True story…no kidding at all.
The princesses, now aged 6 and 8, are playing soccer this season. The younger girl plays at 6 and the older girl follows with a 7pm game. The season started in August, with us sweltering in a melting central Florida hellscape and stretched into late October, bringing jackets and quilts to the sidelines so parents could survive the Nordic, 65 degree wastes of suburbia.
A coworker also had daughters on the same teams, so we christened a tradition of trading weeks of “hosting duty,” with the “host” bringing a six pack to the game in a cooler. We played our own game within the context of our girls’ soccer games, finding reasons to sneak off to the car to down a couple of bottles of brew. The only downside was the limited and filthy nature of the facilities, which motivated us more than once to deposit our warm outflow into still-cool, freshly emptied beer bottles. At least we used our own bottles.
One cool Friday night, my friend (we’ll call him “Bob”) decided we had cheered enough to earn a break and told our wives that we were going to make a quick trip to the parking lot. “Wait, wait, wait,” Bob’s wife said, hopping up from her blanket. “The little one needs to go to the bathroom.” With Bob’s youngest daughter in tow, she scooted around the soccer field towards the distant port-a-lets.
Bob and I continued our cheering for seemed an eternity before his wife returned, towing his little toddler by the hand. We were headed to the cars before their butts hit the blanket. Passing the port-a-potties, an unsanitary sourness tingled our noses. “There’s no way my wife went used those things,” Bob said, shaking his head. “I bet that’s why it took so long. She must have taken the kid over to the Mall.”
We hopped in the minivan and Bob reached behind the seats for his cooler. “We ought-a drive over to Hoot…” Bob snatched his hand back like a snake bit it and something splashed behind the seat. “Shit!” He shook his hand and something wet kissed my forehead.
“What is it?” I asked, curling my nose against an emerging acrid odor.
“Don’t know.” Bob leaned over the seat. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. It’s urine, man! It’s urine!”
Turning to the source of the excitement, I saw Bob struggling to right a tipped-over campsite potty, which had been cleverly set up in the back of the minivan. That solved the mystery about where Bob’s wife took the toddler to tinkle. It also solved the riddle concerning my damp forehead, which I now scrubbed enthusiastically with my sleeve.
A splash sounded from the back. “I tipped it over,” Bob yelled. “It’s soaking into the carpet!”
We jumped out of the van and pulled the side doors open. There was just enough light left in the evening to see the darkening stain spreading across the rear floorboard. Much more distinct, the now-identified odor was wafting out of the van like a thick fog.
Bob grabbed some t-shirts and started sopping up piss. “I guess using the camp crapper was a good idea,” he muttered. Possibly, I thought, but it seemed like a logistical endeavor which required some manner of team communications to prevent catastrophe.
“Oh, here,” Bob said, holding a bottle up. “You might as well have a beer. I brought some microbrews from the new gas station downtown.” What the hell, I thought. Just as the bottle touched my lips, I caught a whiff of beer/urine cocktail mixing in the air. Not pleasant, but I toughed it out with a long swig. Bob jumped back out of the van with his own bottle and started rooting through the van’s rear in search of a garbage bag for the piss-soaked shirts.
With Bob’s head out of the way, I noticed something we had missed in the excrement-induced excitement. “Hey, man,” I called to him, “this isn’t the carpet that’s soaked. It’s just the little floor mats.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, here.” I rolled one, then the other, into tight cylinders, which Bob tucked under the back seat so that they wouldn’t unfold and spread urine across even more of the van. With a sense of accomplishment, we climbed back into the front seats. Bob rooted around the seats until he located a container of handywipes. “I knew we wouldn’t leave the driveway without some of these,” he said, handing me a fistful.
We sat in blissful silence, cleaning urine from our faces and hands while sipping fresh beers, for all of twenty seconds before Bob’s phone rang. He pressed the phone to his ear, but I could still hear his wife’s voice, asking where the hell we were, why we were taking so long, and how we felt our daughters would feel if we skipped the whole game to drink beer in the car.
“Sorry, love,” he said. “We’re on the way now.”
“Why didn’t you tell her that we just sat down?”
“I don’t want her to know I spilled piss in the van, idiot.”
Sure, I thought, shaking my head to clear the smell as I climbed out. That secret’s safe until you get in the car to go home. I thought about telling Bob to open a window so the van could air out, but I didn’t want to delay our return to the soccer field.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
SHOPPER INJURED IN GEORGIA
*Augusta, GA*
*Orville Smith, a store manager for Best Buy in Augusta, Georgia,
told police he observed a male customer, later identified as Tyrone
Jackson of Augusta, on surveillance cameras putting a laptop computer
under his jacket.... When confronted the man became
irate, knocked
down an employee, drew a knife and ran for the door.*
*Outside on the sidewalk were four Marines collecting toys for the
"Toys for Tots" program. Smith said the Marines stopped the man, but
he stabbed one of
the Marines, Cpl. Phillip Duggan, in the back; the
injury did not appear to be severe.*
*After Police and an ambulance arrived at the scene Cpl. Duggan was
transported for treatment.
The subject was also transported to the local hospital with two
broken arms, a broken ankle, a broken leg, several missing teeth,
possible broken ribs, multiple contusions, assorted lacerations, a
broken nose and a broken jaw...injuries he sustained when he slipped
and fell off of the curb after stabbing the Marine.*
Now that was a well written Police report.
*Orville Smith, a store manager for Best Buy in Augusta, Georgia,
told police he observed a male customer, later identified as Tyrone
Jackson of Augusta, on surveillance cameras putting a laptop computer
under his jacket.... When confronted the man became
irate, knocked
down an employee, drew a knife and ran for the door.*
*Outside on the sidewalk were four Marines collecting toys for the
"Toys for Tots" program. Smith said the Marines stopped the man, but
he stabbed one of
the Marines, Cpl. Phillip Duggan, in the back; the
injury did not appear to be severe.*
*After Police and an ambulance arrived at the scene Cpl. Duggan was
transported for treatment.
The subject was also transported to the local hospital with two
broken arms, a broken ankle, a broken leg, several missing teeth,
possible broken ribs, multiple contusions, assorted lacerations, a
broken nose and a broken jaw...injuries he sustained when he slipped
and fell off of the curb after stabbing the Marine.*
Now that was a well written Police report.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Fuel for Flatulence
"Coke is the gas for my fart machine." (my 8-year old daughter, circa 3:45 this afternoon, on the way home from school.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A Lack of Spiritual Growth
My wife attends a church women’s prayer group, where they seem to eat a lot and read a little. Yesterday, one of the ladies was having gas pains in her stomach, and one of the more conservative women had all the ladies put their hands on the afflicted woman’s belly and pray. When my wife told me the story, I told her that I have some discomfort just beneath my belt which she could help me with, but she wasn’t interested in further spiritual growth.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 8 THE ENDING
(This is the continuation of Part Seven. Scroll down the page to find Part One.
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.)
Lance Corporal Bates and I marched down the slope towards Charlie Company. The Sun had made a surprise appearance, and the glare forced me to pull my visor lower to cover my eyes. It was typical of Monterrey weather; if you didn’t like the fog, come back in twenty minutes and enjoy the sunlight. If the Sun didn’t appeal to you, then a cup of coffee later, you could walk out into a rain storm or more fog.
Around us, soldiers and airmen were stopping on the sidewalk and gawking at the two Marines carrying the Army guidon. Some were even pointing. “Shit,” I muttered. “I guess the story’s out.”
“This is awesome,” Bates said.
“What?”
“Awesome, man,” he said, nodding at a pair of soldiers watching us pass with their guidon folded under my arm. “This shit’s is so going to get me laid.”
“Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
Charlie Company’s barracks were identical to our own. Bates and I walked into the building and trooped across the quarterdeck, where the Duty Sergeant rose from his desk and asked us our names and business. We passed him without pausing, our boots echoing on the tile. At the time, I remember thinking that the duty sergeant didn’t pursue us because he knew better than to mess with a pair of United States Marines. Now I’m older and realize that there probably wasn’t a page in the sergeant’s SOP which addressed the appropriate procedure to deal with an intruder who answers your challenge with a request that you commit biblical relations with your closest blood relative.
The Army barracks wasn’t identical to our own barracks after all. It was a mirror image, which meant that the passageway that I chose was lined with barracks rooms rather than offices. This error caused Bates and me to retrace our steps and re-cross the duty sergeant’s quarter deck in order to proceed down the opposite passageway. The duty never looked up from his logbook, which was fortunate since it kept him from spotting Bates’ middle finger, raised in salute throughout our quick passage of his realm.
Thirty seconds later, we paused outside the Charlie Company Operations office and straightened our uniforms one last time (in case you haven’t identified the pattern, Marines spend a lot of time tugging and straightening their uniforms). “Fine,” I whispered, “let’s get this over with.” Bates nodded and we opened the door.
All activity in the office halted. At least 5 Army sergeants and several clerks looked up from their desks at the two Marines standing in their midst. I took a step forward and brought my heels together with a bang. “Lance Corporals Balboni and Bates reporting on behalf of MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. I need to return your guidon and apologize to your First Sergeant.”
“Your G___Damn right you do!” a voice yelled from the next room. In strolled the Army First Sergeant, one arm already raised and pointing at us. “Who let you in here?”
