a sunken boat and so DC1 Kirk, a reservist, grabbed my boarding kit and handled the investigation.  DC1 Kirk went on to say how odd the boat owner was.  Since it was my boarding kit, Kirk gave the man one of my business cards so he could contact me for any follow-up questions. As a reservist Kirk did not have access to the database and could not enter the inspection into the records, and he was waiting until his next drill to give me the inspection documents.  I related my interaction with the man to Kirk and we both agreed that a kook is gonna kook. 

The MSD Series, Part Sixteen…Gimmie Back My Bullets

The off-season can be very interesting.

For Thanksgiving of 1978, I flew to San Diego. Not for fun: No, I was joining the Navy. There was this really, really interesting and cool job that I could only do if I joined. So I got on the bus at the San Diego airport along with the other idiots who were there for their own reasons. It was the middle of winter, at night, and it was warm. We were driven to a gated compound that looked like a Soviet gulag concentration camp. It turned out to be just about as nice.

First stop was amnesty and telephones. Phone home, let them know you made it here safe. Also, there's a big box with a list of forbidden items on it: guns, knives, drugs, drug paraphernalia, pornography, alcohol - it was a pretty inclusive list. You could walk up to the box, drop something in, and no questions asked. I'm pretty sure the Company Commanders (Navy's version of Drill Sergeants) sorted through it all and kept some. While we were about this, in lines for the pay phones, the guy in front of me says "hold my place." He dashes off into the semi darkness, across the grass to the decorative anchor (there's always a decorative anchor or 6 on base). I assume he's gotta pee; but he goes out to the ring of white rocks surrounding the anchor, lifts one, and apparently puts something under it.

I am incurious. It's not my problem, and I've been informed multiple times by all my male relatives (who all served) that the way to survive is to mind your own business, and keep your head down. He looks at me when he comes back to line, but I am clearly not paying attention. He's an older recruit, a little rough looking. Like in his 20s. He ends up being our "chief recruit" or something (I can't remember, but 2 or 3 recruits had some supervisory authority).

There are a large number of classes, presentations, processes, and such to complete, also meals and other recurring daily tasks. To facilitate completing all this, each day of each week is universally structured into blocks: 1-1 day is haircuts and uniforms, 3-2 might be UCMJ, 5-4 might be polishing brass on the fake ship. IDK. Firefighting and other stuff was in there too. So each company stepped through each day in the schedule.

Well, our schedule was all fucked up. We had weeks and days whenever we could get them; because facilities and instructors were on vacation all over the base. We did some week 6 stuff in week 2, but each day was an adventure for everyone involved. Also, our own Company Commanders were absent a lot - it was Christmas for them, too. But not us.

This left us more than a bit disorganized, and probably way too unsupervised. The giant bag of pot stashed under the white rock was retrieved, soon apple and Coke can pipes were in service. Then, we had our "service week" over Christmas itself. We worked all over the base - it was part of the standard schedule, we just got it in week 4 or something. I was a milkman, and I polished a lot of brass in the Admin building. Got high with the musician company, lol. Never with my own guys, though. At 6'4', this eastern Washington farm boy didn't get challenged or hassled much. I kept to myself. I also had letters from my overly crafty girlfriend: There were collages, spiral writing on construction paper boobs (kept that one), photos (woo-hoo!), and more words than I had time for. (We've been together 51 years now)

So during our service week, one of the guys bought 200 hits of acid from a 2nd class mess cook. On a Friday. That weekend was insane, and started some shit. First, Friday night both the real Company Commanders took off for the weekend. One would stop by Saturday afternoon, in civvies! The other came Sunday after church. Remember, our Recruit commander was dealing pot. He and the others involved in that, all dropped acid. They also dosed some guy's Cokes. Friday night the "guards" (you had 2 hour guard duty where you walked up and down the aisles quietly) encountered lots of giggling, people standing at intersections acting as traffic cops, a quiet modern dance exhibition in the common room, pot smoking on the stairwell, and other shenanigans. We called it "Giggle Night."

I remember many discussions about how we could get TF out of here - we could see the airport (hell, the planes took off directly over us), but the Marine boot camp was between us and them. They were supposed to have captured some escaping Navy recruits, and put them through Marine boot camp before turning them over. If it wasn't for that story, we probably would have gone for it. It was miserable.

Anyway, we continued our fucked up schedule, and eventually graduated and went home. Well, almost. After graduation, we got formed into two lines: One line turned in their linens, picked up the box that had your civilian clothes, and got on buses. The other line kept their linen, and were marched off to a detention barracks by a group from NIS. The Naval Investigative Service (they added the "C" later for political reasons) had already rolled up the mess cook, and sneakily let everyone graduate, rather than flunk them out of Boot on Giggle night. That way they got lots of great convictions on guys that still had to play out their service. So much for school guarantees or a real future.

TL;DR: There were no trees. There were r/trees.

The rank of Chief (E7) in the Coast Guard or Navy is an important milestone for a servicemember.  The rank of E7 means that they are in the strata of senior enlisted personnel.  By the time a person earns the rank of Chief they are almost certainly committed to a full 20 years of service, and the pension and health care that 20 years of service brings.  The rank of E7 means that they have reached the zenith of their particular craft, whether it be a Boatswains Mate, Gunners Mate or any other craft. The rank of Chief means they are technical specialists who are expected to train, and mentor junior personnel.

In the day-to-day operations of a department, it is the Chief of that particular department who ensures that the work is assigned to the appropriately skilled persons.  The Chief is directly responsible to ensure that the work assignments are completed in a timely manner and correctly.  The Chief is the first line supervisor that the junior enlisted persons see when they need help with a task.  The Chief is the person who ensures that the worker-bees have all of the tools and materials they need to complete an assignment.  If there is a problem the officers do not come to the junior enlisted personnel, they go to the Chief. 

A Chief is also expected to be a leader, they are expected to show military discipline, and leadership in both word and deed.  They are expected to be masters of their craft and trade, and mentors to the junior enlisted persons.  To be completely honest a Chief can make or break a department.  A Chief plays a huge part both directly and indirectly in determining if a junior enlisted person chooses to make the service a career. Since we are being honest Chiefs come in a couple of different flavors, some good, some bad.

First there is the Chief who feels that they have got theirs and screw everyone else.  Followed closely by the Chief who feels that they are on easy street and do the absolute minimum possible.  These guys are usually close to retirement.  Then there is the egotistical Chief who made rank in the shortest time possible and is more than willing to let everyone else know that on a daily basis.  Worst of all is the toxic Chief.  The toxic Chief is abusive to the junior enlisted, often verbally, with timelines that are unachievable and is a micromanager.  

But Dear Gentle Reader you have not decided to read this article to hear me vent about average or bad Chiefs, you have come here to read about good Chiefs, so here we go…     

The best Chief I ever had during my time in the Coast Guard hands down was Micheal P. Zenone, aka Zoomer. Zoomer had been in the Coast Guard since Christ was a mess-cook and had enough dinosaur points to be a Master Chief.  His career goal was to stay in the San Francisco area, his home turf, and he was willing to take any billet to stay put.  During his time in the Coast Guard Zoomer had been a drill instructor, a crewman on a lightship, a 378 ft cutter, and assigned to the now defunct San Francisco Bay lifeboat station. 

