The Tank Painting Story- Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, why?”

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

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

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

“What time?” I asked.

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

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

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



http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com

The Tank Painting Story- Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Military Rules

Military Rules

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God they can't spell "gerbil"

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

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

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

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

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

New York Marathon- Getting to the Starting Line

The New York Marathon is a tremendous running experience, and since it’s one of the largest marathons in the world, it requires the runner to execute some planning and logistics in order to survive the experience. The race takes anywhere from 3.5 to 5 hours. The trip to the start takes 90 minutes, you’re stuck waiting at the start for 3 hours, and the death march to retrieve your bag is another 20-30 minutes. Tack on 45 minutes for staggering back to your hotel room and the ING NY Marathon becomes about a 9-hour expedition through the boroughs. You’ll spend more time sitting around waiting to run than you’ll spend actually running the marathon, and five hours of shivering can put a severe buzz-kill on your race day unless you plan ahead.
I like to be early, a poor habit for the NY Marathon. By 6am, I was in the starting corral; however, the race didn’t start for 3 hours. There were bagel stands, Dunk ‘in Donuts coffee trucks, and powerbars for breakfast, but sitting in the open for over a hundred minutes is a great way to ruin your marathon by getting cold, stiff, and cramped. Here are some tips for handling the pre-race.
• Use the gear bag. Most marathons provide a clear bag which you can pack some items, like dry clothes and a cell phone. NY is chilly in November, and you have a long walk at the end of the race. In a long, cool race, you’ll start to lose body heat as your move into the third hour of the race. A dry shirt and jacket is a life-saver for an exhausted, chilled runner.
• Wear several warm layers on the journey to the starting line. I had a fleece jacket, which I packed into my race bag at start time so that it would be returned to me at the finish. I also bought a couple of cheap Wal-Mart sweat shirts. As the sun rose and my body warmed to the effort of the first miles, I peeled away the layers.
• Take an early trip to the Port-a-Johns. The line is bound to get longer as the wait to run draws shorter. This will keep you from finding yourself desperate with nowhere to drain yourself while also getting you out of the chill for a few minutes.
• Park your butt on the lee side of one of the coffee trucks. This will keep you out of the wind, and the engine warmth will help. Take care not to be in a position where your breathing fumes, though, or you’ll have a long, nauseated trot to the finish line.
• Wear gloves. Fleece running gloves are a must for this race.
• Pack a couple hand-warmers; and activate them early, before the sun starts to rise. It is always coldest in the moments before dawn. If you can get through this period staying warm, then the sun will rise, raising temperatures as well as your state of mind.
• Eat your breakfast before you leave the hotel room, and don’t skimp on the calories. It’s a long wait before a long run. Smack the peanut button on the bagel and stuff a couple of bananas down your gullet. You don’t want to start running with an empty stomach.
• DO NOT start eating your gels or Sport Beans to stay warm! While this will put sugar in your system and raise your temperature, it will also start your system burning the sugar, and you’ll bonk early in the run as your body tries to adjust to an endurance event while overloaded on fuel.
• Take a book. The minutes will go by far faster if you have something to read. I took a $5 biography of John McCain, and damn near finished it before chunking it in the garbage as the race started.
• At the 15-minute mark before you move to the start line, take a last port-a-john trip. Select the line with the fewest females. It takes them far longer to use the bathroom.
Eventually, the wait ends and you are herded to the starting line, where you stare up the slope of the Verrazano Bridge. The crowd and energy are immense. Nervous laughter bounces across the crowd as runners pretend to laugh at stale jokes they heard with only 10% of their brains. The other 90% was scrolling through the pre-marathon litany of doubts. (Will I bonk at mile 19? Does that tiny cramp mean I’m going to have to pee? How much will I hurt 3 hours from now?) Then, the gun pops. Far ahead, you see a blur of motion as the first runners climb the lower slopes of the bridge. The blur of motion moves closer and focuses into bright dots of orange, green, white, and blue as runners closer to you begin moving forward. Then, heads around you move and your own feet stutter a few steps… stop… stutter… pause…and then you are running. You pass the huge digital starting clock, hear the double-tap “beep” of your timing chip crossing the line, and you are running the New York Marathon.