Bates and I had locked ourselves in the position of attention. “No one, First Sergeant.”
“What?!” he yelled. “Where was the duty?”
Crap. “We didn’t see any duty sergeant, First Sergeant.” I said. Bates, bless his little butt, didn’t so much as flinch.
For a moment, the First Sergeant stared at us. Then, he turned to one of his staff and told him to have sergeant something-or-other waiting in his office when he finished with “these two.” I’ve always wondered what happened with the duty sergeant.
The Army First Sergeant was nothing like our own MasterGuns Satterfield. Short and dumpy, he didn’t portray the kind of strength that young Marines are trained to identify with leadership. I was having some trouble not staring at the way his jowls bounced over his collars. As he turned his attention back to us, I took a step forward. “First Sergeant, I’d like to apologize for disrupting your morning formation and stealing your company guidon. It was unprofessional and beneath the standards of conduct for a Marine.” I extended my arm to return the furled guidon.
The First Sergeant exploded, crossing the room in stunted steps and putting his chubby finger in my face. I snapped back to the position of attention with the guidon tucked fast under my arm, prepared to weather the storm of the First Sergeant’s attention. It was quite a storm. Aside from the profane vulgarities he expressed, I was impressed with the volume of spit that splashed all over my face and chest. I didn’t consider him much of a threat to me, physically; but his saliva played hell with my uniform creases.
The tirade continued while I let my mind wander. When confronted by someone screaming in my face, I found that the best tactic of endurance involved simply forgetting the offensive presence and thinking about other things. So, I spent several minutes planning out the details of my day, what flavor of coffee I would like to get from the bagel shop at the bottom of the mountain, whether I needed to polish my boots that night or wait one more night before making the effort, wishing I was sitting in my room in blessed solitude enjoying…- Oh, Crap. He stopped yelling. The First Sergeant’s voice had ceased while I was daydreaming.
Coming to my senses, I found the First Sergeant’s face inches from mine. “You’re not even paying attention, are you, shitbird?”
“Of course I am, First Sergeant,” I replied. Fools in power, I’ve found, can seldom adapt to a straight-faced lie. And, First Sergeant Fat-ass certainly couldn’t handle it. His face turned red. I even saw the vein on the side of his neck start to rise through the heaving sea of fat.
“You’re out of YOUR F—K’IN MIND, SHITBIRD!!” he screamed, delivering a fresh shower of crease-killing spit to my face and neck. “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH?” He took a breath and shook his finger at us. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY!”
Bates laughed.
Everyone in the office froze. A pin dropping in the Charlie Company Ops office would have boomed like thunder compared to the silence pounding at my eardrums. Then, all hell broke loose. I have no recollection of the passage of time from the moment the First Sergeant began to scream (not yell; but SCREEEAAAMMM!) until Bates and I dashed across the quarterdeck and escaped through the front hatch. It could have been three or thirty minutes. I do remember scattered images; the huge order manual, hurled by the First Sergeant, which passed inches before my face and smashed into the door behind me. The cacophony of sound from all the Army sergeants and clerks, who had joined in the yelling with great esprit. The tears in Bates eyes as he struggled not laugh out loud. (I was certain that he was going to get us both killed) At some juncture, the First Sergeant gave up and just started screaming, “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!” over and over until Bates and I decided that the better part of valor was to retreat.
We ran out into rain (of course it was raining now), stopping when we reached the sidewalk. Soldiers were streaming past us towards the barracks, but, as we stood there, several stopped, gathering into a small crowd and watching us. “What the hell are you staring at?” I asked them.
“Probably their guidon, dude,” Bates said, pointing at the furled flag under my left arm. Shit. This was getting old, and I was concerned with getting back to tell the MasterGuns my side of the story before the phone on his desk rang and the little, fat doggie Top Sergeant started crying at him. Not that I had much of a story to tell. I just figured a little verbal gymnastics might make the difference between a few all night duties and an outright ass beating.
“Here,” I said, holding the guidon out towards the soldiers.
“Yeah, you better cough it up, jarhead,” a tall, pimply soldier said. “We’re gett’in ready to kick your ass.”
I tucked the guidon back under my arm. “I’ve got an idea about where you could stick that guidon,” Bates said, helping matters none at all. “Although,” he added, “my gut feeling is that the guidon is a bit narrower than you’re used to.” I was busy counting soldiers, but got dispirited after I reached a dozen and gave up. I figured we could survive on our feet until someone broke up the fight, assuming of course, that someone cared to stop the ruckus.
Bates was in his element, commenting on the various soldiers’ ancestry, appearance, or general character without pause, while I would have been more at home reading a book and drinking coffee in the barracks. However, I was growing more and more nervous because I knew something that soldiers didn’t know. Bates embodied the “strike first, strike hard” mentality. He would get the first punch in any fight, and he was trash-talking himself into a bit of an aggressive crescendo. He was mid-sentence, complimenting one particular soldier on his mother’s ability to provide affection, when all the soldiers popped to the position of attention. I heard grass crunching behind me and turned to see a pale yellow Chevy Lumina gliding across the barracks lawn, stopping inches from me. There was a red license tag on the front, decorated with a single gold star; the symbol of a Brigadier General. I slipped into the passenger seat while Bates reluctantly climbed in the back door. The soldiers were still frozen as Joel hopped the curb back onto the road. Unfortunately, we were going the wrong direction, so Joel pulled around in a U-turn to return to our own barracks.
“You’ve still got their guidon, Balboni,” Bates advised from the back seat.
“Oh, screw it.” I tossed the stupid Army flag into the back seat as we passed the Army barracks again.
“Hey, look,” Joel said. The soldiers were still standing in front, gathered now around a small, round, and familiar figure. There was a considerable amount of animated gesturing and pointing, which led me to believe that our adventurous tale was being recounted for our old friend, the Army First Sergeant. “Should I stop so you can pay your respects?” Joel asked. I shook my head just as the guidon streaked through the rear window and landed on the sidewalk with a clatter.
“There’s their respects,” Bates said from the back seat. I saw the First Sergeant’s finger pointing towards us as he passed by my window.
“Wow. That little fat man has got some lungs,” Joel said and drove us back to the barracks.
We parked in the back parking lot and walked around our barracks towards the front entrance. At first I thought I was still hearing the Army First Sergeant’s screaming in my mind, but as we reached the front of the building, I was saw the man was standing before our barracks, yelling the tale of our adventures to Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield at the top of his lungs. Joel, Bates, and I stood to the side, at the position of parade rest. I could see the MasterGun’s jaw muscles working as he listened to the tirade. I hoped we could get the beating over with quickly and not drag the whole miserable experience out any further. Eventually, the yelling stopped.
“I’ll take care of it, First Sergeant,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield said in that bowel-loosening quiet voice. The Army First Sergeant opened his mouth to object, took another look at the MasterGuns, thought better of it, and walked away.
“Follow me,” the MasterGuns said and walked into the barracks. We followed him to his office, where we stood in line before his desk at the position of attention. For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but silence and a desperate desire not to soil myself.
“You gentlemen have had a busy day,” the MasterGuns said conversationally. Gentlemen? That seals it. We’re dead. “Stevens?”
“Yes, sir?” Joel responded.
“You’re supposed to be confined to barracks. Make it so.” Joel left the office so fast that I didn’t think his boots touched the tile.
“Bates?” Shit. That means I’m last.
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect better things from you. You’re confined to the barracks for two weeks. Get out.”
The hatch clicked and we were alone. I stared over the MasterGuns head in silence. I saw him pull something from a folder on his desk. “Do you know what this is, Balboni?” I risked a glance down.
“An envelope, MasterGuns?”
The big Marine was silent for a moment. I realized that he was trying to decide if I was being a smart-ass. I wasn’t. I was too terrified to be clever. “Your powers of perception are truly remarkable,” he said, apparently giving me the benefit of the doubt. He pulled a piece of paper from the folder. I saw “Official Orders” stamped across the top. “This conversation never happened, Balboni. Understand.”
“Yes, MasterGuns.”
He read from the sheet. “Attention to orders. On or about 13 January, you are to report to Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia, for a period of …” The MasterGuns read the remaining sentences, but the meaning was clear. I was going to be a Lieutenant…unless my shenanigans had cost me my opportunity. If that was the case then I should have kept the stinking guidon, just to have something to show from the experience.
“It is apparent, Mr. Balboni, “ the MasterGuns said, “that some Marines will accompany you on errands which should be against their better judgment. That is a quality which could bring you great success as a young officer. Or,” he looked up at me, “it could get a lot of young Marines killed.” He put the orders back into the folder and placed the folder on the corner of his desk.
“It is possible, though only barely in the realm of possibility, that you possess a gift which could make you a good officer of Marines. It is conceivable, if I employ great imagination, that I can see some hints of competence, some traits which would make me respond favorably in recommending you such a post of responsibility…such a post that men like as myself salute you, obey your orders, and hold to you the honors due to an officer of Marines.”