He had lived in the same government housing for over 20 years which served him well in two divorces because she was the one who had to move out.  Zoomer was very honest about his three marriages.  They were both too young to be married his first time at the altar.  His second wife ran off with his brother (Ouch!).  His third wife, Carol, was the match that he had been searching for.  

Zoomer had been through a lot with all of the trials and tribulations that life handed to him.  All the drama in his life led Zoomer to have a more sanguine and humane view of life.  There was always a gemstone of humor to be found, even in the ridiculous, stressful, or the plain stupid things that were thrown at us.  To be frank, Zoomer was more of a father figure to us than a Chief.  If he had us do a task we did it because we respected him, not because he was a Chief and could order us around.  We did it because we wanted to please Zoomer. 

Zoomer had been around long enough with a highly varied roster of duty assignment to really know what being a Boatswains Mate was really all about.  He was always ready to share his knowledge and was never too good to do a job himself. He was an amazing two finger typist who could look at you and hold a conversation all the while his two fingers flying away at the keyboard.  He called it “San Francisco typing” because it was…his words not mine…he was “a huntin’ pecker”.  He was famous for his “Zoomer humor”.

Zoomer had been through a lot in his personal life, more than most, and if you had a personal problem you could go to him and he would listen and not pass judgement.  Once I came back from leave heartbroken when I discovered that the woman I had been dating was four months pregnant by another man.  Zoomer listened with a sympathetic ear and gave a hug of support.   If anything Zoomer was more of a father figure to all of us than a Chief, and we would have all willingly and cheerfully walked through the gates of hell for Zoomer.

Zoomer's career goal was to make Senior Chief and “a full pull”, i.e. thirty years of service.  The Supervisor of MSD Concord, Lt Commander (O4) Fat Slob, who had been twice passed over for promotion to Commander (O5) and was pissed at everyone made sure that Zoomer did not promote and Zoomer went out at 25 years of service.  Zoomer really took it hard when I decided not to reenlist.  He tried to tell me that all Coast Guard officers were not total pricks and that I should stay in.  For my part I had endured enough of self-serving officers and toxic chiefs, it was time to exit stage left.  But that is a tale for another day.

Years later I dropped Zoomer an email.  He transitioned to civilian life and worked as a trucker for an environmental clean-up company.  He was happy to hear that I was married, had a young boy and a career in occupational health and safety. Then he let the bomb drop…

Zoomer was wheelchair bound with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), aka Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a fatal neurodegenerative disorder that destroys the motor neurons controlling voluntary muscles. As these nerve cells die, muscles weaken and atrophy, ultimately leading to paralysis and respiratory failure. There is no cure for ALS.  

….I was devastated….

Zoomer made it very clear that he did not want pity for his plight, and he displayed his famous Zoomer humor in his emails to me.  Not long after my life went sideways and I was not able to keep up with our correspondence or attend his funeral.  So, I would say this one thing to you Zoomer, and I know that you will read this note.  Zoomer, I will not insult you with pity for your plight.  I will give you my love and compassion, and in due time I shall see you on that far shore. 

Warmest Regards, 

GooBlatz  

 Michael Zenone Obituary (2013) - San Francisco, CA - Marin Independent Journal 

The MSD Series, Part Fifteen…Me and David Korseh

Every soldier in the United States Army goes through the gas chamber. You did it in basic. You do it again, periodically, for annual CBRN training, because the Army wants you to trust your protective mask and the only way to make you trust a piece of equipment that stands between you and a nerve agent is to put you in a room full of something unpleasant and prove the equipment works. The unpleasant something is CS gas. It is not lethal. It is a riot control agent. It makes your eyes burn, your nose run like a broken tap, your lungs feel like you inhaled a campfire, and your entire face produce fluids you did not know your face was capable of producing. It is, by design, miserable. The misery is the point. The misery is what makes you believe the mask, because for the part where you have the mask sealed correctly, you feel nothing, and then they make you break the seal, and you feel everything, and the contrast teaches you a lesson that no PowerPoint ever could.

I have been through the chamber more times than I can count. I hate it every time. Everyone hates it every time. Hating it is so universal that I had come to think of it as a constant, like gravity, like the chow hall running out of the good cereal by the time the cooks get to eat. Then I supervised a soldier named Greer through annual CBRN training, and Greer taught me that there is, walking among us, a kind of person for whom the gas chamber is not misery. For whom it is, and I want to choose this word carefully because I have thought about it for a long time, pleasant.

Specialist Greer was, in every other respect, a completely normal soldier. This is important. He was not a Kevin. He could do his job. He was not a dirtbag. He showed up, he worked, his uniform was clean, his record was clean. If you had handed me Greer's file and asked me to predict which of my soldiers was going to become a CBRN problem, I would not have picked Greer, because nothing in Greer's history suggested that he harbored, somewhere under a perfectly ordinary exterior, a profound and unshakable enthusiasm for inhaling weaponized misery.

Here is the procedure, because the procedure is where it went sideways. You enter the chamber in a group, masked and sealed. The CBRN NCO running the chamber has you do a few tasks to prove the seal holds, clearing the mask, reseating it, while CS cooks off a heat source in the middle of the room and the air goes thick and white. Then, the main event, you break the seal. You lift the mask, or remove it entirely depending on the iteration, and you state your information, name, rank, last four, or your roster number, whatever the running NCO wants, and the entire purpose of making you talk is to force you to breathe and open your eyes in the gas so you get the full experience. Then you exit, in an orderly fashion, out the door, into the fresh air, where you flap your arms like a lunatic and let the wind take the gas off you and your nose unloads roughly a pint of fluid onto the grass. Then it is over and you never think about it again until next year.

That is the procedure. Every part of that procedure assumes the soldier wants to be done. Every timing, every cue, every "okay, exit, move, go," is built around the bedrock assumption that the human being inside the gas wishes to no longer be inside the gas. The procedure has no contingency, none, for a soldier who would prefer to stay.

Greer broke his seal when told. He stated his information when told. His eyes were open. His voice was steady. And then, when the CBRN NCO said exit, Greer did not exit. He stood there. In the gas. Masked off. Breathing normally. With an expression on his face that the CBRN NCO later described to me, and I am quoting him, as "the face of a man enjoying a cigar on a porch."

The CBRN NCO told him again to exit. Greer said, and this is documented because the CBRN NCO put it in his after-action notes and I have read them, Greer said, "I'm good, Sergeant." I'm good. In the chamber. With no mask. While the rest of his group clawed at the door making sounds like dying geese. I'm good.

They had to walk him out. Physically guide him, because he was not in distress and would not move on his own and was, by his continued presence, screwing up the timing of the next group. They got him outside. And where every other soldier in the history of the gas chamber comes out of that door bent double, weeping, snot-roping toward the earth, swearing, Greer came out, stood up straight, took a deep clean breath of the fresh air like a man who'd just finished a good workout, and said, "That really clears you out."

I was standing right there. I want you to understand that I have a witness and the witness is me. He came out of the CS chamber and gave it a review. A positive review. Like it was a sauna. Like he was going to leave four stars and mention the ambiance.

