The Tank Painting Story- Part 2

(This is the continuation of Part One. Scroll down the page to find the beginning.

This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)

A friend taught me a great trick for getting my bunk tight for inspection. Once the covers were pulled up and back to meet the regulation 4-inch fold, I tucked all the excess under the mattress. Then, I leaned over the bunk and began pawing at the covers like a dog digging a hole, pulling and stretching the sheet and blanket to the side. A few rounds of this treatment and you could really bounce a coin off the surface, not that I ever saw anyone do something that ridiculous. It was, however, a bit of work. If I had my way, I would have left the bunk inspection-ready and slept on the floor, but that was against our SOP. I was giving the covers one last pull when a fist hammered my hatch (door) and I jumped, striking my head against the metal bunk frame. I opened the hatch to find my squad leader standing in the passage.

“MasterGuns wants to see you.” He glanced past me at the bunk. “Good start, but it still needs work. He turned to leave. “Try not to embarrass me with the Top,” he called over his shoulder. (“Top” is a less formal term for the senior Sergeant in a unit. Master Gunnery Sergeant was the man’s actual rank. “MasterGuns is a little more specific and formal than “Top,” and, more importantly, it sounds far, far cooler). I checked my uniform in the mirror and gave my blouse one hard pull to straighten the creases. With a quick glance to ensure I could see my reflection in my boots, I trooped downstairs, my mind scrolling through the past week, searching for any indiscretion for which I might have been caught.

I rapped twice on the office door and heard a muffled “Enter” from inside. I walked in and stood centered 6 inches before the Top’s desk.

“Didn’t you get your government driver’s license last month, Balboni?” he asked without looking up at me.

“Yes, si-” I caught myself just in time. “Yes, MasterGuns, I did.” Calling a senior Marine Staff NCO “sir” was a sure-fire method to mess up your afternoon. On the other hand, the MasterGuns wasn’t telling the whole story. I was sent to the weekend driving course as punishment for busting curfew with a fellow Marine. We were happily munching cheese fries several hours past midnight when we realized our Platoon Sergeant was sitting several tables away sipping coffee. Attending the driver’s course gave the MasterGuns another qualified driver and deprived me of weekend liberty without requiring any “corrective” paperwork. Everyone won; except me, that is.

“Well, good,” he continued. “I need a driver for the Guest of Honor for our Ball.” He held a set of keys across the desk. “Go get the vehicle, gas it up, and make sure it’s spotless.” He frowned at my uniform. “Your job for the next 72 hours is to make sure the car is immaculate, you’re immaculate, and you’re ready at the drop of a hat to drive guests for me.”

“Aye,aye, MasterGuns,” I said, taking two steps back, pivoting on my heel, and escaping the office before I did anything stupid. Life is all about the small victories.

The car was a pale yellow Chevy Lumina, which I washed, waxed, vacuumed, and then hid in the far reaches of a large parking lot on base. Before leaving it alone, I moved it twice, judging two of my parking selections as being too close to sap-laden cedar trees which might foul the car’s shine, and thus the MasterGuns temper. I was even more fearful that another Marine would spot me parking the car and guess my assignment. The last thing I needed was for a couple of jarheads to amuse themselves by tossing bird poop or mud on the car while it sat unguarded. Hence, I left it several hundred yards from the barracks and well out of sight. I timed my route back to the barracks and felt comfortable that I could reach the car in less than 3 minutes at a fast, but inconspicuous walk.

Anticipation for the Marine Corps Birthday and the Ball continued to build through the day. All the Marines found it difficult to concentrate upon our jobs. The squad leader inspection looming that evening probably had more to do with keeping us focused than any real issue with the state of the barracks. By 1900, most rooms were spotless; gleaming floors, scrubbed windows, and all surfaces free of dust. I stepped through my hatch and took position against the passageway bulkhead (hallway wall) to wait for my squad leader. There were still a few precious moments to clean and only a couple of Marines were already in the hall.

“Balboni, close your door,” my squad leader said, walking down the passage. “I’m not inspecting you while you’re working for the MasterGuns.”

“My room’s ready, sergeant. It’s your call, but I’m ready for inspection.” I didn’t want him to think I would use my temporary job as a privilege.

The sergeant stopped and shrugged. He stuck his head through the door and looked around the room for a few seconds. “Your room looks fine, Balboni. But your job is to represent the unit for the next few days, so keep the room clean, but make sure your uniform and conduct are perfect.” He nodded once and walked away.