MasterGuns Satterfield rose and walked around his desk, sitting on the front edge and looking straight at me. “I think, young Mr. Balboni, that you need some time to decide who you want to be… to decide what kind of Marine you want to be, and whether you can be the leader that mothers and wives can entrust with the welfare of their sons and husbands.” He leaned close and peered into my eyes. “Every Marine is someone’s child.” He tapped the folder on his desk repeatedly. “We’ll leave this here for a few days.” He crossed his arms. “Any questions?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“All right, then. Here’s what we’ll do. Go get your A.L.I.C.E. pack. (green backpack used by Marines) Put a 45 pound plate in it from the gym. Put the pack on your back. Then, go behind the barracks. There’s a pile of about 40 concrete cinder blocks out there. Move the pile to the top of the mountain and report back to me.”
Six hours later, I knocked on the office door, gasping for breath and covered with filth, dirt, and sweat. MasterGuns Satterfield opened the door. “Why are you reporting to me in an unsat state of uniform and appearance?” he asked quietly. “Do you think any officer of the United States Marines would ever allow anyone to see them in anything but perfect condition?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Is your shoddy appearance equal with the level of respect to which you hold me?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Then, I suggest that you return in an appropriate state of dress.”
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to feel the effects of my sleepless night. Cleaned and dressed in a fresh uniform, with red-rimmed eyes, I knocked on the MasterGun’s hatch.
MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield opened the hatch and glanced at my fresh shave and starched camouflage uniform. “Somewhat more acceptable,” he said. “Now, I’ve changed my mind. Move the blocks back down to the barracks. I don’t want anyone to stumble over them up on the mountain trail. And, make sure you stack them neatly.”
“Yes, MasterGuns,” I said and started down the passage to the exit.
Oh, and Mr. Balboni?”
I turned back to see him smiling. “We’ll talk about repainting that tank when you get back.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later, I was at Officer Candidate School. Six months later, I was a Lieutenant of Marines. Two years later, I led my platoon back into our bivouac in the scorching heat of the Thai-Malaysian border, where a Marine Staff Sergeant waited to join my unit as our interpreter. Looking at my name tag, he said, “Sir, are you the Marine who painted that Army tank in California?” Eight years after that, I was a civilian, traveling in California with my wife. We drove onto the base so I could show her the tank she had heard about so often. I parked the car and walked over to the tank, showing her the red splotches which were still visible in spite of the vast and generous amounts of green paint supplied to me by MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. Two young Marines overheard our conversation and approached. “Sir, one of them said, “Are you the one that painted the tank and stole that guidon?”
“Yep,” I replied.
They grinned. “Did you really have to move bricks up and down the mountain for a month?”
“Yep,” I replied. I remembered those moments in Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office. “But, it was worth it. I learned a lot that day.”
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.)
Lance Corporal Bates and I marched down the slope towards Charlie Company. The Sun had made a surprise appearance, and the glare forced me to pull my visor lower to cover my eyes. It was typical of Monterrey weather; if you didn’t like the fog, come back in twenty minutes and enjoy the sunlight. If the Sun didn’t appeal to you, then a cup of coffee later, you could walk out into a rain storm or more fog.
Around us, soldiers and airmen were stopping on the sidewalk and gawking at the two Marines carrying the Army guidon. Some were even pointing. “Shit,” I muttered. “I guess the story’s out.”
“This is awesome,” Bates said.
“What?”
“Awesome, man,” he said, nodding at a pair of soldiers watching us pass with their guidon folded under my arm. “This shit’s is so going to get me laid.”
“Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
Charlie Company’s barracks were identical to our own. Bates and I walked into the building and trooped across the quarterdeck, where the Duty Sergeant rose from his desk and asked us our names and business. We passed him without pausing, our boots echoing on the tile. At the time, I remember thinking that the duty sergeant didn’t pursue us because he knew better than to mess with a pair of United States Marines. Now I’m older and realize that there probably wasn’t a page in the sergeant’s SOP which addressed the appropriate procedure to deal with an intruder who answers your challenge with a request that you commit biblical relations with your closest blood relative.
The Army barracks wasn’t identical to our own barracks after all. It was a mirror image, which meant that the passageway that I chose was lined with barracks rooms rather than offices. This error caused Bates and me to retrace our steps and re-cross the duty sergeant’s quarter deck in order to proceed down the opposite passageway. The duty never looked up from his logbook, which was fortunate since it kept him from spotting Bates’ middle finger, raised in salute throughout our quick passage of his realm.
Thirty seconds later, we paused outside the Charlie Company Operations office and straightened our uniforms one last time (in case you haven’t identified the pattern, Marines spend a lot of time tugging and straightening their uniforms). “Fine,” I whispered, “let’s get this over with.” Bates nodded and we opened the door.
All activity in the office halted. At least 5 Army sergeants and several clerks looked up from their desks at the two Marines standing in their midst. I took a step forward and brought my heels together with a bang. “Lance Corporals Balboni and Bates reporting on behalf of MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. I need to return your guidon and apologize to your First Sergeant.”
“Your G___Damn right you do!” a voice yelled from the next room. In strolled the Army First Sergeant, one arm already raised and pointing at us. “Who let you in here?”
Bates and I had locked ourselves in the position of attention. “No one, First Sergeant.”
“What?!” he yelled. “Where was the duty?”
Crap. “We didn’t see any duty sergeant, First Sergeant.” I said. Bates, bless his little butt, didn’t so much as flinch.
For a moment, the First Sergeant stared at us. Then, he turned to one of his staff and told him to have sergeant something-or-other waiting in his office when he finished with “these two.” I’ve always wondered what happened with the duty sergeant.
The Army First Sergeant was nothing like our own MasterGuns Satterfield. Short and dumpy, he didn’t portray the kind of strength that young Marines are trained to identify with leadership. I was having some trouble not staring at the way his jowls bounced over his collars. As he turned his attention back to us, I took a step forward. “First Sergeant, I’d like to apologize for disrupting your morning formation and stealing your company guidon. It was unprofessional and beneath the standards of conduct for a Marine.” I extended my arm to return the furled guidon.
The First Sergeant exploded, crossing the room in stunted steps and putting his chubby finger in my face. I snapped back to the position of attention with the guidon tucked fast under my arm, prepared to weather the storm of the First Sergeant’s attention. It was quite a storm. Aside from the profane vulgarities he expressed, I was impressed with the volume of spit that splashed all over my face and chest. I didn’t consider him much of a threat to me, physically; but his saliva played hell with my uniform creases.
The tirade continued while I let my mind wander. When confronted by someone screaming in my face, I found that the best tactic of endurance involved simply forgetting the offensive presence and thinking about other things. So, I spent several minutes planning out the details of my day, what flavor of coffee I would like to get from the bagel shop at the bottom of the mountain, whether I needed to polish my boots that night or wait one more night before making the effort, wishing I was sitting in my room in blessed solitude enjoying…- Oh, Crap. He stopped yelling. The First Sergeant’s voice had ceased while I was daydreaming.
Coming to my senses, I found the First Sergeant’s face inches from mine. “You’re not even paying attention, are you, shitbird?”
“Of course I am, First Sergeant,” I replied. Fools in power, I’ve found, can seldom adapt to a straight-faced lie. And, First Sergeant Fat-ass certainly couldn’t handle it. His face turned red. I even saw the vein on the side of his neck start to rise through the heaving sea of fat.
“You’re out of YOUR F—K’IN MIND, SHITBIRD!!” he screamed, delivering a fresh shower of crease-killing spit to my face and neck. “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH?” He took a breath and shook his finger at us. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY!”
Bates laughed.
Everyone in the office froze. A pin dropping in the Charlie Company Ops office would have boomed like thunder compared to the silence pounding at my eardrums. Then, all hell broke loose. I have no recollection of the passage of time from the moment the First Sergeant began to scream (not yell; but SCREEEAAAMMM!) until Bates and I dashed across the quarterdeck and escaped through the front hatch. It could have been three or thirty minutes. I do remember scattered images; the huge order manual, hurled by the First Sergeant, which passed inches before my face and smashed into the door behind me. The cacophony of sound from all the Army sergeants and clerks, who had joined in the yelling with great esprit. The tears in Bates eyes as he struggled not laugh out loud. (I was certain that he was going to get us both killed) At some juncture, the First Sergeant gave up and just started screaming, “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!” over and over until Bates and I decided that the better part of valor was to retreat.
We ran out into rain (of course it was raining now), stopping when we reached the sidewalk. Soldiers were streaming past us towards the barracks, but, as we stood there, several stopped, gathering into a small crowd and watching us. “What the hell are you staring at?” I asked them.
“Probably their guidon, dude,” Bates said, pointing at the furled flag under my left arm. Shit. This was getting old, and I was concerned with getting back to tell the MasterGuns my side of the story before the phone on his desk rang and the little, fat doggie Top Sergeant started crying at him. Not that I had much of a story to tell. I just figured a little verbal gymnastics might make the difference between a few all night duties and an outright ass beating.
“Here,” I said, holding the guidon out towards the soldiers.
“Yeah, you better cough it up, jarhead,” a tall, pimply soldier said. “We’re gett’in ready to kick your ass.”
I tucked the guidon back under my arm. “I’ve got an idea about where you could stick that guidon,” Bates said, helping matters none at all. “Although,” he added, “my gut feeling is that the guidon is a bit narrower than you’re used to.” I was busy counting soldiers, but got dispirited after I reached a dozen and gave up. I figured we could survive on our feet until someone broke up the fight, assuming of course, that someone cared to stop the ruckus.