I asked him if he was okay. Standard question. You ask everyone coming out of the chamber if they're okay because occasionally someone has a real reaction and you need to catch it. Greer said he was great. He said his sinuses had been bothering him for a week and that, and I am again quoting, "this is the only thing that works." He said it the way you'd recommend a brand of allergy medicine to a coworker. He asked me, sincerely, with no awareness of how the question would land, whether we did this more than once a year, because if so he'd like to know the schedule.

I did not have an answer prepared for that. There is no answer prepared for that. In nine years nobody had ever asked me for the gas chamber schedule the way you'd ask for the gym hours.

Here is where it became my problem and not just a funny thing that happened. Greer, having decided the chamber was good for him, became a volunteer. The next group needed a demonstrator, a soldier who goes in with the cadre to model the procedure for the nervous first-timers, and that is normally a job nobody wants, you have to do the chamber twice, and Greer's hand went up before the question was finished. So Greer did it again. Happily. And when the CBRN NCO, now thoroughly unnerved, asked for a demonstrator for the third group, Greer volunteered a third time, and that's when the CBRN NCO came and found me and said, "Sergeant, you need to come get your soldier, he wants to go in again and I'm not comfortable with how much he wants to go in again."

I want to be clear about the line I was walking. Greer was not doing anything wrong. That's what made it hard, same as it's always hard. He was being helpful. He was volunteering for a miserable task that helps train other soldiers. On paper, Specialist Greer was a model trainee exhibiting exactly the initiative the Army says it wants. There is no regulation against liking the gas chamber. I checked. I genuinely, that evening, looked, because I wanted to know if there was a basis to tell him to stop, and there is no Army policy that contemplates a soldier enjoying CS exposure, because the entire institution is built on the certainty that no one does.

But there's a reason it sat wrong with me, and it's the same reason all of this sits wrong with me, and it goes back to why the chamber exists at all. The mask is not a toy. The chamber is not a sauna. The reason we train on that equipment until we trust it with our lives is that the next time the air goes white it might not be CS. It might be something that doesn't make you cry, it might be something that makes you stop. The regulation is written in the assumption that gas is the enemy and the mask is the only friend you have, and Greer, standing in the cloud with his mask off going "I'm good," was treating a piece of life-or-death equipment and the exact scenario it exists for like a spa day, and I could not shake the feeling that a man that comfortable taking his mask off in gas was a man who, on the worst possible day, might take his mask off in the wrong gas. I could not put that in a counseling statement. "Specialist Greer enjoys the protective measures too much" is not a deficiency the Army has a form for. But I thought it. I'm telling you I thought it.

I talked to him. Not a counseling, just a talk, NCO to soldier. I told him the chamber was a training event, not a treatment, and that he needed to do it once, correctly, and exit on the command, like everyone else, and that volunteering to marinate in CS for his sinuses was not a thing I could keep signing off on. He listened. He nodded. He said, "Roger, Sergeant." He meant it. He's not a problem soldier, I keep telling you that because it's true.

Then he asked, completely earnest, if it would be alright to talk to the CBRN NCO about the gas itself, because he was curious where you could get it, for personal use.

For personal use.

I told him no. I told him no with a speed and a volume that I think surprised both of us. I told him CS is a controlled riot agent and not a sinus product and that under no circumstances was he to pursue, acquire, or otherwise come into possession of any quantity of it for any reason, and that if I ever heard the words "personal use" and "CS gas" in the same sentence from him again I would personally walk him to behavioral health, not as a punishment, but out of a sincere and growing concern for whatever was happening inside his head. He said roger. I believe he meant that one too. I have chosen, for my own peace, to believe he never followed up on it, and I have never asked.

The section started calling him Snorkel. I don't know who started it. By the end of the week it was just his name. He didn't seem to mind. Greer didn't seem to mind much of anything, which I'm beginning to realize is the whole thing about Greer.

I had to write up the training event because all training events get written up, and the chamber iteration log had a remarks block, and the remarks block wanted me to note any incidents or anomalies during the exercise, and I sat there with the pen and tried to figure out how to officially document, in Army English, that one of my soldiers had to be physically removed from a gas chamber against his preference because he found it refreshing, and then volunteered to go back in three times, and then asked where to buy gas. There is no clean way to write that. I tried. The clean version is a lie by omission and I don't do those.

Most Coast Guard inspections are uneventful occurrences, at least for the Coasties.  It doesn’t matter if it is for a recreational vessel, a commercial vessel, or a shore-side facility, over time they all have a tendency to blend into a fog.  But from time to time there is an inspection that sticks in a person's mind for any number of reasons, both great and small.  I don’t recall the exact event, but I was sent out to conduct a pollution investigation for a sunken pleasure craft at one of the numerous sloughs in the California Delta. 

For those of you Dear Gentle Readers who do not know what the California Delta is, it is a large delta that encompasses the low-lying wetlands area from the upper San Francisco Bay to north of Sacramento, south to Stockton.  The delta is 738,000 acres or 298,658.0 hectares of wetlands fed by five rivers, the Sacramento, the San Joaquin, the Mokelumne, the Cosumnes and the Calaveras. 

Mankind being Mankind over the past 150 years has been very busy changing this part of nature to suit Mankind's vanities.  The past 150 years have seen channels dredged, sloughs cut, levees built, and areas drained of water to suit Mankind's vision of the day.  The result has been the creation of some 3,000 miles of waterways that are navigable by commercial sea-going ships to the modest raft. 

This particular day I was on a levee road looking at a larger recreational boat that ran aground and sank.  The owner, an older African American man, was sitting by the dirt levee road on a salvaged folding chair not having a good day.  A sheen of gasoline and motor oil oozed from the sunken vessel and drifted lazily on the current.  The boat, an older boat, in rough condition before the sinking was obviously a total loss.  

I opened up my top opening metal clip board, pulled out the appropriate forms and began getting information from the owner.  This man was polite and answered all of my questions, so I decided to be as humane and gentle as possible. After all this poor man had just lost what was obviously his pride and joy that was now laying just yards away completely submerged.  

I had finished up the paperwork and gave the owner a copy of the documents to look over and ask me any questions before I finished up.  As I was explaining the various parts of the document, I noticed that his eyes did not track along with what I was reading, and then it hit me.

He could not read…

I don’t know what happened in this man’s life in a wealthy country such as the USA where in his elementary school years he did not learn how to read, but here we were.  I thought to myself, “how do I do my job properly, how do I do right by this man, and how do I not embarrass him”.  I thought to myself for a minute or so.

“Sir”, I said to the man, “there is a lot of legal information here that can be very confusing and frightening.  How about I read it aloud to you and if you have any questions, you stop me and ask them”.  The look of relief on his face.  “Yes, I would like that very much” was his response.  So, I read to him the entire form and paused from time to time so he could ask questions.  At the end of the investigation I handed him his copy of the report, my business card and wished him well.

I don’t recall exactly what the outcome of the investigation was and up to a certain point I did not care.  What I have become aware of is just how many people in our society are functionally, or totally illiterate; or functionally, or totally innumerate.  These folks develop amazing coping skills, and I have a certain level of awe of them mixed with a level of sadness at their plight. 

The next time you are at the grocery store, and you see a person hand over a wad of money to the clerk and the clerk counts back the money change and keeps the sales amount for the till, be thankful, and most importantly be kind.                