Hearing the sergeant’s words made me paranoid about the state of the car. In my mind, I saw the yellow Lumina covered with mud with “Happy Birthday, Marine!” carved into the filth by someone’s middle finger. I decided to check on the car, and perhaps move it again, but didn’t get to the stairwell before Lance Corporal Kamir stopped me and asked if I still had the keys to the paint locker.

“Yeah, why?”

Kamir smiled. “You know the old Russian tank over by the Army cafeteria? The T-34? We’re going to paint it red tonight.”

That explained why Kamir wanted my help. I had one of the only two keys to the paint locker. The other was kept by the Company Gunnery Sergeant. Kamir also possessed a little-known secret; he knew that I had inventoried the paint locker during the summer. And, he knew that I neglected to count several gallons of paint in order to have a ready supply should we ever desire to decorate something “off the books.”

“Stand-by!” a voice hollered down the passage. The SquadLleaders were arriving for the inspection. Kamir stepped to the side of his room’s hatch.

“What time?” I asked.

“About 0200,” Kamir said, and then realized I wasn’t moving towards my room. “Where you going?”

My shoulders tightened in fast panic. I did not want Kamir to know that I had the car. “Just running an errand for Sergeant Walters.” Kamir tilted his head, sensing that there was more to the story.

“Kamir! Get by your hatch!” his squad lead yelled. Kamir jumped back to his doorway and I dashed into the stairwell, calling over my shoulder, “See you in a couple of hours.”



http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com

The Tank Painting Story- Part 1

(This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)

It started with a dare. I stood shivering in the ranks in a misty pre-dawn drizzle, waiting for the Master Gunnery Sergeant to march out of the barracks and conduct the morning formation. It was Wednesday, three days before the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. For young Marines, far from home, the Ball takes the place of Christmas. It’s a time of celebration with your surrogate family, a time to laugh, feast, hear outrageous stories, and party with your brother Marines and guests. The festivities stretch through the week, with each fire team and platoon conducting its own small celebration of pranks and stunts, often committed at the expense of other fire teams or platoons.

Despite the cold, it was hard not to smile in the drizzling rain. My own fire team of four marines had spent the previous night harassing the fire team across the hall from our barracks rooms, breaking into rooms, moving furniture around, smearing boot polish, and doing anything else we thought might annoy our comrades. Any thought that our cleverness had been undetected ended at about four-thirty in the morning, when I woke to use the restroom and left my barracks door unlocked. I returned to my room, slipped into my bunk and closed my eyes. Then I realized I wasn’t alone in the room. Opening one eye, I scanned the dark and saw a black mass in the gloom, perched like a gargoyle on my wardrobe. A snicker sounded the alarm and I hurled back my sheets and twisted to the floor, meeting the lunge of the assailant jumping off my furniture. Too slow. An unseen Marine bashed my head from behind and I was down, pummeled under the blows of four friends from another squad. When it ended, I was outside in the rain, lying in the muddy grass below the barracks entrance.
Ninety minutes later, I was showered, dressed and standing in formation, waiting for the Master Guns.

“Feeling okay there, Balboni?” I heard a voice from the rank behind me. “I heard that you took to practicing your low crawl in the mud last night.” Low laughs echoed in the rain. “I swear, it’s motivating to see young Privates practicing their art in the early hours.”
“Go to hell,” I replied over my shoulder.

“Knock it off!” our sergeant shouted from the front. And then, half a second later, “Stand by!” The Master Guns had arrived.

“Atten….tion!” came the order, and a hundred and fifty pairs of boots slammed together as one.

“Gentlemen,” the MasterGuns began by way of greeting. “Three items today.” He raised a finger into the air. “First, the barracks is unsat. Second, because of item one, you’ll spend tonight on field day until every room clears the Squad Leaders inspection.” The formation remained silent in the rain, knowing that the slightest groan of discontent would amplify the punishment.