Bates was in his element, commenting on the various soldiers’ ancestry, appearance, or general character without pause, while I would have been more at home reading a book and drinking coffee in the barracks. However, I was growing more and more nervous because I knew something that soldiers didn’t know. Bates embodied the “strike first, strike hard” mentality. He would get the first punch in any fight, and he was trash-talking himself into a bit of an aggressive crescendo. He was mid-sentence, complimenting one particular soldier on his mother’s ability to provide affection, when all the soldiers popped to the position of attention. I heard grass crunching behind me and turned to see a pale yellow Chevy Lumina gliding across the barracks lawn, stopping inches from me. There was a red license tag on the front, decorated with a single gold star; the symbol of a Brigadier General. I slipped into the passenger seat while Bates reluctantly climbed in the back door. The soldiers were still frozen as Joel hopped the curb back onto the road. Unfortunately, we were going the wrong direction, so Joel pulled around in a U-turn to return to our own barracks.
“You’ve still got their guidon, Balboni,” Bates advised from the back seat.
“Oh, screw it.” I tossed the stupid Army flag into the back seat as we passed the Army barracks again.
“Hey, look,” Joel said. The soldiers were still standing in front, gathered now around a small, round, and familiar figure. There was a considerable amount of animated gesturing and pointing, which led me to believe that our adventurous tale was being recounted for our old friend, the Army First Sergeant. “Should I stop so you can pay your respects?” Joel asked. I shook my head just as the guidon streaked through the rear window and landed on the sidewalk with a clatter.
“There’s their respects,” Bates said from the back seat. I saw the First Sergeant’s finger pointing towards us as he passed by my window.
“Wow. That little fat man has got some lungs,” Joel said and drove us back to the barracks.
We parked in the back parking lot and walked around our barracks towards the front entrance. At first I thought I was still hearing the Army First Sergeant’s screaming in my mind, but as we reached the front of the building, I was saw the man was standing before our barracks, yelling the tale of our adventures to Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield at the top of his lungs. Joel, Bates, and I stood to the side, at the position of parade rest. I could see the MasterGun’s jaw muscles working as he listened to the tirade. I hoped we could get the beating over with quickly and not drag the whole miserable experience out any further. Eventually, the yelling stopped.
“I’ll take care of it, First Sergeant,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield said in that bowel-loosening quiet voice. The Army First Sergeant opened his mouth to object, took another look at the MasterGuns, thought better of it, and walked away.
“Follow me,” the MasterGuns said and walked into the barracks. We followed him to his office, where we stood in line before his desk at the position of attention. For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but silence and a desperate desire not to soil myself.
“You gentlemen have had a busy day,” the MasterGuns said conversationally. Gentlemen? That seals it. We’re dead. “Stevens?”
“Yes, sir?” Joel responded.
“You’re supposed to be confined to barracks. Make it so.” Joel left the office so fast that I didn’t think his boots touched the tile.
“Bates?” Shit. That means I’m last.
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect better things from you. You’re confined to the barracks for two weeks. Get out.”
The hatch clicked and we were alone. I stared over the MasterGuns head in silence. I saw him pull something from a folder on his desk. “Do you know what this is, Balboni?” I risked a glance down.
“An envelope, MasterGuns?”
The big Marine was silent for a moment. I realized that he was trying to decide if I was being a smart-ass. I wasn’t. I was too terrified to be clever. “Your powers of perception are truly remarkable,” he said, apparently giving me the benefit of the doubt. He pulled a piece of paper from the folder. I saw “Official Orders” stamped across the top. “This conversation never happened, Balboni. Understand.”
“Yes, MasterGuns.”
He read from the sheet. “Attention to orders. On or about 13 January, you are to report to Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia, for a period of …” The MasterGuns read the remaining sentences, but the meaning was clear. I was going to be a Lieutenant…unless my shenanigans had cost me my opportunity. If that was the case then I should have kept the stinking guidon, just to have something to show from the experience.
“It is apparent, Mr. Balboni, “ the MasterGuns said, “that some Marines will accompany you on errands which should be against their better judgment. That is a quality which could bring you great success as a young officer. Or,” he looked up at me, “it could get a lot of young Marines killed.” He put the orders back into the folder and placed the folder on the corner of his desk.
“It is possible, though only barely in the realm of possibility, that you possess a gift which could make you a good officer of Marines. It is conceivable, if I employ great imagination, that I can see some hints of competence, some traits which would make me respond favorably in recommending you such a post of responsibility…such a post that men like as myself salute you, obey your orders, and hold to you the honors due to an officer of Marines.”
MasterGuns Satterfield rose and walked around his desk, sitting on the front edge and looking straight at me. “I think, young Mr. Balboni, that you need some time to decide who you want to be… to decide what kind of Marine you want to be, and whether you can be the leader that mothers and wives can entrust with the welfare of their sons and husbands.” He leaned close and peered into my eyes. “Every Marine is someone’s child.” He tapped the folder on his desk repeatedly. “We’ll leave this here for a few days.” He crossed his arms. “Any questions?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“All right, then. Here’s what we’ll do. Go get your A.L.I.C.E. pack. (green backpack used by Marines) Put a 45 pound plate in it from the gym. Put the pack on your back. Then, go behind the barracks. There’s a pile of about 40 concrete cinder blocks out there. Move the pile to the top of the mountain and report back to me.”
Six hours later, I knocked on the office door, gasping for breath and covered with filth, dirt, and sweat. MasterGuns Satterfield opened the door. “Why are you reporting to me in an unsat state of uniform and appearance?” he asked quietly. “Do you think any officer of the United States Marines would ever allow anyone to see them in anything but perfect condition?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Is your shoddy appearance equal with the level of respect to which you hold me?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Then, I suggest that you return in an appropriate state of dress.”
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to feel the effects of my sleepless night. Cleaned and dressed in a fresh uniform, with red-rimmed eyes, I knocked on the MasterGun’s hatch.
MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield opened the hatch and glanced at my fresh shave and starched camouflage uniform. “Somewhat more acceptable,” he said. “Now, I’ve changed my mind. Move the blocks back down to the barracks. I don’t want anyone to stumble over them up on the mountain trail. And, make sure you stack them neatly.”
“Yes, MasterGuns,” I said and started down the passage to the exit.
Oh, and Mr. Balboni?”
I turned back to see him smiling. “We’ll talk about repainting that tank when you get back.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later, I was at Officer Candidate School. Six months later, I was a Lieutenant of Marines. Two years later, I led my platoon back into our bivouac in the scorching heat of the Thai-Malaysian border, where a Marine Staff Sergeant waited to join my unit as our interpreter. Looking at my name tag, he said, “Sir, are you the Marine who painted that Army tank in California?” Eight years after that, I was a civilian, traveling in California with my wife. We drove onto the base so I could show her the tank she had heard about so often. I parked the car and walked over to the tank, showing her the red splotches which were still visible in spite of the vast and generous amounts of green paint supplied to me by MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. Two young Marines overheard our conversation and approached. “Sir, one of them said, “Are you the one that painted the tank and stole that guidon?”
“Yep,” I replied.
They grinned. “Did you really have to move bricks up and down the mountain for a month?”
“Yep,” I replied. I remembered those moments in Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office. “But, it was worth it. I learned a lot that day.”
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Bella Redecorates the Bathroom....sort of
Bella, my 6yo daughter, demonstrated her creative talents and penchant for interior design by ripping the bathroom towel rod out of the wall. My wife, who was something less than thrilled with the situation, expressed her displeasure LOUDLY and repeatedly. However, Bella’s argument was sound. She knew that she could move the shower rod by yanking on the shower curtain. She concluded, therefore, that a solid pull on the towel would bring the towel rod down, so that she could reposition it at a lower, more convenient, level. What she didn’t expect was the explosion of sheet rock from the wall and fury from her mom.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 7
(This is the continuation of Part Six. Scroll down the page to find Part One.
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.)
Joel and I assumed the position of attention, centered 6 inches in front of the MasterGuns desk. The door slammed behind us and Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield walked behind his desk. He swept a massive arm across his desk, sending sheafs of paper flying. A glass smashed against the concrete wall. Joel didn’t flinch. I probably did. Our eyes remained focused ahead, staring into infinity. The MasterGuns raised a finger, pointing at us, and when he started yelling, he was so loud that I felt the vibrations in my chest. I didn’t so much hear his words as feel them pounding into me. “YOU TWO F’N PIECES OF S--T HAVE EMBARRASED ME, EMBARASSED THE CORPS, AND MANAGED TO DEVALUE THE UNIFORM OF EVERY MARINE THROUGHOUT HISTORY…ALL IN ONE FREAK’IN NIGHT!!!” He stopped yelling and stared at us. The silence pounded at my ears. After an eternity of seconds, Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield pulled his desk chair out. The metal chair legs screeched on the tile. He sat down and put his chin in his hand, staring down at the naked wood of his bare desk. The wall clock snapped out a count of the passing seconds. The big Marine continued to stare down. I saw that his shoulders were quaking in the silence. The MasterGuns was laughing. I risked a glance at Joel, who shrugged slightly while continuing to stare straight ahead.
