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BigBen · 03-04-2005, 08:05 AM

On the firing range, things really changed for us. All along, we were pretending to be soldiers, and all of the marching and polishing of shiny things and cleaning barracks could not convince me that I was in the army yet. I was too busy to realize that I was learning lots and that just being in uniform and not looking like a fool was half the battle.

Marching out to the Small Arms range changed everything. They were going to give us REAL BULLETS; I know, I know, ROUNDS. The bullet is the thing that flies through the air. The casing or ‘brass’ is what holds the powder and bullet together, and is ejected after firing. If you call a ROUND a BULLET, prepare to get screamed at. By The Way, NEVER CALL YOUR RIFLE A GUN. Just like in the movie ‘Full Metal Jacket’ (Masterpiece of filmmaking by Stanley Kubrick, rent it) where they march back and forth chanting, My experience was different.
“What did you call it?” came the scream from an old grizzled sergeant.
“A Gun, Sergeant?” came the whimper.
“Look over there, shithead.” The Sergeant pointed to a decorative artillery cannon that was one of hundreds sprinkled on the very neatly trimmed lawns around the base, “That is a GUN. You have a RIFLE. When you can properly execute the drill movement ‘Shoulder Arms’ with one of those bad boys, then you can call whatever the fuck you want a gun. Not until then.” Sheesh, these guys are real sticklers for names.

The story goes that a guy radioed a base that his gun was broken and could they please send over another as a replacement. A short time later, a Chinook transport helicopter flew in and dropped a 105 howitzer at the guy’s feet. LOL.

Anyway, I digress (as I often do). We were going to shoot these things that we had learned to love, and clean, over the past weeks.

The 10 k march to the firing range was a bitch, and worthy of its own entry. Once we got there, the Warrant screamed “I want your shelters in parade format. 3 ranks, perfectly straight. If not, then you people will be tearing them down and starting again, only 1 kilometre away. And so on, until you are setting the fuckers up at the H-hut and doing that hump twice a day all week.”

We set them up properly, perfectly straight, the first time.

I did not know what poison ivy looked like. I simply set up my hooch along with the others and set up my sleeping bag. The next morning, I was itchy. I thought that I was hit bad by the mosquitoes during the night, although I had set up my bug bar properly. Was I going to complain? NOT ON YOUR LIFE.
All day, the weather was “Ball Licking Hot” (funny how the beautiful word descriptors don’t always make it into civilian language, unlike everyone and their dog using ‘Good to Go’) and for all out there who have not experienced poison ivy, if you sweat, it makes it waaaaaay worse. I felt like I was being lit on fire. The rash was bad, and all over my body, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Wink, wink.
I went to the medic, and stated simply “I have a rash”.
He stated simply “Poison Ivy. This fucking hellhole is infested with it.”
“What should I do?” I pleaded. I would have done anything. I mean it. Thank god the medic was just a 1 hook private, and I could relax around him. (we were no-hook privates, by contrast.)
He then took out a 1 inch cotton pad and put some pink toothpaste looking stuff on it. “Here, I’ll put some lotion on it and it will go away.”
“Um, ahh, um…” I didn’t really know what to do.
“Just let me see the rash, and I’ll fix it.” This guy was so laid back I thought he was on drugs.
Well, dear reader, I did what you are thinking. I pulled my pants down, and waited for him to administer the lotion. The medic turned around and walked away, shaking his head, and the instructors had some fun at my expense. I eventually got SEVERAL TUBES of the lotion, and I spread it on like a fat kid icing his own cake.

About the fourth or fifth day, the weather was cooking us. Due to “The Water Incident” –see above- we were ordered to drink 1 canteen of water every hour. People complained at first, but then we realized that these water breaks were built-in hourly REST BREAKS. There was much rejoicing, and I felt like a hero for going to the hospital for 3 days. On the firing line, there was something wrong… The instructors were preoccupied with something, talking to each other and generally not screaming as much as they usually did. We all got nervous, but didn’t say anything in case they were just saving their energy up to give it to us double once they had rested up.

