I Work for the D-N-D, Oy! Oy!
 

Get it? The TNT Song by ACDC?!?

Anyhoo, I wanted to start this so that people can learn a little about the wonderful Canadian Armed Forces (CF, or DND "Department of National Defence")

Step 1: I will be posting my memoires, little stories I have written that are 100% true. I've been in the CF for 11 years and 10 months (C'mon, CD get here you cruel bitch)

Step 2: I will try and answer the questions TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY. I am not a Public Affairs Officer (Paffo) and therefore your questions will be answered honestly and brutally.

Step 3: I will no longer be haunted at night with feelings of being a LURKER on TFP.

Caveat - No, I will not tell you what unit I am in. If my chain found out I am posting non-vetted materiel, I would be charged. Not in my best interests.

Warning - Anyone who has enough time on their hands to reply to this thread by bashing the CF also has enough time to volunteer for a charitable organization. If you are going to flame my team, at the end of the post you must give a one sentence explanation of what you are doing besides taking up oxygen and bandwidth. If you are going to sing it, bring it.

1993: Basic Training:
1. Showing up to Battle School, we were not even off the bus yet. A pleasant looking guy (in uniform, I had no idea what his rank was yet)got on the bus and slowly made his way to the back, pausing frequently to ask individuals if they had a nice trip, how they were feeling, et cetera. At the instant he arrived to the very back of the Greyhound, he exploded. I mean he just snapped.
“GET THE FUCK OFF OF THIS BUS!” he roared, veins popping out of his neck, his face past the red stage and into the purple.
We paused, wondering what could possibly have possessed someone to turn from nice guy to bad guy so quickly. The pause was short lived and survival instinct kicked in. We got the fuck off of that bus. At least we tried. Unbeknownst to us, there was an accomplice at the front door to the bus who was screaming “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? YOU AREN”T GETTING OFF HERE! GET BACK ON THE BUS!” The ensuing sardine-can / doggy pile was funny only to the two ring-masters.

What you do, kick a window out? :)

I once did a voice-over for a couple of DND recruiting films...

That's about as close as I've ever come to joining the military... My uncle was a Sargeant Major in the Airborne and his son is in the JT2... he was in the group that got bombed by the Americans.

I look forward to reading your stories.

BigBen, Sounds like a fun thread. In one of my previous lives, I did a 2 month stint in the Naval SYEP.. Around the same time as you were enjoying basic. It was a lot of fun - but enough experiences like your story convinced me that the forces were not for me.

Naw, I didn't kick a window out, I was busy being crushed by the front and back. After the novelty wore off, they let us off the bus.

Then the fun really hit.

2. Once off of the bus, the wind hit us like a freight train. We were in a windstorm, which was fitting as we were being abused by everything else, so why not the elements as well? We were told to line up, single file. We did so as fast as we could. (For the rest of my basic training stories, please insert that phrase after every verb…) A very impressive and imposing man stood facing the line, and proceeded to scream instructions at us. To truly appreciate the situation, the feeling was that these were critically important instructions to our survival. The windstorm was making it very difficult to hear the instructions unless he was facing in my direction. He would only do so occasionally, however, and the disconnected phrases were scaring me.
“Listen up, because I am only going to say this once…”
“…Whatever you do, always remember these 3 things…”
“…And finally, number 3 is Keep your rifle with you except when an Instructor…”
“… If I ever catch one of you fuckers trying to …”
And so on until I was beside myself with fear. He finally started calling out names, and when your name was called, you immediately ran off to the left, grabbed your luggage (kit) and proceeded to be yelled at by a different group of instructors. One person to my left name was called, but they didn’t hear. The mean man called again, this time with a tone of hatred. The poor person heard this time, and yelled out “YES SIR!”
The mean man ran over to our part of the line. “Did you just call me sir?!”
“Yes, umm, ahh, sir?” came the sheepish reply.
“I work for a living, goddamnit. You will address me as Master Corporal. Am I clear?” he spit as he screamed.
“Yes Master Corporal.” He whispered.