“What am I supposed to do about this, gentlemen?” the MasterGuns asked in a conversational tone which terrified me far more than his yelling. Deciding that the question was rhetorical, Joel and I kept our mouths clamped shut. I realized that I really preferred the yelling. “I’m sitting here,” he continued, “minding my own business, and the phone rings. Like any polite professional, I pick up the phone and say ‘Good morning’…and that fat little doggie Top Sergeant starts yelling at me like he thinks I won’t throw his lard-stuffed ass off this mountain!” The MasterGuns was yelling, again. “Some Marine, he says, just stomped into his formation and snatched his guidon. ‘No way’ says I. No way one of MY MARINES would do something so unprofessional.” The MasterGuns looked up at us. “But, then the fat ass says, ‘ HIS NAME TAG SAID ‘BALBONI’!!!” The MasterGuns jumped up from the desk so fast the chair screeched backwards, collided with the concrete wall, bounced, tipped precariously over on two legs, wavered for a couple of seconds, and crashed over onto the floor.
I really didn’t prefer the yelling after all.
Around the desk came the MasterGuns, stopped in front of Joe and I with his finger raised to eye level. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to march your stupid asses down to-…” There was a knock on the door.
“MasterGuns?” a voice said. “Can I have a moment?” It was the Major, our Commanding Officer, or C.O. (pronounced “See-Oh”)
The MasterGuns opened the door. In walked Major Taylor. Short, stocky, quiet, capable of running three miles in sixteen minutes flat; he had a standing offer for a free weekend to any Marine who could outrun him up the mountain. He had never been challenged on the offer. The Major glanced at Joel and me and then looked back at the MasterGuns. “We’ve got a problem, MasterGuns. I just got off the phone with the Base Commander, who chewed my butt out because some Marines apparently lost their minds and wen-“
“Sir, I know,” the MasterGuns interrupted. “The Army Top Sergeant called me and told me about these two idiots snatching his guidon. I was just sending them back down to Charlie Company to apologize and return the guidon.”
The Major turned and stared hard at us for a moment, and then turned back to the MasterGuns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Top, but I was coming in here to tell you that some of our young warriors apparently broke out of the barracks last night and painted the Army display tank Marine-Corps-Red.”
Once the C.O. left, MasterGuns Satterfield stood in silence and stared at Joel and me for a couple of minutes. “You gents had a busy night, didn’t you?” I thought about educating the Top that Joel had not actually participated in the tank paining, but the man didn’t seem particularly open to receiving new information at the moment. He leaned against his desk and crossed his massive arms. “You know, I should take some of the responsibility for this mess, myself. I am the one who smarted off standing in front of formation.” He looked me in the eyes. “Yeah, I remember saying that this stunt would impress me. I just didn’t think I had any Marines so lacking in brain power that they couldn’t separate an exaggerated example from a suggestion.” He shook his head. “No matter now. You pay your money; you take your chances, right?” We nodded.
A pair of boots echoed in the passageway. “Bates!” the MasterGuns called, “get in here.” Lance Corporal Bates, a close friend of mine, joined us in the office. “Stand over there,” MasterGuns ordered, and Bates stepped against the wall and assumed the position of parade rest. MasterGuns Satterfield turned his attention back to Joel and I. “Since I can’t trust the two of you jackasses together, I’m going to split you up and get this mess sorted out.” He leaned close to our faces. “And then we’ll figure out how to train you two idiots not to embarrass me.”
“Lance Corporal Stevens, return to your room until I send for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Pivoting on his heel, Joel exited towards his barracks room.
“Balboni, take Lance Corporal Bates and return Charlie Company’s guidon. Explain the situation to Mr. Bates on the way and make good and damn sure you don’t so much as spittle when you apologize to that fat, doggy top sergeant. Report back to me when you’re done and we’ll get started on your ‘remediation’.” He smiled. Things did not look promising for my immediate future. In my head, I hoped the end result would be worth the pain. On the other hand, I could assure myself that I would be stronger in the coming weeks. The MasterGuns was certain to give me plenty of exercise.
I escaped from Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office with the guidon in my arms and Lance Corporal Bates in tow. “What the hell did you guys do?” he asked as we exited the barracked and turned down the hillside towards the Army barracks. I gave Bates a quick run down on the situation.
“That’s awesome!” Bates exclaimed at the end of my tale. “Why didn’t you take me with you?” For the first time, but not the last, it occurred to me that Brian Bates wasn’t the best choice of Marines to keep me on the straight and level path of righteousness. However, ours was a simple mission. Return the guidon to Charlie Company’s Top Sergeant and apologize. Five minutes and we would be back in the barracks.
The story should have ended this way. Joel and I would have been celebrities had the story ended this way. But it didn’t. In another hour, Joel, Brian, and I would be famous. Marines would recognize me by name years later; and no punishment could be harsh enough to kill the story that was about to be born.
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.)
Joel and I assumed the position of attention, centered 6 inches in front of the MasterGuns desk. The door slammed behind us and Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield walked behind his desk. He swept a massive arm across his desk, sending sheafs of paper flying. A glass smashed against the concrete wall. Joel didn’t flinch. I probably did. Our eyes remained focused ahead, staring into infinity. The MasterGuns raised a finger, pointing at us, and when he started yelling, he was so loud that I felt the vibrations in my chest. I didn’t so much hear his words as feel them pounding into me. “YOU TWO F’N PIECES OF S--T HAVE EMBARRASED ME, EMBARASSED THE CORPS, AND MANAGED TO DEVALUE THE UNIFORM OF EVERY MARINE THROUGHOUT HISTORY…ALL IN ONE FREAK’IN NIGHT!!!” He stopped yelling and stared at us. The silence pounded at my ears. After an eternity of seconds, Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield pulled his desk chair out. The metal chair legs screeched on the tile. He sat down and put his chin in his hand, staring down at the naked wood of his bare desk. The wall clock snapped out a count of the passing seconds. The big Marine continued to stare down. I saw that his shoulders were quaking in the silence. The MasterGuns was laughing. I risked a glance at Joel, who shrugged slightly while continuing to stare straight ahead.
“What am I supposed to do about this, gentlemen?” the MasterGuns asked in a conversational tone which terrified me far more than his yelling. Deciding that the question was rhetorical, Joel and I kept our mouths clamped shut. I realized that I really preferred the yelling. “I’m sitting here,” he continued, “minding my own business, and the phone rings. Like any polite professional, I pick up the phone and say ‘Good morning’…and that fat little doggie Top Sergeant starts yelling at me like he thinks I won’t throw his lard-stuffed ass off this mountain!” The MasterGuns was yelling, again. “Some Marine, he says, just stomped into his formation and snatched his guidon. ‘No way’ says I. No way one of MY MARINES would do something so unprofessional.” The MasterGuns looked up at us. “But, then the fat ass says, ‘ HIS NAME TAG SAID ‘BALBONI’!!!” The MasterGuns jumped up from the desk so fast the chair screeched backwards, collided with the concrete wall, bounced, tipped precariously over on two legs, wavered for a couple of seconds, and crashed over onto the floor.
I really didn’t prefer the yelling after all.
Around the desk came the MasterGuns, stopped in front of Joe and I with his finger raised to eye level. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to march your stupid asses down to-…” There was a knock on the door.
“MasterGuns?” a voice said. “Can I have a moment?” It was the Major, our Commanding Officer, or C.O. (pronounced “See-Oh”)
The MasterGuns opened the door. In walked Major Taylor. Short, stocky, quiet, capable of running three miles in sixteen minutes flat; he had a standing offer for a free weekend to any Marine who could outrun him up the mountain. He had never been challenged on the offer. The Major glanced at Joel and me and then looked back at the MasterGuns. “We’ve got a problem, MasterGuns. I just got off the phone with the Base Commander, who chewed my butt out because some Marines apparently lost their minds and wen-“
“Sir, I know,” the MasterGuns interrupted. “The Army Top Sergeant called me and told me about these two idiots snatching his guidon. I was just sending them back down to Charlie Company to apologize and return the guidon.”
The Major turned and stared hard at us for a moment, and then turned back to the MasterGuns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Top, but I was coming in here to tell you that some of our young warriors apparently broke out of the barracks last night and painted the Army display tank Marine-Corps-Red.”
Once the C.O. left, MasterGuns Satterfield stood in silence and stared at Joel and me for a couple of minutes. “You gents had a busy night, didn’t you?” I thought about educating the Top that Joel had not actually participated in the tank paining, but the man didn’t seem particularly open to receiving new information at the moment. He leaned against his desk and crossed his massive arms. “You know, I should take some of the responsibility for this mess, myself. I am the one who smarted off standing in front of formation.” He looked me in the eyes. “Yeah, I remember saying that this stunt would impress me. I just didn’t think I had any Marines so lacking in brain power that they couldn’t separate an exaggerated example from a suggestion.” He shook his head. “No matter now. You pay your money; you take your chances, right?” We nodded.
A pair of boots echoed in the passageway. “Bates!” the MasterGuns called, “get in here.” Lance Corporal Bates, a close friend of mine, joined us in the office. “Stand over there,” MasterGuns ordered, and Bates stepped against the wall and assumed the position of parade rest. MasterGuns Satterfield turned his attention back to Joel and I. “Since I can’t trust the two of you jackasses together, I’m going to split you up and get this mess sorted out.” He leaned close to our faces. “And then we’ll figure out how to train you two idiots not to embarrass me.”
“Lance Corporal Stevens, return to your room until I send for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Pivoting on his heel, Joel exited towards his barracks room.