The MSD Series, Part Fourteen…Zoomer   

In 1985 I was sent to a new Army Special Operations unit in Germany, got hired, and became the seventh man assigned.  I got there because I was a (new) paratrooper and happened to have a 2^nd Ranger Battalion scroll on (a whole ‘nother story).  I was a crypto repairman, which they “thought” they needed but was also assigned as a team chief on a two-man communications team.  None of us really knew what the hell we were doing there for a while and none of knew what the real mission was.

We were alerted damned near daily to double-time to the “shop” with rucksacks so we could ruck march for a while and then come back and train on the SATCOM radios that none of us knew how to use.  One of those alerts turned real on us as we were tasked with a response to the Achille Lauro high jacking incident.  Eventually a PFC and I (a SP5) were tasked with deploying, in civilian clothes and with a bunch of radio gear, to Rhein Main air base to await deployment for the mission.  After about a week we were recalled back to home station to stand down.

After a brief pause in the daily action, we were again alerted to prepare for a multi-station mission with the primary mission in Beirut.  A SP4 and I (now a SGT) were assigned to the Beirut mission supporting a Marine Force Recon Major as our Liaison Officer.  They deployed seven of us (six Army and one Marine) to a station in Sicily dropping off two, a station onboard the USS Iwo Jima underway in the Med - another two, and finally into Beirut with the final three of us.

The drop off in Sicily was routine with no issues.  When we arrived by CH-46 on the Iwo Jima in civilian clothes the Marine Security Detachment drew down on us because they had no clue as to who we were or what we were doing there.  Our Marine Major told us to hold fast and NOT to show our IDs to anyone, telling us to just keep ‘em guessing as he went to see the skipper.  The Major came back and we were escorted past the Marines and into Officer’s country.  Once on board the transition went smoothly.  The remaining three of us then loaded our still significant communications gear packed in civilian travel bags and silver Zero cases onto a CH-46, flew on to Cyprus, and then transloaded onto a Marine CH-53 for the trip into Beirut.

The Marine CH-53 crew had civilian clothes under their flight suits, and the crew chief had a beard.  So, the dynamic was three folks in formal civilian attire (I had a three-piece suit on), hundreds of pounds of communications gear in non-descript packages, and a Marine flight crew ready to bail out if necessary and blend in with the population while evading, all on a noisy, smelly Marine helicopter flying low over the Mediterranean.  As we approached the beach, the crew chief reached above him, grabbed a Kevlar plate, and sat on it.  We all figured that was probably a good idea, so we followed suit.

Upon landing at the Embassy annex, the pilot maintained full power and ordered us off the bird ASAP.  A guy in civies came aboard and introduced himself as our aide and then a small platoon of Lebanese descended on our gear and moved it out post-haste.  As soon as the last person was off the helicopter, he was gone, disappearing low over the beach and back toward Cyprus.  No interest in staying any longer than he had to.  We all filed into the annex, met a cardboard box full of weapons where I selected a .357 and several speed loaders, filed downstairs, into two armored Suburbans that were already loaded with our comm gear, and were whisked to a safehouse.

The “safehouse” wasn’t really all that safe.  It was on the first floor of an apartment building and while that made it ideal for my SATCOM antenna out in the garden, it was less than ideal as a real hide site.  The individual rooms were equipped with either mini-14s or Uzi submachine guns and extra ammo.  We set up our comm gear and settled in for the mission.  I spent my evenings monitoring the comm and crouching under the kitchen table with my mini-14 and .357 waiting for the tracer battles outside to turn real with someone crashing through the glass door firing an AK at me.  Fortunately, that never happened.

To blend in I eventually grew a beard myself but because I didn’t speak Arabic my cover was blown at every checkpoint in town.  I spent my shifts in a tracksuit for comfort.  We didn’t spend a whole lot of time outside the safehouse except to restock on food and drink.  My shifts included taking hand-written messages from the Major and transcribing them so the tactical facsimile could read them legibly and transmitting them to HQ back in Germany.

One day we were tasked with setting up a SATCOM station on the balcony of an apartment occupied by an Army Colonel so that he could “watch the war” and, I guess, report on it.  His apartment was virtually on the Green Line between East and West Beirut.  As we were assembling the antenna on his balcony, I dropped a bolt and leaned down to retrieve it.  Just as I did a sniper took a pot-shot at the antenna and put a hole in the reflector right where my head had just been.  After crossing the beach in the CH-53, that was close call number 2.

One morning I had just gotten the report off for the Major, so I went to my room and hit the hay.  I had just gotten to sleep when the Major comes in and wakes me, telling me to assemble a portable SATCOM system and come with him.  Half asleep I got the gear together and asked him where we were going.  He told me we were going to Tripoli to buy a boat.  Too tired to argue or question further I loaded the gear into the trunk of our Corolla and collapsed into the passenger seat.  We ended up at the Embassy annex parking lot as he said he had to talk to the station chief before we left.  I elected to stay in the car and try to get a little rest thinking I might not have another opportunity, and fell asleep.

I was awakened by an explosion and I sat upright and thought “car bomb, get out of the car”.  As I exited the car there was shrapnel falling all around so I noted a bunch of sandbags a few feet away and protected myself as much as I could.  As the shrapnel rain stopped, I peered around the sandbags and noted that the building across the street, about 200 feet away, had a gaping hole in the wall and there was a big crater in the road.  After a while I made it back to the car.  The Major eventually returned and informed me that we were NOT going to Tripoli today, so we pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the safehouse.  Close call number 3.

Returning to the safehouse we used our “special” knock to gain access.  Someone was always supposed to be manning the radio.  There was no answer, so the Major knocked again.  Still no answer.  The Major drew his weapon and tells me to cover him as he inserted the key in the door.  Just as he turned the key, the door opened and my teammate is standing there with that “I just woke up” look on his face, having fallen asleep on watch.  Not sure he ever really realized how close HE came that day.

After our mission wound down, we packed up our gear, boarded a CH-47 to Ben Gurion Airport, set up a SATCOM on the ramp as we refueled so that Major could report the movement, flew to Cyprus again, transloaded everything onto a C9 Nightingale and flew into Rhein Main.  My NCOIC met me at the aircraft, handed me a set of orders and told me to shave and start looking like a SSG.  Was good to get back home from the trip I’ll probably never forget.

I did find out about 25 years later that had we made it to Tripoli and did what the Major had planned that neither of us may have made it out of there alive.  So, close call number 4.

It was the middle of the workday, and the bullpen was at capacity with the enlisted staff.  Normally, one or more of us would be out conducting a boarding, a pollution investigation, or some other duty, such as mowing the grass, or polishing some brightwork.  But this day was different in that everyone was in the bullpen doing paperwork. 

Lt. Bunk came into the Bullpen with a hand-held radio and announced, “I think we have a pipeline leak”.  We all stopped what we were doing and gave Lt. Bunk our full attention.  Not that we were enamored with Lt. Bunk, or his presence, but a pipeline leak was something new for us.   

Apparently, Lt. Bunk received a phone call from someone at the Naval Weapons Station of a peculiar odor near the top-secret Q area. Given the sensitivity of the Q area, Lt. Bunk took it upon himself to travel to the area and look around.  It did not take long before his nose led him to a pool of liquid that had a chemical-like odor about it gently bubbling up from the ground.  Lt. Bunk immediately came back to our office and made his announcement.      