I was chatting with someone, cleaning my rifle, when a cold wind (about 30 degrees colder than it was) slapped me across the face. Now, I am an intelligent man, and I had paid attention during science class and watched Nature shows and knew that going from hot to cold like that meant a bad storm or –gasp- a tornado was on its way.

I went over to my section commander and asked “Is that a tornado we’re getting, Master Corporal?”
“WHERE?!?” His eyes bugged out and he looked at me like he was possessed.
“No, I don’t see anything, but that wind…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence when the order came:
“GET THE FUCK IN THE BUNKER!” It was the Warrant. You have to appreciate that he always said things with authority, but this sentence he screamed and I think that God, who is everywhere I hear, got in that fucking bunker with us.

Imagine 45 people in a bunker that was designed to hold a couple of targets and some sandbags. The rain hit bad, so we were soaked in about 5 seconds, and we were sweating all day, so the smell was wonderful. The bunker was about 6 feet tall and about 20 by 20 wide. It was made of concrete from the war era (of course) and I felt really safe. I thought “Boy, this is going to make a great story” instead of “holy shit I hope I live through this”.

The wind was terrible, but nobody screamed or anything like that. On the contrary, people were smoking and joking. We were a team. We would be all right. Our instructors were with us, and they knew EVERYTHING, so they would help us through this. Very cool.

I found out years later from an instructor I met and whom I got extremely drunk the rest of the story:
They knew about the storm. Range Control had told them there was a tornado watch, then warning issued. The Warrants reply? “No one will miss these fuckers if they die.” And we kept on training. The old saying goes, If It Ain’t Rainin’, It Ain’t Trainin’.

BTW, our little tent shelters were fine!! Still there, three ranks, perfectly straight. My sleeping bag was still dry. I never thought that would happen in a million years. Oh well.

And yes, Poison Ivy is worse than a Tornado, provided you have requisite war era concrete bunker.