The mean Master Corporal then called out another name. The reply was “YES SIR!”
“HOLY SHIT, what is wrong with you people?!” (the problem was that no one could understand anything in that damn wind)
My name was soon called after that. I screamed at the top of my lungs “YES MASTER CORPORAL!” not for his benefit, but for that of the people around me. The Master Corporal smiled at me. I am sure the thought I was a keen soldier. I was just scared. Through and through.

Brings back memories of St Jean! Sorry I am too young to have gone to Cornwallis.
good times, good times.

3. My bunk-mate, Steve, will come up in my tales time and again. We were ushered into a classroom and were told to sit down. In front of us was a stack of paperwork. New to the military, it looked very impressive. Little check boxes and other busy lists, explanations as to how to fill out the form correctly, and number sequences and acronyms that came from a different language. This language? Militareeze. Someone at the front of the room told us to fill out the forms. We did so.
When things were being collected, the Warrant officer stopped and started calling names: “Private Jones!”
“Yes Sir!” came the reply. See the story above for the fallout that ensued. We learned to call him ‘Warrant’.
“Private Steve!” he bellowed.
Steve answered correctly. “Yes Warrant!”
“You have to be shitting me. Your name is Steve?”
“Yes Warrant!”
“YOUR LAST NAME IS STEVE?!” Again, there was a color to his face that was past the red stage and into the purple and blue.
“No Warrant, Steve is my first name.”
“Then tell me why the fuck you put that name above the line that says ‘Last Name’!”
“I got confused, Warrant.” Steve was visibly shaken by this point.
“If anyone else made mistakes on their paperwork, now is the time to correct them. I am not in a good mood today.” We all were visibly shaken at this point.
Private Steve was not having a very good first day in the army.

Please keep up the storytelling. Those of us who have not been in the armed forces can enjoy reading them without the pain of experiencing them.

hahahaha poor steve.

I'm really enjoying these stories. Keep em up!

4. In the classroom, we were given an overview of the training schedule. I promptly forgot everything that was being said. All I cared about was not screwing up. The things that were being said did not seem important. I did not know anyone yet, save my three roommates. We were jarred back to reality when an important person came into the room, and the Warrant called the room to attention. (This is achieved by bellowing ‘Room!’ as fast and loud as you can) There was a brief discussion with the people in charge, and then with the coldest, cruellest voice, the Warrant yelled:

“Is there a Private _______ here?” (I don’t remember the name. It was too soon to remember that. And a sense of shock, as you will soon see)
“YES WARRANT!” was the confident reply.
“YOUR FIANCE WAS KILLED IN A HEAD-ON CAR ACCIDENT THIS MORNING. DO YOU WANT TO CONTINUE THIS TRAINING?”
A weak voice replied “whaaaat?”
(Instant repeat of the previous statement, with no change in timber or tempo)
At this point, the young man started talking gibberish, and was literally pulled out of his chair and into the hall. We never saw him again. Later, someone said that he saw a girl drop him off at the Armouries. What did this do to our mindset? It scared the shit out of me, for one. Think about it. These people have no emotion. They have no regard for YOUR emotion. I have just met someone who could deliver news like that, and therefore he must be tough as nails. Who would do that to someone? There was one guarantee: They do not care about you. If you die here, there will be no tears shed. Pass, Fail, Quit, it does not matter. These guys are killers.