“Balboni, take Lance Corporal Bates and return Charlie Company’s guidon. Explain the situation to Mr. Bates on the way and make good and damn sure you don’t so much as spittle when you apologize to that fat, doggy top sergeant. Report back to me when you’re done and we’ll get started on your ‘remediation’.” He smiled. Things did not look promising for my immediate future. In my head, I hoped the end result would be worth the pain. On the other hand, I could assure myself that I would be stronger in the coming weeks. The MasterGuns was certain to give me plenty of exercise.
I escaped from Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office with the guidon in my arms and Lance Corporal Bates in tow. “What the hell did you guys do?” he asked as we exited the barracked and turned down the hillside towards the Army barracks. I gave Bates a quick run down on the situation.
“That’s awesome!” Bates exclaimed at the end of my tale. “Why didn’t you take me with you?” For the first time, but not the last, it occurred to me that Brian Bates wasn’t the best choice of Marines to keep me on the straight and level path of righteousness. However, ours was a simple mission. Return the guidon to Charlie Company’s Top Sergeant and apologize. Five minutes and we would be back in the barracks.
The story should have ended this way. Joel and I would have been celebrities had the story ended this way. But it didn’t. In another hour, Joel, Brian, and I would be famous. Marines would recognize me by name years later; and no punishment could be harsh enough to kill the story that was about to be born.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 6
(This is the continuation of Part Five. 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.)
I marched forward towards Charlie Company’s First Sergeant, my cover low over my eyes and my chin tucked to keep my face invisible. The soldiers could see me, now. I walked across the wide open space in front of over a hundred soldiers, intent upon stealing their company flag right before their eyes. As I neared the formation, I curved my path slightly towards the Guide. I needed to get as close as possible before showing my intentions. I could see the eyes of the soldiers in the first ranks of the formation, and too many of them were straining to look in my direction without moving their heads and breaking their position.
I didn’t know it, but they weren’t looking at me. A scene had erupted at the Lumina, where Joel’s musical reverie had been shattered by a female Air Force Airman acquaintance, who was late for duty and rushing down the hill to her unit when she spotted Joel sitting at the curb. She leaned through the car’s passenger window and asked Joel for a ride. I never found out exactly what happened, but the end result was a vocal altercation in which the female Airman espoused at length and loudly on Joel’s absence of character and surfeit of selfishness.
Ignorant of Joel’s altercation, I curved my path towards the Charlie Company Guide. I was eight paces away. He looked at me. Six paces. His eyes narrowed. The First Sergeant’s voice trailed off. He had spotted the Marine invading his formation. Four paces. I risked a glance at the guidon staff and realization struck the Guide. He twitched, but froze. At two paces, I dropped the scroll and jumped for the guidon. The Sergeant finally broke position, but he was too late. His swiped at the wooden pole but swished through empty air. The guidon was in my arms and I was running towards the car.
“GET HIM!!!” the First Sergeant screamed and two hundred boots beat the concrete after me.
I flew across the concrete, breaking the guidon down as I ran. Guidon poles have brass connectors in the middle, and the whole pole unscrews into two pieces, reducing it from a 6-foot piece of wood to two 3-foot pieces. It’s a traditional holdover from the cavalry days, when the Guide could break down the guidon for transport on horse. I didn’t have a horse. I had a Chevy Lumina, and as I ran towards it, I realized Joel had company. Some female Airman was leaning into the passenger window, and the two of them were yelling at each other. What the fu-
Joel saw me and transitioned in an instant from yelling to waving the Airman (Air-girl?) into the back seat of the car. I cleared the sidewalk onto the grass as she nonchalantly opened the rear door, still yapping something unintelligible and obviously unpleasant at Joel. I was only feet away.
“GET IN THE DAMN CAR!!!” I screamed. The thundering behind me diminished. Panic touched my shoulders. The leading soldiers were past the sidewalk, only steps behind me. The girl turned to see who was yelling at her, and her eyes widened as she stared over my shoulder. I was too scared to look back. “WHAT ARE YOU DOI…” she started to scream, but I was on her, shoving her into the back seat, slamming the car door, tossing the guidon through the open window into her lap, and jumping in the passenger seat as Joel stomped the pedal and we zoomed into the street. Thumps sounded from the car’s rear as the soldiers grabbed at the car. I wasn’t worried about the handprints on the Lumina’s spotless paint, but I did later discover that the radio antenna was missing.
“WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU-“
“SHUT…UP!” Joel yelled into the back seat. Looking at me, he added, “That was pretty close, dude. Those Army doggies can run.”
Joel looked at the Airman in the rearview mirror. “Where do you need me to drop you off?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she kept repeating, staring at the guidon in her lap.
“Hey!” Joel snapped at her, and she looked up at him.
“Down here on the right.” She said and looked back down at her lap. “They’re going to think that I was part of this. Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Joel said, slowing to the curb. She climbed out, and I never did find out her name. I probably would have asked Joel, but events were about to overwhelm me.
She put the guidon back on the seat, and walked away. “I hope they kick your asses,” she called back over her shoulder. For the first time, I had the thought that this escapade might not be over.
Joel and I rode back up the mountain and parked behind the Marine barracks. Walking up to the front hatch, Joel asked, “So, what now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I want the guys to know what we did, but I don’t know how to advertise it without giving us away.” I looked around. “Maybe we can stick the guidon up on the roof and let people see it.”
“Do you think anyone realized who we were?” Joel asked.
I shrugged, at the exact moment that the MasterGuns voice boomed down the corridor. “BAAAL-BOOONEEEE!!!”
“I retract the question,” Joel said with a shrug, and we walked through the hatch towards where the Master Gunnery Sergeant stood with his arms crossed. I felt a sudden and desperate urge to urinate.
http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com
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.)
I marched forward towards Charlie Company’s First Sergeant, my cover low over my eyes and my chin tucked to keep my face invisible. The soldiers could see me, now. I walked across the wide open space in front of over a hundred soldiers, intent upon stealing their company flag right before their eyes. As I neared the formation, I curved my path slightly towards the Guide. I needed to get as close as possible before showing my intentions. I could see the eyes of the soldiers in the first ranks of the formation, and too many of them were straining to look in my direction without moving their heads and breaking their position.
I didn’t know it, but they weren’t looking at me. A scene had erupted at the Lumina, where Joel’s musical reverie had been shattered by a female Air Force Airman acquaintance, who was late for duty and rushing down the hill to her unit when she spotted Joel sitting at the curb. She leaned through the car’s passenger window and asked Joel for a ride. I never found out exactly what happened, but the end result was a vocal altercation in which the female Airman espoused at length and loudly on Joel’s absence of character and surfeit of selfishness.
Ignorant of Joel’s altercation, I curved my path towards the Charlie Company Guide. I was eight paces away. He looked at me. Six paces. His eyes narrowed. The First Sergeant’s voice trailed off. He had spotted the Marine invading his formation. Four paces. I risked a glance at the guidon staff and realization struck the Guide. He twitched, but froze. At two paces, I dropped the scroll and jumped for the guidon. The Sergeant finally broke position, but he was too late. His swiped at the wooden pole but swished through empty air. The guidon was in my arms and I was running towards the car.
“GET HIM!!!” the First Sergeant screamed and two hundred boots beat the concrete after me.
I flew across the concrete, breaking the guidon down as I ran. Guidon poles have brass connectors in the middle, and the whole pole unscrews into two pieces, reducing it from a 6-foot piece of wood to two 3-foot pieces. It’s a traditional holdover from the cavalry days, when the Guide could break down the guidon for transport on horse. I didn’t have a horse. I had a Chevy Lumina, and as I ran towards it, I realized Joel had company. Some female Airman was leaning into the passenger window, and the two of them were yelling at each other. What the fu-
Joel saw me and transitioned in an instant from yelling to waving the Airman (Air-girl?) into the back seat of the car. I cleared the sidewalk onto the grass as she nonchalantly opened the rear door, still yapping something unintelligible and obviously unpleasant at Joel. I was only feet away.
“GET IN THE DAMN CAR!!!” I screamed. The thundering behind me diminished. Panic touched my shoulders. The leading soldiers were past the sidewalk, only steps behind me. The girl turned to see who was yelling at her, and her eyes widened as she stared over my shoulder. I was too scared to look back. “WHAT ARE YOU DOI…” she started to scream, but I was on her, shoving her into the back seat, slamming the car door, tossing the guidon through the open window into her lap, and jumping in the passenger seat as Joel stomped the pedal and we zoomed into the street. Thumps sounded from the car’s rear as the soldiers grabbed at the car. I wasn’t worried about the handprints on the Lumina’s spotless paint, but I did later discover that the radio antenna was missing.
“WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU-“
“SHUT…UP!” Joel yelled into the back seat. Looking at me, he added, “That was pretty close, dude. Those Army doggies can run.”
Joel looked at the Airman in the rearview mirror. “Where do you need me to drop you off?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she kept repeating, staring at the guidon in her lap.
“Hey!” Joel snapped at her, and she looked up at him.
“Down here on the right.” She said and looked back down at her lap. “They’re going to think that I was part of this. Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Joel said, slowing to the curb. She climbed out, and I never did find out her name. I probably would have asked Joel, but events were about to overwhelm me.
