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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