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.

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

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.

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.

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)