5. There was a chin-up bar painted Fire Engine Red between the two sides of the H-hut barracks. Passing underneath it extracted a 10 chin-up toll. I could only do 5 or 7 chin-ups at a time. The penalty for this crime was variable; when we were on a short break between lectures, we would line up for the water fountain and a lack of requisite chin-ups was a return to the back of the line. At other times, a simple screaming was in order. It seemed as though there was an instructor stationed at all times by that god forsaken bar, and my failure to produce 10 chin-ups was constant shame. I felt as if I was the only one who could not perform this task.
A couple of weeks into training they ramped up the physical requirements measurably. Our runs seemed to go on forever. We were running one morning and I passed out. It started as a stitch in my side, but grew to a full cramp. My vision got blurry, and then a tunnel formed and there were stars. The pain went away, thank god, but I woke up in the base hospital. The doctor loomed over me, and the first thing he said was “What is your name, son?”
I answered simply, Last Name, Service Number.
He laughed, looked at the staff and quipped “You guys must run a tight ship over there for this kid to forget his first name…”
The instructors smiled, beaming like proud parents. All of my staff were there, Warrant, Course Officer, Master Corporal and Sargeant.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“No sir, I just remember running down the road.”
“You passed out of heat exhaustion. We pumped 2 litres of fluid into you. Marathon runners need about 1 ½ litres to recover. You were pretty messed up.” There was concern in his voice, like something was wrong and he was looking for me to fill him in. I had no idea what was going on, which led to an innocent disclosure of the damning facts.
He looked me in the eye, and I saw the rank on his shoulder. He was a major, easily the highest ranking person I had spoken to yet. We saluted them when we walked past them as a group, but I never thought I would be speaking to one…
“When was the last time you took a piss?”
“I don’t remember sir.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”
“Maybe a couple of days ago.”
“A COUPLE OF DAYS? What are you talking about? How much fluids have you been drinking?”
“I have juice and milk with my meals.” I said shyly. Was I not allowed to have juice?
“What about water?” he commanded.
“I’m not allowed to drink water. I can’t do 10 chin-ups.” I hated that damn red bar. I still do.
“What in the fuck are you talking about?” He truly did not understand what I was saying. I might as well have been speaking a different language.
I told him about that horrible piece of metal, and how every time I tried to get a drink of water, I was banished by an instructor. The instructors’ proud parental smiles gave way to a look of concern. Why was their child saying these things?
“YOU,” The doctor pointed at all the staff, “GET OUT.”
The doctor then proceeded to walk me through the whole story, forward and back, until he realized that they were killing us slowly with the water rationing.
Well, the shit hit the fan, and hard. I was not allowed to go back to the troop until I could eat a meal, so the doctor could rule out any bad problems with my digestive system. What is worse than Hospital food? Army food. What is worse than Army food? ARMY HOSPITAL FOOD. I simply could not keep it down. I took a bite, swallowed, and threw up. It was horrible. I spent three days in the base hospital trying to get out. Finally, the Warrant came into the room, and talked with me, alone. I remember the concern on his face. He seemed human, and genuinely interested in me as a person.
(I found out later that if I would have stayed in the hospital one more day, they would have had to kick me off the course for missing too much training. If they kicked me off the course, there would need to be an investigation. If there was an investigation, all of the instructors would have been charged for the little ‘water rationing’ incident)
“What is wrong, Troop? Do you want to quit?” he asked.
“No Warrant, I want to join you guys, but they won’t let me go.”
“Why not?”
“Because they say I have to eat something.” I was looking down at the covered plate of ARMY HOSPITAL food in front of me, trying to find a way out of this situation.
“Then fucking eat something.” Everything was black and white to that man, I swear.
“I can’t.” and with that, I pulled the lid back on the food tray.
“Holy Christ….” The Warrant gasped. He quickly composed himself, and said, “If you could have anything to eat, what would it be? Anything at all…”
I gave my food order as fast as I could. “Double-Quarter-Pounder-Meal-from-McDonalds-Supersized-with-coke-to-drink…”
“Get dressed son, I’ll be right back.” He marched out the door.
By the time I dressed, he was back, and a nurse was in tow.
“I am taking this man with me. Release him.” He said to her.
“I can’t do that without doctor’s orders.” She said, trying to impose her authority on a man who could look god in the eye.
“Then fucking get him.” He said, without changing expression. He had made up his mind that I was going back to barracks with him, and no one was about to stop him. I don’t think the doctor could have done anything either.
I was in no mood for niceties; I was eating like a soldier who hasn’t eaten in three days. I demolished that burger, and was finishing the fries when the doctor came in the room.
“He’s coming with me.” The Warrant said.
“Fair enough.” The doctor realized this was not a battle he could win.

Wow, I'm glad I wandered into this thread to figure out what the headline meant. This thread doesn't deserve to be buried in a Regional forum. Fascinating writing, BigBen!
I didn't get it until I read that. For some reason, the "Oy! Oy!" came across as an English drinking song. Probably just me, though.