03-04-2005, 08:05 AM	#15 (permalink)
BigBen Comedian Location: Use the search button	Poison Ivy and The Tornado – which is worse?? On the firing range, things really changed for us. All along, we were pretending to be soldiers, and all of the marching and polishing of shiny things and cleaning barracks could not convince me that I was in the army yet. I was too busy to realize that I was learning lots and that just being in uniform and not looking like a fool was half the battle. Marching out to the Small Arms range changed everything. They were going to give us REAL BULLETS; I know, I know, ROUNDS. The bullet is the thing that flies through the air. The casing or ‘brass’ is what holds the powder and bullet together, and is ejected after firing. If you call a ROUND a BULLET, prepare to get screamed at. By The Way, NEVER CALL YOUR RIFLE A GUN. Just like in the movie ‘Full Metal Jacket’ (Masterpiece of filmmaking by Stanley Kubrick, rent it) where they march back and forth chanting, My experience was different. “What did you call it?” came the scream from an old grizzled sergeant. “A Gun, Sergeant?” came the whimper. “Look over there, shithead.” The Sergeant pointed to a decorative artillery cannon that was one of hundreds sprinkled on the very neatly trimmed lawns around the base, “That is a GUN. You have a RIFLE. When you can properly execute the drill movement ‘Shoulder Arms’ with one of those bad boys, then you can call whatever the fuck you want a gun. Not until then.” Sheesh, these guys are real sticklers for names. The story goes that a guy radioed a base that his gun was broken and could they please send over another as a replacement. A short time later, a Chinook transport helicopter flew in and dropped a 105 howitzer at the guy’s feet. LOL. Anyway, I digress (as I often do). We were going to shoot these things that we had learned to love, and clean, over the past weeks. The 10 k march to the firing range was a bitch, and worthy of its own entry. Once we got there, the Warrant screamed “I want your shelters in parade format. 3 ranks, perfectly straight. If not, then you people will be tearing them down and starting again, only 1 kilometre away. And so on, until you are setting the fuckers up at the H-hut and doing that hump twice a day all week.” We set them up properly, perfectly straight, the first time. I did not know what poison ivy looked like. I simply set up my hooch along with the others and set up my sleeping bag. The next morning, I was itchy. I thought that I was hit bad by the mosquitoes during the night, although I had set up my bug bar properly. Was I going to complain? NOT ON YOUR LIFE. All day, the weather was “Ball Licking Hot” (funny how the beautiful word descriptors don’t always make it into civilian language, unlike everyone and their dog using ‘Good to Go’) and for all out there who have not experienced poison ivy, if you sweat, it makes it waaaaaay worse. I felt like I was being lit on fire. The rash was bad, and all over my body, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Wink, wink. I went to the medic, and stated simply “I have a rash”. He stated simply “Poison Ivy. This fucking hellhole is infested with it.” “What should I do?” I pleaded. I would have done anything. I mean it. Thank god the medic was just a 1 hook private, and I could relax around him. (we were no-hook privates, by contrast.) He then took out a 1 inch cotton pad and put some pink toothpaste looking stuff on it. “Here, I’ll put some lotion on it and it will go away.” “Um, ahh, um…” I didn’t really know what to do. “Just let me see the rash, and I’ll fix it.” This guy was so laid back I thought he was on drugs. Well, dear reader, I did what you are thinking. I pulled my pants down, and waited for him to administer the lotion. The medic turned around and walked away, shaking his head, and the instructors had some fun at my expense. I eventually got SEVERAL TUBES of the lotion, and I spread it on like a fat kid icing his own cake. About the fourth or fifth day, the weather was cooking us. Due to “The Water Incident” –see above- we were ordered to drink 1 canteen of water every hour. People complained at first, but then we realized that these water breaks were built-in hourly REST BREAKS. There was much rejoicing, and I felt like a hero for going to the hospital for 3 days. On the firing line, there was something wrong… The instructors were preoccupied with something, talking to each other and generally not screaming as much as they usually did. We all got nervous, but didn’t say anything in case they were just saving their energy up to give it to us double once they had rested up. I was chatting with someone, cleaning my rifle, when a cold wind (about 30 degrees colder than it was) slapped me across the face. Now, I am an intelligent man, and I had paid attention during science class and watched Nature shows and knew that going from hot to cold like that meant a bad storm or –gasp- a tornado was on its way. I went over to my section commander and asked “Is that a tornado we’re getting, Master Corporal?” “WHERE?!?” His eyes bugged out and he looked at me like he was possessed. “No, I don’t see anything, but that wind…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence when the order came: “GET THE FUCK IN THE BUNKER!” It was the Warrant. You have to appreciate that he always said things with authority, but this sentence he screamed and I think that God, who is everywhere I hear, got in that fucking bunker with us. Imagine 45 people in a bunker that was designed to hold a couple of targets and some sandbags. The rain hit bad, so we were soaked in about 5 seconds, and we were sweating all day, so the smell was wonderful. The bunker was about 6 feet tall and about 20 by 20 wide. It was made of concrete from the war era (of course) and I felt really safe. I thought “Boy, this is going to make a great story” instead of “holy shit I hope I live through this”. The wind was terrible, but nobody screamed or anything like that. On the contrary, people were smoking and joking. We were a team. We would be all right. Our instructors were with us, and they knew EVERYTHING, so they would help us through this. Very cool. I found out years later from an instructor I met and whom I got extremely drunk the rest of the story: They knew about the storm. Range Control had told them there was a tornado watch, then warning issued. The Warrants reply? “No one will miss these fuckers if they die.” And we kept on training. The old saying goes, If It Ain’t Rainin’, It Ain’t Trainin’. BTW, our little tent shelters were fine!! Still there, three ranks, perfectly straight. My sleeping bag was still dry. I never thought that would happen in a million years. Oh well. And yes, Poison Ivy is worse than a Tornado, provided you have requisite war era concrete bunker. __________________ 3.141592654 Hey, if you are impressed with my memorizing pi to 10 digits, you should see the size of my penis.