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 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)

The Tank Painting Story- Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, why?”

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

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

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

“What time?” I asked.

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

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

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



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