Shit BigBen... that is some story... I am loving this thread.

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.

"Like a fat kid icing his own cake"
That really makes me laugh....

thought you guys would like that one. I do have a way with words, Eh Cierah?

Yeah, man you do. These are some really well done stories though. Very amusing. You can definatly tell that you are old school though because none of this shite happens on course now. Mine was easy-peasy compared to this stuff.

Ever thought of writing a book when/if you leave the DND?

Genius yes, Book, no
 

That was why I originally put these thoughts on the screen. People would gather around and listen to "The old guy" tell his stories. SOME PEOPLE ACCUSE ME OF BEING "OLD SCHOOL".

I have a very unique way of telling stories, with lots of dialogue and such. Someone mentioned that they would love to read my memoires, and as a therapy kind of thing I just sat down and started writing.

BTW, I am only 29. I only feel old in the army when I see those fresh 17 year-old faces.

I really don't think these are of any worth to publish, so when I saw this forum, I took guilty pleasure in submitting them. Now you guys are just stroking my ego.

If I was a cat, I'd be purring.

Then again, if I was a dog, I'd probably be humping your leg...

Thanks for the compliment.

I really believe that there is a book in this somehow.

No kidding. No ego stroking.

...and no humping.

Exploding roads and safety barriers:
 

We were teaching soldiers the finer points in creating obstacles to hinder the enemies movement. An Abatee is created by blowing up trees on each side of the road and having them fall onto each other, creating a pick-up-stick mess with 30 foot logs. It is lots of fun when you do it, but a lot of work, too.

A crater is more simple. You drill a hole in the ground, put some C-4 in. Blow up the C-4. You have created a small air poacket under the ground, since c-4 is a high explosive and the concussion is so great that it creates a pocket instead of a crater. You then fill that pocket with a medium explosive, Trigran (or rabbit shit, what we called it because of its pellet appearance) and then set that off. You get a big monster crater that looks like a 10,000 pound bomb went off. The medium explosive pushes and lifts the soil, instead of shocking and compacting like C-4. You do this about 3 or 4 times along 200m stratch of road, and you have denied that road to your enemy. Tanks can’t even navigate those holes (yeah, but they just drive around them…).

We were blowing up a road, and doing a damned fine job of it too, when the dump truck came with a load of backfill to fill the holes we were about to create. It was going to take the guy 50 trips to fill these holes, and he showed up early to get a good start. Unfortunately, the craters were not made yet. The explosives were set, the fuses placed, and the burn cord lit… we were waiting for the BOOM to happen, in about 3 minutes.

The dump truck operator asked where the craters were, and a Sergeant told him where they were GOING TO BE, and a mis-communication occurred. That driver then proceeded to DRIVE DOWN THAT ROAD. I was watching the charges, waiting for them to go off. You can imagine my surprise when a dump truck goes barrelling past me and into the impact area. We had set up wooden barriers (those road construction ones) across the road, but they were not long enough, so we got orange surveyors tape and strung that between the two barriers. The dump truck hit that tape at about 50 k/hr, like he was crossing a finish line or something. I was in shock.

In less than 2 minutes, that road was going to disappear, along with any dump truck that was on top of it. The sergeant screamed “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” and chased after the truck, but as it sped away, the sergeant stopped at my truck. “Go after that truck!”
“Fucking pardon me?” was my reply.
“He’s going to die, we have to stop him!” The sergeant had lost all sense of self-preservation. “Give me the keys, I’LL GO AFTER HIM…” he was foaming at the mouth.
“I am not going to let you kill yourself, no way.” I was not going to let him do this.

When I woke up, I was on the ground and my truck was screaming down the road that was soon to be not-a-road. My jaw hurt. I was dizzy.

1 minute and 20 seconds later (I counted) both my truck and the dump truck came barrelling back towards the safety area, at about 130 k/hr. Like some kind of John Woo movie, I saw the road explode behind them, with a shower of dirt spraying over the vehicles. The two trucks were locked in some kind of death race, both drivers eyes were wide, and I think the driver of the dump truck was screaming. Either that or his open mouth was just in shock. I couldn’t hear, because everything was blowing up.