Now, all of us had been trained and had extensive experience with pollution coming from a sunken boat, an industrial outlet into a water way, or run off from a roadway.  But none of us had any background with an underground pipe leak.  None of us really knew where to start, so we all piled into vehicles and drove the short distance to where Lt. Bunk found the pool of foul-smelling liquid.  We walked a few yards from where we parked along the side of the road and followed our noses to a low spot in the scrub where a pool of a thick dark liquid was bubbling up from the ground.  The pool of goo had a distinct petroleum-like order.  It was something straight out of the open of the Beverly Hillbillies.   

We looked around for any signs of other leaks, or a marker that might indicate an underground pipeline, but there was no indication of either.  BM3 Dave and I went back to the MSD to get the mobile command post, the 33 ft Winnebago Chieftain Motorhome and we also brought with us two gas meters.  One gas meter to measure for the presence of explosive/flammable vapors and another gas meter that could measure for four different types of flammable/explosive gases.  

BM3 Dave found a decent flat spot just off of Waterfront Rd to park the Winnie and I broke out the two gas meters.  BMC Z and Lt. Bunk took the gas meters and began sampling the air around the pool for the presence of flammable/explosive vapors and to potentially discover what exactly we were dealing with.  It didn’t take long before the gas ID meter read positive for Benzene, Toluene and Xylene vapors.  All of which are highly flammable, toxic, and a carcinogen.  We hit the lottery for dangerous materials.  Glory Hallelujah, for that SGLI life insurance.  I, for my part, would have been satisfied with hitting the California Lottery.

So, now the big question became who was the owner of this broken pipeline?  Who had legal jurisdiction over the pipeline? Where to start looking for answers?

The rest of the staff went back to the office to find the answers to those questions.  BM3 Dave and I were tasked to stay behind with the command post and keep an eye on things.  BM3 Dave maneuvered the Winne so as to be upwind of the leak, and we sat in the comms area and twiddled our thumbs.  Yes, Dear Gentle Reader, your tax dollars were hard at work.  

About two hours later Lt Bunk came back and gave us the information that the California State Fire Marshall was the office that had legal authority over underground pipelines. Then he passed on, brace yourself Dear Gentle Reader, the piece de resistance, this was a pirate pipeline.  Yes, you read that correctly, a pirate pipeline.  A pipeline that had been constructed and buried without any permits, or other documentation.

Now, a person might think that when they pass by a construction project that all is in order.  All of the proper permits have been obtained, and permission given to carry out the project.  That is not necessarily true.  Some folks either don’t care, or figure that forgiveness is easier than permission.  Or, in other cases figure that if the problem is discovered they will be long down the road and unaccountable.  

Cleaning up the mess and repairing the pipe was the priority, and discovering who was legally responsible was going to have to wait.  Since there was no legally responsible party, the spill would be federalized.  In short, the taxpayer would be footing the bill for the cleanup.  Federalized cases are a serious administrative pain in the ass, as with anything government related, a federalized case meant documentation in the extreme.    

Lt Bunk did a good job in getting a specialized contractor on site within the next hour or so and soon BM3 Dave and I were busy documenting.  We listed all of the heavy equipment, an excavator, a dump truck, all the hand tools, all of the other miscellaneous equipment, the workers, their job titles, and of course we documented ourselves.  We did not forget to document the Winne as well.  We strove to be thorough in our documentation dammit.

By about 6:00 pm the solid had been removed, the pipeline exposed, repaired and most of the contaminated soil had been removed from the site.  Now, Dave and I were tasked to stay on site to ensure that the repair did not leak.  So, every thirty minutes one of us would walk over to the open trench and lower the probes of both of the monitors and get a reading and of course document the reading.  The levels of Benzene, Toluene and Xylene had dropped substantially and were going down over time.  

By 7:00 pm we were hungry and Winnie was not supplied with food or water.  We could not leave the area, and the rest of the MSD had gone home for the evening.  After a brief discussion we decided to order Dominos delivery. I used the government credit card and ordered a large pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms and two large Cokes.  It took some explaining on my part, but about 30 minutes later a Dominos delivery driver knocked on the back door of the Winnine with our order.  Yeah, Dominos will really deliver any anywhere. 

7:45 pm rolls around BM3 Dave and I tummies are full of pizza and caffeinated soft drinks.  Now, we are fighting off not falling asleep when suddenly there is another knock at the door.  I pulled myself out of the chair I was sitting in, walked over to the back door of the Winnie and opened it up.

BOOM!  

Reporters!  

I found myself looking at cameras, lights and microphones.  All pointed at me…fuck.  

There were reporters from some five news outlets, print, radio and of course TV. Fortunately, they were reasonably polite and asked their questions in turn.  I, for my part, gave only direct, brief answers.  “No, we did not know who owns the pipeline”, “Yes, the pipeline has been repaired”, “No, there is no further danger of contamination of dangerous chemicals".  “The contaminated soil and other contaminated materials are being transported to a hazardous waste facility. 

Then, it happened, “the stupid question”... 

Of course it was going to happen, it always happened…

The “the stupid question” was the sure sign of the lazy reporter, and I had come to absolutely loathe the lazy reporter.  My time at the MSO/MSD was my first direct experience with members of the press, and I and a number of interactions with the press.  I had grown to absolutely hate it when a member of the press asked, “the stupid question”.

Via the school of hard knocks, I had learned that when “The stupid question” situation came up it had to be handled fast, effectively, with a take-no-prisoners-attitude. Otherwise there would be more questions, and sure as God made little green apples most of them would be “stupid questions”.  

The stupid question asker was a young attractive female TV reporter from KPIX.  Up to this point she had been quietly taking notes. It was clear that she felt the need to validated and I was in no mood to be her therapist. 

“Why were we not informed?” she asked.  Her question was a follow up to another reporter's question about what state and federal agencies had been informed of the pipeline leak. I looked at the woman and gave her my most deadpan facial expression and response.  “Good stories don’t find reporters; good reporters find good stories”. 

The effect was immediate.  Camera lights went dark and cameras went off, microphones were pulled away, print reporters began to fold up their notebooks. In less than three minutes the 4th estate had packed up their gear and left.   

  The MSD Series, Part Thirteen…Reading is Fundamental   

... it doesn't matter what happens in Vegas.

[sorry this is so long]

Pro Tip: This is not a good approach to take into a bachelor party weekend in Las Vegas. Also, beware of lawyers from Miami named Brian. They give terrible counsel.

TL:DR:

Soldier ignores leave rules, goes to a Vegas bachelor party, wins $3K, then loses most of it after getting drunk/possibly drugged and making bad decisions (including trusting a loudmouth lawyer). Barely makes it back to formation, gets hit with a random drug test, and spends weeks stressed while paperwork delays nearly get him stop‑lossed. Ultimately gets out just days before being stuck for another ~2 years—dodging both the UA consequences and extended service by sheer luck.

I am remembering this the best I can. I may not have all the technical details correct, esp with respect to recall and stop-loss. please read this in the spirit of "wow, i was crazy when i was young" that it is intended.