“Lastly,” the MasterGuns continued, “you’ll knock off the silly shit. Tossing rooms and throwing your fellow Marines out in the dirt doesn’t impress me with your esprit de Corps.” I felt my ears burn and the eyes of the ranks behind me drilling into the back of my head. I almost missed the MasterGuns closing sentence. I almost wish I had missed his final words. Had I failed to hear those words, the next 30 days of my life would have been much, much easier. “You want to impress me, then do something that requires brains as well as brawn…like stealing a guidon from a unit in formation.” A rumble of laughter rippled through the ranks. A guidon is the small flag carried by each military unit of company or larger size. In formation, the guidon is held by a sergeant, the Guide, at the front, right corner of a formation. To reach the guidon, you would have to approach the unit in open view of every person in formation. Even if you succeeded in wrestling the guidon from the unit’s Guide, you would be standing before a hundred or more angry and insulted warriors and be lucky to escape unharmed. And, if you did somehow manage to escape, every member of the offended unit would have clearly seen your identity. Looking back, it seemed that everyone knew the MasterGuns was joking. Everyone but me.

Military Rules

Military Rules

Marine Corps Rules:
1. Be courteous to everyone, friendly to no one.
2. Decide to be aggressive enough, quickly enough.
3. Have a plan.
4. Have a back-up plan, because the first one probably won't work.
5. Be polite. Be professional. But, have a plan to kill everyone you meet.
6. Do not attend a gunfight with a handgun whose caliber does not start with a '4.'
7. Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. Life is expensive.
8. Move away from your attacker. Distance is your friend. (lateral & diagonal preferred.)
9. Use cover or concealment as much as possible.
10. Flank your adversary when possible. Protect yours.
11. Always cheat; always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose.
12. In ten years nobody will remember the details of caliber, stance, or tactics. They will only remember who lived.
13. If you are not shooting, you should be communicating your intention to shoot.

Navy SEALs Rules:
1. Look very cool in sunglasses.
2. Kill every living thing within view.
3. Adjust Speedo.
4. Check hair in mirror.

US Army Rangers Rules:
1. Walk in 50 miles wearing 75 pound rucksack while starving.
2. Locate individuals requiring killing.
3. Request permission via radio from 'Higher' to perform killing.
4. Curse bitterly when mission is aborted.
5. Walk out 50 miles wearing a 75 pound rucksack while starving.

US Army Rules:
1. Curse bitterly when receiving operational order.
2. Make sure there is extra ammo and extra coffee.
3. Curse bitterly.
4. Curse bitterly.
5. Do not listen to 2nd LTs; it can get you killed.
6. Curse bitterly.

US Air Force Rules:
1. Have a cocktail.
2. Adjust temperature on air-conditioner.
3. See what's on HBO.
4. Ask 'What is a gunfight?'
5. Request more funding from Congress with a 'killer' Power Point presentation.
6. Wine & dine ''key' Congressmen, invite DOD & defense industry executives.
7. Receive funding, set up new command and assemble assets.
8. Declare the assets 'strategic' and never deploy them operationally.
9. Hurry to make 13:45 tee-time.
10. Make sure the base is as far as possible from the conflict but close enough to have tax exemption.

US Navy Rules:
1. Entertain the girls and go to Sea.
2. Drink Coffee.
3. Deploy Marines

Thank God they can't spell "gerbil"

Sydney got a computer for her birthday, a small HP notebook which she can use to do her second grade homework, making an unconscious mockery of my own elementary education experience. She can also play some cool National Geographic kids games at http://kids.nationalgeographic.com/kids/.

While browsing the animals games at NatGeo, Sydney decided to show Bella some pictures of baby animals, which led my wife Julie to jump on the keyboard and show them some funny animal videos at YouTube. She almost missed the phone ringing over the peals of little girl laughter. Hopping up from the computer, she dashed from the room and answered the call, which turned out to be an out-of-state friend wanting to catch up for the holidays. Figuring not much could go wrong, Julie swapped stories about children and Christmas shopping while listening with one ear to Sydney and Bella as the girls clicked through videos of chickens, puppies, and kittens. A faint alarm sounded in Julie’s head when she heard Sydney say “snake,” but she her phone call was winding up and she thought the kids would be safe for a moment longer.

“Look,” she heard Sydney’s voice saying, “the snake lives in a cage with a mouse.”

“They’re playmates,” Bella’s voice responded. “Oh no,”Julie thought hanging up the phone. The click was lost in an explosion of high-pitched, girlish screams as Sydney and Bella exploded from the bedroom, running to hide at opposite ends to the couch. Julie walked looked at the computer screen. “Anaconda gets mouse breakfast,” was the title of the youtube video.

By the time I walked in from work, the girls were calmed down and learning about the Circle of Life. I spent the evening learning about parental controls, thankful that Sydney had not yet learned to spell “gerbil.”