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BigBen · 03-11-2005, 02:13 PM

Hey, you big guys have it easy…

We were doing some pretty serious training back in the day. The weekly schedule for PT looked like this:

Monday / Wednesday / Friday: 15km (10 mile) run. PT gear (shorts/t-shirt)
Tuesday: 15 k Fighting Order March. Webbing, weapon, helmet, boots.
Thursday: 15k Rucksack March. Fighting order plus a 35kg (80lb) backpack with your kit.
Saturday: Sports. Floor Hockey usually, but soccer and softball when we wanted.
Sunday: Rest.

I am not the fastest guy in the world, and I prided myself on keeping in the middle of the pack. I was not trying to be a star, I was trying to survive and carry on with my job. I was in killer shape (pun not intended). One of the smaller guys was complaining, saying that the 35kg weight requirement was unfair. If BigBen is 240 pounds and Smith is 160 pounds, and they both need to carry 80 pounds, then isn’t Smith working 50% harder than BigBen? I didn’t see the logic, and thought that Smith was being a whiner. “Just shut-up and do your job.” Was my reply.

Well, Smith (not his real name) did not like the tone in my voice, and took offence. He then went to the Master Warrant officer (1 higher than a Warrant. YOU DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO THIS GUY. If you see him coming, run. Or start working REAL hard.) and relayed the same logic. The MWO was small in stature as well, and loved the idea.

He immediately proclaimed that the next Ruck march would be held to a new standard: Half of the soldier’s body weight. I was 110 kg, and therefore I needed to bump the weight in my ruck by 20 kg. I had every piece of kit I owned on my back and the Warrant had me step on the scale, and then he handed me my ruck.
“BigBen, are you trying to cheat me? Why in the fuck is your ruck not half your weight?” he screamed.
“No Warrant, I can’t make it any more full. That’s as heavy as I can pack it.” I was not kidding. I had packed it full.
He came back with 3 sandbags and a shovel. “Here, fill your ruck with this. I suggest wet sand. It’s heavier.” Aw, fuck.
While I ran to fill my ruck with sand, the Warrant continued to weigh soldiers, and then their rucks. I got 55 kg of sand on my back. It was not pleasant.

About half way through the march, my shin muscles started to burn. My body was in pain, but my shins were killing me. I started to drag my toes, and I stumbled and fell over. The weight of the ruck on my back landed on top of me. I heard a crack.
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK…” I wasn’t crying, yet tears were coming out of my eyes. I was having problems getting to my feet. Someone came over, took my ruck off my back, and tried to get me to stand up. I got to my feet, but I couldn’t stay standing. I just kept falling over.
“Just leave me, man, I don’t want you to get into trouble…” I was halfway into the ditch, and I saw more and more people pass me. My buddy just told me, “fuck this man, I can’t carry that pack any further myself. I might as well stay here and help you.”

He flagged down the Warrant and then they both came back to where I was.
“You fucking quitting on me?” was the Warrants reply.
“I can’t stand up Warrant. I tried. My feet aren’t working properly.” I was broken. I knew it. There was no point in trying to play the tough guy role.
“I’ll get the medic.” He said, and got the radio.

Well, it seems the medics had a very busy day that day. It looked like a war-zone at the base hospital. They were concerned about the feeling in my feet, and sent me into the city to a real Emergency Room. Me and about 25 others.

One guy’s shoulder straps cut into his neck, and he was bleeding badly. Another guy couldn’t feel his arms. Lots of people rolled over on their ankles, some tore their ACL’s, one guy pinched a nerve in his back and lost control of his bowels. That shit smell was real pleasant to ride into town with. No one made fun of him though. We were in too much pain to make fun. This was real serious.

It ended up that my shin muscles had ruptured, and the swelling had pinched a nerve that controlled the feet. No permanent damage, but I needed surgery. Other guys didn’t do as well. A couple had to take a medical release, and the guy who couldn’t feel his arms ended up having severe nerve damage. Morale was very, very low.

The MWO who had the great idea? We never heard from him again. This is the only time that has ever happened, in all my years. You see, the Army loves to make its punishments very public to show everyone what will happen if you screw up. You are put on display, as an example. This guy? I asked someone, “What happened to MWO ___?”
The reply came as a whisper, “I don’t know man. We aren’t supposed to talk about it.” And that was it. No rumours. No grapevine. It was if he had never existed.

I don’t hold any grudges against the guy. He didn’t realize the consequences of his orders. I hope he got a pension or something, if they forced him to retire. It was a bad mistake, and I can only imagine the guilt he felt.

That which does not kill you, makes you stronger. (and will definitely leave a scar. But you get to tell a story about it.)