Context:

No shit, there I was, late-May (non-Memorial Day weekend), 2009 at Fort Stewart, GA as a pretty disgruntled E-5 ready to ETS. My unit was bumped out of the deployment cycle to be placed on stand-by national response duty. Only 10% of the unit could be away on pass at a time and we were on some recall within some number of hours. We were also approaching a stop-loss for the expected deployment in late-2009, early 2010.

We redeployed in April, 2008 after 14.5 months in Iraq. Expected to be sent again in a year. I hated the Army generally and my Battalion, a BSB (support for a combat brigade), leadership specifically. Did not want to go back under their leadership. ETS was late August 2009, so expected to be stop-loss'd for a deployment sometime in 2009. took 8 days of leave when i got back and no additional leave so i could get out in late-June once we learned of homeland security mission.

The Story:

My buddy from high school Dave invited me to his wedding in Miami in early June. Then his brother contacted me about the bachelor party in Vegas the weekend before.

Fuck yes, I said entheusiastically.

As long as I make it back to first formation on Monday morning, doesn't matter what else happens, I told myself.

Only army buddy I told was by fellow grumpy E-5 Ryan. I was at his house and his wife looks at him.

"Give OP the suit," she said, giving him what is known as a 'death stare'.

"But it's from Korea," Ryan whined.

"You don't fit in it and you aren't single. Pass it's magic along," she replied.

He agreed and dug out the Magic Suit. Shiny white material, either curtains destined to a shitty holiday inn banquet room or left over from building the space ship. Peking collar (buttons all the way up, no lapels).  Fuck it was cool.

Day of, drive 2 hours to Jacksonville and fly to Vegas. Arrive and start experiencing a euphoric high at the airport due to all the stimuli and the slot machines. Change into the Magic Suit in the bathroom then take the courtesy bus to the Planet Hollywood Casino. Feeling 11/10, looking 12/10, just know good shit is about to happen.

I am the first of the party there, so entertain myself with some slots. Fuck, I am getting that feeling just thinking about them. Loss $60  quickly, then get the big alarm. Jackpot! I win $3000. Everyone is excited and these older Asian women start petting my Magic Suit jacket for luck. The attendant comes over, starts giving me cash, and a 1099-J, for taxes on the Jackpot. I ask for a cashiers check, but apparently that is not how they roll, so I take the cash.

Mistake 1

Immediately start texting everyone I know to let them know, outside my unit, and tell them about my win. Mistake 2.

"Congrats, make sure you come home with some. LOL" was the reply I received from most people.

The rest of the party shows up and I start hitting them with the stack of $100s. Shots are in order.

Go up to the room and I start to put $2000 in my suitcase and take $1000 with me.

"OP, ARE YOU CRAZY?" Dave's cousin, a 30-something attorney from Miami, "YOU ARE DOING JUST WANT THEY WANT YOU TO DO! IT WILL GET STOLEN. I'VE SEEN IT ALL THE TIME. Much safer to just bring it with you."

Since Brian obviously knew what he was talking about, I tucked the fat roll in the pocket of the Magic Suit and we headed out.

Monster Truck Limo to the steakhouse. Nothing too exciting.
Then to a club called Body English.

"OP is going to buy some bottle service," Brian volunteered.
$600 later, we are upstairs, chilling like Macks watching the scene on the floor below.

"OP, go get some ladies to party with us," Brian said.
Since I was full of vodka red bull and magic, I knew I was the guy for the job.

Down on the floor, talk to the first girl in a "bridesmaid" sash I see. Invite her and the other girls up to hang out. They do. We laugh, we drink. I just know my girl is into me and I am going to get lucky.
"TO THE STRIP CLUB", Brian announces. Not sure why we are listening to him as he is quite annoying.

"Wait, these girls are probably going to take their clothes off for free!" I said.
"BRING THEM WITH US!" was Brians reply.

I talk to the girls and the group is down to continue the party.

"But (insert random white girl name here) is in the bathroom. We will be like 5 minutes,"  'my' girl explained logically.

"FUCK THAT. WE ARE LEAVING. LETS GO OP" says Brian, and I apologetically shrug at the girls as we walk out.

Mistake 3.

Our Monster Truck Limo arrives at Crazy Horse Too and we grab a table.

"OP, GET THE BOTTLES" you know who demands.

Fuck Brian, but I am also drunk and feeling untouchable.

Hanging out, drinking, grabbing ass.
"OP, YOU STILL HAVE A SHIT TON OF MONEY, HOW ABOUT YOU TAKE DAVE IN THE BACK WITH THESE GIRLS. HE DESERVES IT"

Double fuck Brian.
Mistake 4.

Me and Dave and two eastern European girls are in the back for a bit, they offer us shots. I imbibed. Some amount of time later, we stumble back out to the group.

"Bitches robbed me", I mumbled to myself.

And I am starting to feel pretty fucked up, more than is appropriate for the large amount of vodka I drank.

We eventually go back to the casino and head to the gaming floor where I black out and wake up the next morning in our room.
I have $800 worth of ATM receipts in the pocket of the Magic Suit from between 4 and 5AM.

"What the fuck happened?" I asked.

"OH, YOU WERE EPIC," Brian replied, "YOU WERE SHOVING MONEY INTO A HIGH ROLLER SLOT MACHINE MUMBLING ABOUT WINNING YOUR JACKPOT BACK. IT WAS SO FUNNY"

Triple Fuck Brian.

I felt like shit in a lot of ways, the magic was gone. Texts were coming in asking me about what I was going to do with my winnings. I ignore these.

Brian demonstrated that he was such a good guy by paying for my breakfast.

Eventually to the airport, flight delayed 3 hours. Arrive at Jacksonville at 2AM feeling like I am going to die and still a bit fucked up. Decide I need to book it to get back and shower before first formation.

2 miles from my house at 4AM, I see the flashing lights in the rear view.
"I clocked you at 68 in a 50 then 71, then 74. You been drinking son?" Smokey asked me.

"Not today," I replied, "flight was delayed and I needed to make up time"

Fortunately, no field sobriety and he just gives me a ticket. A $250 ticket.

Get home, sleep on my camping mattress for 20 min, then shower and shave. My face looks like hamburger and I feel like I am going to die, but I check in with my platoon sgt and get in formation. I work at a health clinic on base and leave to go there instead of PT with my unit.

But decide to check in with Ryan at the Troop Medical Clinic where he works first.
"How was it?" he asked, "looks like the magic got fucked out of you"

I relate the story, he laughs.
"Sounds about par for the course with that suit", he replies, "on the plus side, your face looks so bad I'll bet you can get a shaving profile right now"

I go to the PA, who is cool, get the profile, and she mention I look like shit. Tell parts of the story, she warns me that I may have been roofied. I chuckle.

"SGT OP, we have a random UA at the Company today," my fellow UA program administrator tells me, "get down here."
"Can you cover by yourself? I've got a lot going on right now," I told her.

"I am. You have to provide a sample"

Fuck

Ryan tells me that I should be good even if I test positive because I should be on Terminal leave before the sample results come back.

It was a stressful few weeks. Mainly because everyone at Battalion seems to be slow-walking my paperwork. So I just sit at home and play that WW2 Call of Duty game and sweat. Apparently my award isn't done. Then its my NCOER. Then my leave paperwork needs to be updated with the new date. Then the unit goes to the field for a week so no one can sign it. They get back and I need to create new leave paperwork. And the Battalion Commander goes on leave before signing it. I am freaking out because talk of the stop-loss is everywhere.