The Honeybee War, First Assault

A colony of bees took up residence in our backyard about two years ago. I wanted to get rid of the hive, but Julie pleaded the case for the disappearing honey bees, citing everything from our environmental responsibility to the potential for economic devastation should honeybees continue to disappear and thus fail to pollinate American agriculture products, such as corn and soybeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_collapse_disorder Apparently a lot was riding on the safety of the honeybee nest growing in our orange tree. Until Sydney was stung on her foot last weekend. It wasn’t a big deal to Sydney, who wasn’t even sure what happened. We got the news from my dad, who was babysitting for us while we were in New York (our first trip sans kids in 5 years). Julie and I were standing on 6th Avenue, near Central Park when the Julie’s cell phone buzzed. Julie listened, thanked Dad for the call and put the phone back in her purse. “I want you to kill those f_ck’n insects,” she said, taking a bite of her falafel sandwich. Sucks for the corn crop, but I had my orders.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.

I Fix the Shower without Breaking Anything

Julie decided it was time for me to fix the shower in my bathroom. It had been leaking a bit for about three years, which I hid by keeping the door closed to hide the dripping sound and the window cracked to prevent mold from blossoming. Never cleaning the toilet or sink contributed to the room’s privacy. However, this weekend Julie’s parents are coming to babysit the princesses while Julie and I go to New York, and Julie’s fear of embarrassment overcame her fear of disease. So, she donned some rubber boots and latex gloves and slid the door open with her nostrils pinched shut. Once she cleaned the shower she discovered the constant stream of water drizzling from the showerhead. And she told me to fix it before we left for New York.
Wednesday, I left work at lunch and drove home to tackle my bathroom project. Since I had to start by turning the water off, Julie helped out by starting a load of laundry and firing up the dish washer. That gave me time to munch on a turkey sandwich and ponder my impending handyman failure. Once the spin cycle started, I commenced to fix’in.
The shower in my bathroom is a step-in deal that some idiot dreamed up circa 1959. Whoever the genius was, he had sense of commitment, as evidenced by the complete lack of an access panel to the plumbing fixtures. The only way to reach the pipe fittings and faucet parts is through the small round holes in the tile wall through which the handles emerge. It’s a pain, to say the least. On the good side, the handles have been attached since before I was born, so their good and tight.
Thirty minutes of twisting futilely on the wrench without budging the jammed cold water faucet and I was ready to try a different approach. Long experience and a short attention span have taught me that leverage is everything in these little projects, so I went rummaging around in the garage for something appropriate for freeing the faucet from its aged prison. What I found was my Marine Corps entrenching tool. I opened it to 90 degrees, placed the base against the tile wall and the shovel’s lip under the handles base, and leaned against the handle. POP! The handle shot off and cracked against my ribs. Success! Five minutes later I was on my way to the plumbing store with both faucets on the passenger seat of my truck.
Palmer’s Plumbing is a surreal experience. I traded 12.65 in cash for two freshly re-worked faucets with new gaskets, a 3/4-inch hex wrench, two new faucet seats, and a 20-minute instruction on installation which was given by the old-world Italian gentlemen who owns the store. He’s a class act. He leaned across his counter, held the faucets out to me, and talked me through the installation procedure. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, “not like a guy I tried to explain this to last week. He wouldn’t listen. He was one of those young computer guys who knows everything, not like you at all.” I took the hint, shut my mouth, and paid attention.
Mr. Palmer runs his shop with his wife and daughters, making it the only place I can imagine where grown men obediently listen to women explain how to fix toilets, plumbing, and sundry other household items. It also leads to some unexpected experiences. While waiting for my faucets to be finished, I heard a female voice say, “just look at my cleavage.” Every man in the building looked. A young lady, I’m guessing a granddaughter, had brought in a homecoming dress to show off. I tried to look away but we were all busted and a chorus of feminine laughter echoed through the narrow store. “You don’t expect to hear ‘cleavage’ here,” one of the ladies chuckled. “Maybe ‘ball-cocks’ or ’nipples’ but not ‘cleavage’.” They were still laughing with the other customers when I walked out through the back door.
A short drive home and I climbed back into my shower and re-installed the faucets, amazed that I was able to complete the task without busting any pipes or shattering my own fragile ego. As I put my tools back in the garage, Julie poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you going back to work?” she asked. I shook my head and smiled, visions of romantic awards for my hard work filling my mind. She smiled slyly. “Good, I need you to help me move some stuff so I can paint.” Shit.