She put the guidon back on the seat, and walked away. “I hope they kick your asses,” she called back over her shoulder. For the first time, I had the thought that this escapade might not be over.
Joel and I rode back up the mountain and parked behind the Marine barracks. Walking up to the front hatch, Joel asked, “So, what now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I want the guys to know what we did, but I don’t know how to advertise it without giving us away.” I looked around. “Maybe we can stick the guidon up on the roof and let people see it.”
“Do you think anyone realized who we were?” Joel asked.
I shrugged, at the exact moment that the MasterGuns voice boomed down the corridor. “BAAAL-BOOONEEEE!!!”
“I retract the question,” Joel said with a shrug, and we walked through the hatch towards where the Master Gunnery Sergeant stood with his arms crossed. I felt a sudden and desperate urge to urinate.
http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 5
(This is the continuation of Part Four. 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.)
Alarms were just starting to beep in the barracks rooms of Marine Corps Detachment- DLI when I slipped again through my window and dropped to the ground one floor below. Three minutes later, I crossed the dark parking lot and climbed into the Chevy Lumina’s passenger seat.
“Morn’in, Sunshine,” Joel greeted me. He was already in the driver’s seat with the car running and the heat on. Knowing Joel, he’d been there for three hours, watching stars in the darkness. Rush’s “Subdivisions” was in the Lumina’s CD player. “You got everything?”
“Yep,” I replied.
“Then, we’re ready to roll.” We sat and watched the sky start to lighten. As the trees and building became visible around me, I began to see the magnitude of the stunt I was preparing to execute. Stealing the guidon from Charlie Company while they stood in formation? Am I insane! I could see no good end to the path I was on, but, the morning had arrived and momentum seemed to be carrying me along like a wave riding towards a rocky shore. I knew that if I stopped to think about this plan, then I would call it off. So, I didn’t stop to think. Fortune favors the brave. I closed my eyes and imagined how the plan would unfold, and imagined how I should react if the Army Guide moved before I struck, or if the Army unit didn’t have its guidon in the gloomy weather, or if the serg-
“Hey, dreamy, you ready to roll?”
I opened my eyes, saw the numbers on the dashboard clock, and felt my stomach do a long, slow somersault. 6:55. It was time. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
Joel pulled the Lumina out of the parking lot, out of the base through the north gate, and back in through the south gate, which allowed us to approach the Army barracks without passing the Marine Corps barracks. Charlie Company was forming in the large open area behind the four-story barracks. Solders streamed out of the barracks, straightening uniforms and chatting as they walked to their positions.
Joel pulled to the side of the road and stopped. I nodded at him and he flipped a switch on his door, lowering the rear passenger window. “Time for your act,” he said.
“Yep.” I opened the car door and stepped out into a chilly, overcast morning. Over my head, a stiff wind snapped at the Army barrack’s flag and drove dark clouds across the sky. I was standing on the sidewalk with the Army Charlie Company barracks to my immediate front. To the right, beyond the end of the immense building, as an open space where the company was assembling for morning formation. It looked as though two-thirds of the soldiers were in place, with more streaming out of the barracks. The company guidon was nowhere in sight.
I needed Charlie Company frozen in place before I made my move, so I waited, keeping my face pointed at the sidewalk to avoid making eye contact and being remembered by anyone. I should have stayed in the car, but that would have been far too smart. Besides, I had to be able to see Charlie Company’s Guide. How that sergeant handled the company guidon during the formation was the critical variable in the half-ass equation that was my plan. He was already in place, holding the company guidon in his right hand. The small flag snapped in the gusts, the long wooden guidon pole resting on the concrete beside the Sergeant’s boot. A few inches in front of the pole’s brass end was a small, round hole in the concrete. I thought I know what this hole was for, but wasn’t sure. And, I couldn’t ask anyone because such a question would have broadcast my intentions. So, I stood on the sidewalk and watched. And waited.
“Atten-HUT!” The soldiers’ boots slammed together, punctuating the end of the idle chatter. Charlie Company’s First Sergeant marched to the front of the unit where the soldier who had called attention pivoted on his heel, turning his back to the formation, and raised his hand in a salute. The First Sergeant returned the salute, and the sergeant pivoted again on his heel and marched away, disappearing around the far side of the company formation.
“At ease, Charlie Company,” the First sergeant said. As one… sort of… the soldiers moved to the position of “parade rest” with their feet shoulder-width apart and their hands clasped behind their backs. The Guide dropped the guidon into the hole and clasped both hands behind his back. Perfect. His hands were free from the guidon pole. In our Marine formation, the Guide never took his right hand off the guidon staff, and my plan would have been impossible. With the Army Company, the guidon was resting in the concrete and the Guide frozen in a position with his hands behind his back. He couldn’t move without order from the First Sergeant.
I glanced back at Joel, who was showing his support with a big yawn, waving his hand in a circular motion as though to tell me ‘let’s get on with it’. “Fine,” I thought, “Now or never.” I pulled a scroll of paper from inside my uniform blouse, pulled my uniform cover (hat) low over my eyes, and began walking purposefully towards the First Sergeant. My plan was to approach from behind the First Sergeant’s shoulder. The soldiers in the company would see me, but the First Sergeant would be blind to my approach. The scroll of paper was wrapped in a bright red ribbon, and the soldiers would assume that I was on an official errand, bearing an invitation for the First Sergeant to attend our Marine Corps Birthday Ball. As I approached the formation, I would begin to curve towards the Charlie Company Guide, who was frozen at the position of parade rest. My gamble was that, even if he knew something was amiss, he wouldn’t suspect my intentions until too late.
What I didn’t know was that the plan had already unraveled behind me.
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.)
Alarms were just starting to beep in the barracks rooms of Marine Corps Detachment- DLI when I slipped again through my window and dropped to the ground one floor below. Three minutes later, I crossed the dark parking lot and climbed into the Chevy Lumina’s passenger seat.
“Morn’in, Sunshine,” Joel greeted me. He was already in the driver’s seat with the car running and the heat on. Knowing Joel, he’d been there for three hours, watching stars in the darkness. Rush’s “Subdivisions” was in the Lumina’s CD player. “You got everything?”
“Yep,” I replied.
“Then, we’re ready to roll.” We sat and watched the sky start to lighten. As the trees and building became visible around me, I began to see the magnitude of the stunt I was preparing to execute. Stealing the guidon from Charlie Company while they stood in formation? Am I insane! I could see no good end to the path I was on, but, the morning had arrived and momentum seemed to be carrying me along like a wave riding towards a rocky shore. I knew that if I stopped to think about this plan, then I would call it off. So, I didn’t stop to think. Fortune favors the brave. I closed my eyes and imagined how the plan would unfold, and imagined how I should react if the Army Guide moved before I struck, or if the Army unit didn’t have its guidon in the gloomy weather, or if the serg-
“Hey, dreamy, you ready to roll?”
I opened my eyes, saw the numbers on the dashboard clock, and felt my stomach do a long, slow somersault. 6:55. It was time. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
Joel pulled the Lumina out of the parking lot, out of the base through the north gate, and back in through the south gate, which allowed us to approach the Army barracks without passing the Marine Corps barracks. Charlie Company was forming in the large open area behind the four-story barracks. Solders streamed out of the barracks, straightening uniforms and chatting as they walked to their positions.
Joel pulled to the side of the road and stopped. I nodded at him and he flipped a switch on his door, lowering the rear passenger window. “Time for your act,” he said.
“Yep.” I opened the car door and stepped out into a chilly, overcast morning. Over my head, a stiff wind snapped at the Army barrack’s flag and drove dark clouds across the sky. I was standing on the sidewalk with the Army Charlie Company barracks to my immediate front. To the right, beyond the end of the immense building, as an open space where the company was assembling for morning formation. It looked as though two-thirds of the soldiers were in place, with more streaming out of the barracks. The company guidon was nowhere in sight.
I needed Charlie Company frozen in place before I made my move, so I waited, keeping my face pointed at the sidewalk to avoid making eye contact and being remembered by anyone. I should have stayed in the car, but that would have been far too smart. Besides, I had to be able to see Charlie Company’s Guide. How that sergeant handled the company guidon during the formation was the critical variable in the half-ass equation that was my plan. He was already in place, holding the company guidon in his right hand. The small flag snapped in the gusts, the long wooden guidon pole resting on the concrete beside the Sergeant’s boot. A few inches in front of the pole’s brass end was a small, round hole in the concrete. I thought I know what this hole was for, but wasn’t sure. And, I couldn’t ask anyone because such a question would have broadcast my intentions. So, I stood on the sidewalk and watched. And waited.
“Atten-HUT!” The soldiers’ boots slammed together, punctuating the end of the idle chatter. Charlie Company’s First Sergeant marched to the front of the unit where the soldier who had called attention pivoted on his heel, turning his back to the formation, and raised his hand in a salute. The First Sergeant returned the salute, and the sergeant pivoted again on his heel and marched away, disappearing around the far side of the company formation.
“At ease, Charlie Company,” the First sergeant said. As one… sort of… the soldiers moved to the position of “parade rest” with their feet shoulder-width apart and their hands clasped behind their backs. The Guide dropped the guidon into the hole and clasped both hands behind his back. Perfect. His hands were free from the guidon pole. In our Marine formation, the Guide never took his right hand off the guidon staff, and my plan would have been impossible. With the Army Company, the guidon was resting in the concrete and the Guide frozen in a position with his hands behind his back. He couldn’t move without order from the First Sergeant.