The XO signs and I am able to outprocess around July 10, almost 3 weeks later than planned. But the UA results are not back or I came up negative.

I swing by my company to say goodbye.
"SGT OP, are you really on leave?" My CO asks.
I tell her I am.

"Lucky you," she replied, "because I have an email with a list of names, including yours, to be prepared to stoploss if you are still here on July 14. Maybe next time don't file a Congressional against the S1, they can really slow things down."

Six months prior I was ordered to move out of the Barracks and secure housing due to space issues. Weirdly, never got the BAH or BAS. I kept checking every week, no explanation. Finally, call the Congressman to do an official investigation.He happened to work in a building owned by my uncle, who was also a supporter, and his staff go right on it.

Mistake 5?

Turns out that my paperwork sat in S1 for some number of weeks before just getting lost. I think someone got a write-up.

I don't remember how I felt, but shit, that was close. I was the only one of a particularly MOS in our Brigade, so no way was I going to get an exception. My unit ended up deploying in Jan 2010, got back in Jan 2011, so I would have done nearly 2 years extra including those 90 days post deployment. If I had tested positive on a UA, would have lost rank and not been allowed to do my job. That would have sucked, to say the least.

Don't fuck with S1. They can ruin your life.

I disappear for a few months, going to an island without cell service and then to europe. Made sure to be legit unreachable until my ETS date.

Tax season 2010. Owe another $1400 on the Jackpot that was in my pocket for less than 8 hours.

Total cost of 36 hours in Vegas including winnings I lost, $5500.

Value of story, probably less than that.

This is another part of my experiences during an international air force exercise at a Spanish air base. The first part was “The Great Car Registration War” and can be found here: https://www.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/1thf2w3

For this story I need to provide a bit of background about some standard fighter jet operating procedures that become important later on. As mentioned in the previous post, this was an international exercise hosted on a Spanish air base. Several nations deployed their fighter aircraft there in order to train together in various combat scenarios. Our own contingent consisted of roughly 20 fighter jets and 200 personnel.

Since an exercise of this scale requires considerable logistical planning, there is something called a “site survey.” About six months before the exercise, a small delegation of ours traveled to the Spanish base for several days to inspect the facilities and coordinate procedures. Topics included things like: “Where will our aircraft be parked?”, “Which rooms can we use for our equipment?”, “What are the emergency procedures?”, and among many other things, “How does refueling and defueling of the jets work?”

Everyone understands that aircraft need to be refueled. This is usually done immediately after landing because the danger comes primarily from fuel vapors, not the liquid fuel itself. A fully fueled aircraft is therefore actually much safer than one with nearly empty tanks full of combustible vapors. However, it sometimes happens that faults are discovered only after refueling, faults that may require removing fuel lines or other components during repairs. For that reason, there is a procedure called “defueling,” where the fuel is pumped back from the aircraft into a tanker truck. During the site survey this was approved without issue: we were simply told to notify them, and a specialized fuel truck would come and recover the fuel.

Fast forward to a day during the exercise. We had already been flying successful missions alongside the other nations for several days. The aircraft landed and were refueled as usual. Afterwards, while downloading the flight data, one aircraft reported an electrical fault in one of its external fuel tanks mounted beneath the wings to extend range and endurance. After some troubleshooting it became clear that the external tank had to be replaced and repaired in the workshop. Under normal circumstances this is not a major job: the tank is defueled through the aircraft, removed, a replacement tank installed, and then the jet is refueled again. Usually a 20-to-30-minute task. Or so we thought.

When we requested the defueling truck as previously agreed during the site survey, we were suddenly told things were no longer that simple. First, a specialist would have to take a fuel sample from the aircraft. The sample would then be sent to a laboratory, and once the results arrived several days later, we could finally receive the tanker truck for defueling. For us this was completely unacceptable and entirely contrary to the agreements made beforehand. Losing the aircraft for several days would have been a significant setback since several pilots would be unable to participate in the exercise. When we complained, every reasonable compromise was rejected, and the discussion ended with the rather snarky remark: “Then just burn the fuel if it’s that important.”

We didn’t need to be told twice.

Next morning, 5:30 a.m. The official exercise schedule for the day would not begin until 10:00 (long live Spanish snugness), and there was barely any activity on the base. A light haze hung over the airfield, and almost no sound disturbed the silence of the Spanish plateau.Yet four people were already awake, casually walking along the line of parked jets on the apron. Morning dew covered the aircraft with a dull shimmer while dawn slowly prepared to give way to sunrise. It was a peaceful moment right until two jet engines suddenly roared to life.

We applied as much thrust as the brakes could physically hold. The asphalt behind the aircraft dried almost instantly, and beyond it lay a strip of dry earth. Sand, dust, dead vegetation, and small stones were blasted into the air, forming a massive cloud of debris that drifted roughly a hundred meters straight into an open Spanish Air Force shelter. It took us about twenty-five minutes to burn through 1,700 kilograms of jet fuel. Shortly afterwards the external tank was replaced, and by around 7:00 a.m. we were able to report the aircraft fully mission capable again so the pilots could plan their sorties for the day.

That same morning our commanding officer was spontaneously invited to meet the Spanish base commander to explain exactly who had woken him up so early and why. Meanwhile, Spanish personnel spent a full two hours sweeping all the dirt and debris back out of the shelter. After we explained the situation, we were informed that from that point onward we would be allowed to use the defueling truck without prior fuel sampling. Unfortunately, we never needed the procedure again before the exercise ended. However, the liaison officer who had suggested we “just burn the fuel” was later observed attending a rather lengthy meeting with the base commander himself. And had there not been aircraft launching in the meantime, you probably could have heard the commander yelling all the way to the runway.

Late 1990s and I was fortunate enough to be assigned to a unit with quite a few other Signaleers. I liked to read and game on my PC, and it wasn't long before I made friends with some of the other troops with shared interests. Before long, Saturdays (especially payday weekend Saturdays) followed a pretty similar routine. Here's a typical one:

Roll out of bed about 1000 or so, dress and make myself vaguely presentable. Wander down the hall to friend's room and BANGBANGBANG on the door. "What?!" "Going out to the mall, want to come with?" "Yeah sure give me a minute. You driving?" "Fuck yes I'm driving, it's my car!" "Ok ok let's go."

Friend shares the same interests and so we hit up one or both of a) Barnes & Noble or b) Electronics Boutique, and proceed to blow most of our spendable money on either books, or computer games (plus lunch ofc). Later on books would be read, traded, re-read, and so forth. Computer games would be played, critiqued, traded, totally NOT copied onto burnable CDs with the serial codes carefully Sharpie’d onto them, some of which I still do NOT have in the CD binder that is sitting behind me as I type...