03-11-2005, 02:13 PM	#45 (permalink)
BigBen Comedian Location: Use the search button	Hey, you big guys have it easy… We were doing some pretty serious training back in the day. The weekly schedule for PT looked like this: Monday / Wednesday / Friday: 15km (10 mile) run. PT gear (shorts/t-shirt) Tuesday: 15 k Fighting Order March. Webbing, weapon, helmet, boots. Thursday: 15k Rucksack March. Fighting order plus a 35kg (80lb) backpack with your kit. Saturday: Sports. Floor Hockey usually, but soccer and softball when we wanted. Sunday: Rest. I am not the fastest guy in the world, and I prided myself on keeping in the middle of the pack. I was not trying to be a star, I was trying to survive and carry on with my job. I was in killer shape (pun not intended). One of the smaller guys was complaining, saying that the 35kg weight requirement was unfair. If BigBen is 240 pounds and Smith is 160 pounds, and they both need to carry 80 pounds, then isn’t Smith working 50% harder than BigBen? I didn’t see the logic, and thought that Smith was being a whiner. “Just shut-up and do your job.” Was my reply. Well, Smith (not his real name) did not like the tone in my voice, and took offence. He then went to the Master Warrant officer (1 higher than a Warrant. YOU DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO THIS GUY. If you see him coming, run. Or start working REAL hard.) and relayed the same logic. The MWO was small in stature as well, and loved the idea. He immediately proclaimed that the next Ruck march would be held to a new standard: Half of the soldier’s body weight. I was 110 kg, and therefore I needed to bump the weight in my ruck by 20 kg. I had every piece of kit I owned on my back and the Warrant had me step on the scale, and then he handed me my ruck. “BigBen, are you trying to cheat me? Why in the fuck is your ruck not half your weight?” he screamed. “No Warrant, I can’t make it any more full. That’s as heavy as I can pack it.” I was not kidding. I had packed it full. He came back with 3 sandbags and a shovel. “Here, fill your ruck with this. I suggest wet sand. It’s heavier.” Aw, fuck. While I ran to fill my ruck with sand, the Warrant continued to weigh soldiers, and then their rucks. I got 55 kg of sand on my back. It was not pleasant. About half way through the march, my shin muscles started to burn. My body was in pain, but my shins were killing me. I started to drag my toes, and I stumbled and fell over. The weight of the ruck on my back landed on top of me. I heard a crack. “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK…” I wasn’t crying, yet tears were coming out of my eyes. I was having problems getting to my feet. Someone came over, took my ruck off my back, and tried to get me to stand up. I got to my feet, but I couldn’t stay standing. I just kept falling over. “Just leave me, man, I don’t want you to get into trouble…” I was halfway into the ditch, and I saw more and more people pass me. My buddy just told me, “fuck this man, I can’t carry that pack any further myself. I might as well stay here and help you.” He flagged down the Warrant and then they both came back to where I was. “You fucking quitting on me?” was the Warrants reply. “I can’t stand up Warrant. I tried. My feet aren’t working properly.” I was broken. I knew it. There was no point in trying to play the tough guy role. “I’ll get the medic.” He said, and got the radio. Well, it seems the medics had a very busy day that day. It looked like a war-zone at the base hospital. They were concerned about the feeling in my feet, and sent me into the city to a real Emergency Room. Me and about 25 others. One guy’s shoulder straps cut into his neck, and he was bleeding badly. Another guy couldn’t feel his arms. Lots of people rolled over on their ankles, some tore their ACL’s, one guy pinched a nerve in his back and lost control of his bowels. That shit smell was real pleasant to ride into town with. No one made fun of him though. We were in too much pain to make fun. This was real serious. It ended up that my shin muscles had ruptured, and the swelling had pinched a nerve that controlled the feet. No permanent damage, but I needed surgery. Other guys didn’t do as well. A couple had to take a medical release, and the guy who couldn’t feel his arms ended up having severe nerve damage. Morale was very, very low. The MWO who had the great idea? We never heard from him again. This is the only time that has ever happened, in all my years. You see, the Army loves to make its punishments very public to show everyone what will happen if you screw up. You are put on display, as an example. This guy? I asked someone, “What happened to MWO ___?” The reply came as a whisper, “I don’t know man. We aren’t supposed to talk about it.” And that was it. No rumours. No grapevine. It was if he had never existed. I don’t hold any grudges against the guy. He didn’t realize the consequences of his orders. I hope he got a pension or something, if they forced him to retire. It was a bad mistake, and I can only imagine the guilt he felt. That which does not kill you, makes you stronger. (and will definitely leave a scar. But you get to tell a story about it.) __________________ 3.141592654 Hey, if you are impressed with my memorizing pi to 10 digits, you should see the size of my penis.