I glanced back at Joel, who was showing his support with a big yawn, waving his hand in a circular motion as though to tell me ‘let’s get on with it’. “Fine,” I thought, “Now or never.” I pulled a scroll of paper from inside my uniform blouse, pulled my uniform cover (hat) low over my eyes, and began walking purposefully towards the First Sergeant. My plan was to approach from behind the First Sergeant’s shoulder. The soldiers in the company would see me, but the First Sergeant would be blind to my approach. The scroll of paper was wrapped in a bright red ribbon, and the soldiers would assume that I was on an official errand, bearing an invitation for the First Sergeant to attend our Marine Corps Birthday Ball. As I approached the formation, I would begin to curve towards the Charlie Company Guide, who was frozen at the position of parade rest. My gamble was that, even if he knew something was amiss, he wouldn’t suspect my intentions until too late.
What I didn’t know was that the plan had already unraveled behind me.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 4
(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.)
There were 4 of us and we moved in silence through the dark. Each of us carried two gallons of bright red Marine Corps paint as we crossed the ridgeline and descended into the newer, Army section of the base. The entire base was operated by the Army, making us Marines feel like interlopers whenever we ventured beyond our own quarterdeck. We would not have had it any other way.
The T-34 was a beast of iron and it loomed from the northern California mist like a nightmare. Several hour’s effort were required to coat the tank with red paint. We made rings on the tanks barrels, covered the turret, and poured the remaining gallons across the wide tank tracks. Exhausted, we trooped back across the ridge and slipped into our barracks. Sneaking downstairs into the paint locker with my key, we quietly cleaned the paint off our hands and arms with thinner. Then, careful not to alert the duty sergeant, we snuck out behind the barracks and washed ourselves in frigid water from a garden hose. Kamir and his cohorts retired safe in the knowledge that they had done something special. I crept up to my barracks room, started a pot of coffee, and commenced my preparations. An Army company would be waiting for me in just two hours time.
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.)
There were 4 of us and we moved in silence through the dark. Each of us carried two gallons of bright red Marine Corps paint as we crossed the ridgeline and descended into the newer, Army section of the base. The entire base was operated by the Army, making us Marines feel like interlopers whenever we ventured beyond our own quarterdeck. We would not have had it any other way.
The T-34 was a beast of iron and it loomed from the northern California mist like a nightmare. Several hour’s effort were required to coat the tank with red paint. We made rings on the tanks barrels, covered the turret, and poured the remaining gallons across the wide tank tracks. Exhausted, we trooped back across the ridge and slipped into our barracks. Sneaking downstairs into the paint locker with my key, we quietly cleaned the paint off our hands and arms with thinner. Then, careful not to alert the duty sergeant, we snuck out behind the barracks and washed ourselves in frigid water from a garden hose. Kamir and his cohorts retired safe in the knowledge that they had done something special. I crept up to my barracks room, started a pot of coffee, and commenced my preparations. An Army company would be waiting for me in just two hours time.
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Tank Painting Story- Part 3
The Tank Painting Story- Part 3
(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.)
The car was safe and I passed an hour or two shivering in the wet, Monterrey Bay fog outside the barracks while the inspection ran its course. Rooms failed, Fire Team were leaders chewed out, Marines were ordered to re-clean already gleaming floors and bulkheads, and then the squad leaders returned for the inevitable re-inspection, which resulted in a slightly smaller repeat of the earlier round of failures and re-cleanings, until finally the Squad Leaders passed the last of the barracks rooms. As quiet washed through the passages, the whole building seemed to sigh in relief.
In my room, I sat on the bunk, ruining my perfect, regulation sheet fold, and enjoyed the silence for a few minutes. Eventually, I showered, ironed my uniform, and sat at my desk to spit-shine my boots. I stretched an old, cotton shirt around my fingers, dipped it into a cup of ice-cold water, and smeared black polish on my boots with quick, circular motions. Over and over, I repeated the motions, watching my reflection focus and become sharper and sharper. Steal a guidon from a unit in formation. It could be done. You would need an excuse to visit the formation, some reason that would dissolve suspicion, just for 30 seconds. And, you would need to strike fast and escape faster.
At 2200 (10pm), curfew started. The duty sergeant stepped to the quarterdeck and called out “lights, lights, lights!” Throughout the barracks, rooms plunged into darkness. I flipped the wall switch off, slid up the window, and swung out into the cold night air. Hanging from the second story window sill, I pushed back from the wall and dropped down one story onto the soft mulch in the flower garden. The supply hatch lock was unsecured. I already knew this because I duct-taped it most nights. I walked into the first floor, glanced left to make sure the duty sergeant wasn’t visible, and turned right entered Joel Steven’s room.
“Figured you’d show up,” Joel said, handing me a Smirnoff and grapefruit juice in a plastic cup. Joel was the resident surfer genius in the Company, and we were close friends. “You ever hear of a group called “The Orb?” he asked, fiddling with his CD player.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said, by way of response.
“Shit, not that again. Last time you had ‘an idea,’ we spent a week painting the stairwell.” He sat heavily on his bunk and took a long drink. “I’ve got an idea, too. Let’s drink the rest of the bottle and see if we can still smoke the company on the 3-miler in the morning.” It was a habit, almost, and an unhealthy one. We would see how much vodka we could drink and still finish the unit run with the leading group. Painful, but rewarding… sort of.
“Remember how the MasterGuns said he would be impressed if someone stole a unit’s guidon?”
“No.”
“Well, he did. And I know how to pull it off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if your plan works, then we get attention on us. If your plan fails, then we get attention on us. Either way, something bad happens.” He took a long drink. “Oh, what the hell. Tell me your plan.”
I told Joel my plan while he continued to sip vodka. Five minutes later, he nodded and smiled. “It won’t work for a thousand reasons, but I’m in.” We watched “Henry V” with Kenneth Branagh, and when it was over, it was time to meet Kamil and paint a tank. Joel and I vowed to keep our plan a secret, knowing that in 24 hours, painting a tank would pale compared to our stunt. Marines would hear of our stunt and hold their manhood low. (Henry V was a pretty good movie)
(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.)
The car was safe and I passed an hour or two shivering in the wet, Monterrey Bay fog outside the barracks while the inspection ran its course. Rooms failed, Fire Team were leaders chewed out, Marines were ordered to re-clean already gleaming floors and bulkheads, and then the squad leaders returned for the inevitable re-inspection, which resulted in a slightly smaller repeat of the earlier round of failures and re-cleanings, until finally the Squad Leaders passed the last of the barracks rooms. As quiet washed through the passages, the whole building seemed to sigh in relief.
In my room, I sat on the bunk, ruining my perfect, regulation sheet fold, and enjoyed the silence for a few minutes. Eventually, I showered, ironed my uniform, and sat at my desk to spit-shine my boots. I stretched an old, cotton shirt around my fingers, dipped it into a cup of ice-cold water, and smeared black polish on my boots with quick, circular motions. Over and over, I repeated the motions, watching my reflection focus and become sharper and sharper. Steal a guidon from a unit in formation. It could be done. You would need an excuse to visit the formation, some reason that would dissolve suspicion, just for 30 seconds. And, you would need to strike fast and escape faster.
At 2200 (10pm), curfew started. The duty sergeant stepped to the quarterdeck and called out “lights, lights, lights!” Throughout the barracks, rooms plunged into darkness. I flipped the wall switch off, slid up the window, and swung out into the cold night air. Hanging from the second story window sill, I pushed back from the wall and dropped down one story onto the soft mulch in the flower garden. The supply hatch lock was unsecured. I already knew this because I duct-taped it most nights. I walked into the first floor, glanced left to make sure the duty sergeant wasn’t visible, and turned right entered Joel Steven’s room.
“Figured you’d show up,” Joel said, handing me a Smirnoff and grapefruit juice in a plastic cup. Joel was the resident surfer genius in the Company, and we were close friends. “You ever hear of a group called “The Orb?” he asked, fiddling with his CD player.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said, by way of response.
“Shit, not that again. Last time you had ‘an idea,’ we spent a week painting the stairwell.” He sat heavily on his bunk and took a long drink. “I’ve got an idea, too. Let’s drink the rest of the bottle and see if we can still smoke the company on the 3-miler in the morning.” It was a habit, almost, and an unhealthy one. We would see how much vodka we could drink and still finish the unit run with the leading group. Painful, but rewarding… sort of.
“Remember how the MasterGuns said he would be impressed if someone stole a unit’s guidon?”
“No.”
“Well, he did. And I know how to pull it off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if your plan works, then we get attention on us. If your plan fails, then we get attention on us. Either way, something bad happens.” He took a long drink. “Oh, what the hell. Tell me your plan.”
I told Joel my plan while he continued to sip vodka. Five minutes later, he nodded and smiled. “It won’t work for a thousand reasons, but I’m in.” We watched “Henry V” with Kenneth Branagh, and when it was over, it was time to meet Kamil and paint a tank. Joel and I vowed to keep our plan a secret, knowing that in 24 hours, painting a tank would pale compared to our stunt. Marines would hear of our stunt and hold their manhood low. (Henry V was a pretty good movie)
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