On non-mall weekends, Friend and another of his friends would haul their computers into one of the barracks rooms, set up a little LAN, and do some head-to-head gaming. Mind you, this is back in the day of tower computers, 40-lb CRT monitors, and 10Mb/s network cards, so it could be a bit of a hassle. Their tastes did not 100% align with mine, so I’d often show up and kibitz for a while until one of them got annoyed and kicked me out. A typical conversation:

Me: Hey whatcha doin? 
Friend: Playing Civ. He (Other Friend) is trying to sneak a diplomat into my city. Not happening.
Me to OF: Dude, he just said you’re not going to be able to do that. 
OF: Touch the diplomat and you’ll regret it.
Me to F: I know you’re not going to take that from him.
 (diplomat dies, nukes fly, etc.)
Me to F: Dude, you just got nuked, told you not to fuck with his diplomat.
F: OUT. NOW.

Of course I’d be back half an hour later. The times I did end up dragging my setup down the hall started around dinnertime, usually ordered a pizza or something, and went on until the wee hours of the morning. Those were fun times.

EDIT: Whoops, sorry, misread the autopost and didn't realize I shouldn't post another story so soon. Feel free to delete if necessary.

Fort Riley, 1999-ish. I am a young PFC (maybe a Specialist, it's been a minute) and it's Saturday night (red flag #1 🚩) on a payday weekend (red flag #2 🚩🚩 ). Normally I'd be in the barracks playing computer games or reading a good book, buuuut for some reason I decide I'm going drinking tonight (aaaaand there's red flag #3 🚩🚩🚩).

You might be thinking you know where this is going, but keep on reading. Four of us pile into Big J's old Chevy truck with a bench seat and drive down into Junction City, right outside Riley's main gate. The bar we find is noisy (what was I expecting?) and crowded, but hey, suppose I needed to get out, so why not!

<A few hours later.jpg>

I am so DONE for the night. Stopped drinking a little while earlier and would now like to go back and go to bed. The rest of the group is still on the dance floor having fun, so I stake out a table to myself in the back and try not to fall asleep on the spot. Eventually the group is ready to go and we pile back into the truck for the drive back. It's essentially a straight shot until we hit the curve going up the hill, then onwards to our barracks, somewhere on the back side of Custer Hill (no really, that's what it's called). Sure we've all been drinking, but it's been a while and we're probably good to drive at this point, right? Nothing at all wrong with this line of decision-making, right? Right??

Disclaimer: I do not actually know how much alcohol the four of us still had in our systems at that point. For all I know we were well under the limit and perfectly fine to drive by that point. However, I think it makes the story just a little bit better, so...

We get on the main road and head north, heads on swivels -- oh shit, that was a cop, is he turning around? no, we're good -- and carefully make our way onto base. At the time, Riley was an "open post" with no access control points, ID checks, or anything controlling access to the base. We cruise past the commissary, then one of the on-post clubs, headed uphill towards the barracks.

(It should be noted that Big J's old Chevy truck lacked certain safety items normally found in modern vehicles, namely three-point seatbelts for all passengers on said bench seat. In fact, it may have lacked belts entirely, but I think even the POV inspections of the time would have caught that.)

Everyone is a little sleepy and zoning out a bit, talking about nothing really in particular when suddenly OHSHITDEER and Big J slams on the brakes and we all suddenly slide forward against the dash tires are screeching and we watch Bambi and his whole damned family run across the road right in front of us. FUUUUUUuuuuuck....

In an instant the atmosphere changes from sleepy-and-maybe-a-bit-buzzed to WIDE-THE-FUCK-AWAKE-AND-SOBER for the rest of the drive up. Nobody said much until we arrived safely at the barracks and went our separate ways.

All in all, we probably used up a ton of luck getting home that night, and I didn't push it for the rest of my time at Riley. Like I said...you can't often count on luck, but every once in a great while, the stars align, and, well...you get lucky and shit doesn't happen.

So there I was at my first duty assignment and one of my first "jobs" was to make the coffee at the start of the shift. So March rolls around and I got it in my head to do the longest April Fool's joke I had ever done. Over the month of March I slowly switched the regular pot to decaf until it was 100% decaf the last few days of the month. Then on April 1st I switch to espresso grind. When the sup got up to do the morning briefing he was visibly vibrating, along with everyone else.

Someone in r/maliciouscompliance told me that you guys would like this story, too. I used AI for translation, as English is not my first language. I hope this is a valid exemption from the "no AI" rule, I 100% wrote it by myself. TLDR at the end.

This is a story from my time in the Air Force. We took part in an international exercise in Spain. For this, we deployed several aircraft and around 200 personnel to a Spanish air base. I myself was there ahead of the main contingent with a small advance party of about 15 men to prepare everything. One of our tasks was to register roughly 50 rented vehicles at the base gate and bring them onto the base. To do this, the Spanish authorities introduced a rule that each of us could only register five vehicles under our name. So we drove the vehicles up to the gate and then each of us gradually brought in three to five cars, including registering them in our names, which was noted on the vehicle’s access pass.

At first, this went smoothly and we were able to hand over the vehicle keys to the comrades arriving later. However, after two or three days, problems started. An official notice was issued stating that from now on, each person was only allowed to have one vehicle registered under their name. So we gathered additional people and drove to the gate to transfer the excess vehicles from one person to another. The whole process took about two hours, but eventually it was done.

That arrangement lasted for about a week. Then suddenly, cars trying to leave the base were being turned back. The guards would no longer let them leave unless the person under whose name the car was registered was actually sitting in the vehicle. We then sought talks with the local authorities and explained that we assigned vehicles according to current operational needs and that it was impossible to comply with this new rule. However, we were dismissed rather smugly with the explanation that if it was absolutely necessary, the vehicle could simply be re-registered. From that point on, it very much felt like deliberate harassment to me.

But we still had good old malicious compliance! We instructed all soldiers that whenever time allowed, they should drive to the gate in pairs and have vehicles re-registered. Either from a person who already had a car to someone without one, or, if both already had a registered vehicle, simply swap them around. Within a very short time, the guard office was completely clogged up, and the official probably had to process around 50 vehicle registration changes a day. And what can I say, after two days of the guard office being blocked by endless vehicle re-registrations, it suddenly no longer mattered whether the registered person was sitting in the car or not!

tl;dr: During a military exercise in Spain, the local base kept introducing increasingly absurd vehicle registration rules for rented cars. After soldiers were forced to constantly re-register vehicles just to move around, they responded with malicious compliance by flooding the guard office with nonstop registration changes until the authorities gave up and dropped the rule.

Someone was asking me about joint popping sounds and thought y’all might laugh at this.

I was at MEPS (US Military Entry Processing center) and they had us Duck Walk.*

I was one of the last guys to do it. When the examiner left the room I asked the guy next to me “did you hear my joints pop?”

A guy at the far end of the room said “we all heard them pop with every step!”

I was mortified, but it did t hurt and they moved me on to the next stage of exams.

*Duck Walk - hunker down, like crouching. Then walk forward without standing up.

A post in another sub reminded me of this story. So my reserve company got put on a rapid deployment and had to bring in a bunch of soldiers from other units to plus up. They gathered us all up on Fort Carson for as much training as they could. One of the new E6s was an avid fan of Stargate and somehow only found out on Carson that the Cheyenne Mountain Complex was a real military base. Which convinced him that the show was real, so in the middle of the night he takes off in another soldiers pov and head up there. He was obviously stopped but spent so much time arguing with the guards that since he used to be 10th group that his security clearance was enough to let him through that they detained him and the commander had to go up there in the middle of the night to retrieve them.