It looked fucking cool though.

”They should put THAT in a recruiting video” I thought.

Note to self: When blowing up a road, use something more substantial than surveyors tape as a safety barrier.

Wow... great stories...

What can I say that everyone else hasn't said before? I am loving these stories so far. I hope you have many more, because this is easily some of the most entertaining story telling I have ever read.

They say a book, but I say nay! A movie! This is fantastically amusing.

Tear Gas and an Angry Bull
 

or: Who Would win, a Warrant Officer or 1500kg Black Angus?

Oh, how quickly people forget their roots. I was stationed with a training cell, and we were tasked with teaching basic training to officers. Lots of fun…

When they would slow down and generally fuck up, out comes the tear gas; it is called CS Gas, and is several times more potent than the stuff that they hit civilians with in riots. (If you see a rioter that is unaffected by tear gas, ask them what unit they served with) We absolutely brutalized those poor people. I often felt sorry for them, and then I would remember MY BASIC training and all pity would be forgotten. We used so much tear gas, we used the old transport containers as lawn furniture. I would hear “Lazy fuckers… hey Ben, hand me some wake-up pills” and I would give the Master Corporal about half dozen CS canisters. Sheesh

Anyway, I was the only guy from the prairies, and was hounded continuously. Yes, my family are farmers. Yes, I know my way around farm machinery. NO, I am not a farmer (not that there is anything wrong with that). The training area we were in was also a PFRA pasture (Prairie Farm Rehabilitation Association) where cattle would be released to graze on the grass in the training area. No big deal.

One day, we were getting the soldiers to set up a stage 3 concertina wire obstacle. Lots of swearing and cursing, LOTS of concertina wire (not razor wire, but close) and hammering, pulling, tying together et cetera. People were getting tired, and the gas came out.
“If you people can’t move your fat asses now, maybe you’ll work harder with your gas masks on…” And off they would go. I stood upwind and had a cigarette, not caring about things. Until I saw the BULL.
He was massive, and one of the most impressive creatures I had seen. Easily 1500kg, pure black, all muscle, and more importantly, a very pissed off look to his eye. Oh shit.

“Hey look guys, a cow has come to check things out…” one of the BC boys said.
“Um, guys, that’s not a cow…” I replied. No one was paying any attention to me.
“Cool, lets see if we can scare the troops with this little fella…” one of the Newfies said…
“Um, hey guys. I think maybe we should just…” I understood what goes through a bull’s head. Territory and sex. If we were in his territory, we might try to fuck his cows too. HE WOULD NOT LET THAT HAPPEN. I was raised with a healthy fear of bulls as a child, and now that fear was in full force. Why wasn’t anyone listening to me? Oh, yeah, I had forgot. I was the lowest ranking soldier for the nearest 100km.

The bull lowered its head. It was on the other side of the 6 foot wall of concertina wire. I think that instilled a false sense of security in my colleagues. I knew that bull would come straight through that wire and the scratches would only piss him off more. I started to back up toward my truck. I kept my eye on the bull.

I don’t know who said it, but someone had a particularly stupid idea. “Let’s gas it.”

About 3 canisters were thrown at the bull, over the wire and upwind of it. I immediately put my gas mask on. It took no longer than 7 seconds for me to see the following:

The bull collapsed. It laid on its side, all 4 legs sticking out, and was convulsing badly. It then proceeded to throw up 3 of its 4 stomachs. All the while, the most hideous noise in the world was coming from it. Kind of a honking screaming groan, a very low base voice shaking the ground under my feet. I almost threw up having sympathy nausea. Everyone laughed, thinking that they sure had taught that stupid animal a lesson. Don’t mess with us, we’ll fuck you right up.

I ran over to the Warrant officer who was standing by and laughing and screamed “What is so funny? What do you think that thing is going to do when the gas wears off? Send us a fucking apology note? It is going to kill every last person standing here. WE HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW…”

I would like to think it was my forceful tone and charm that made the Warrant appreciate the gravity of the situation, but instead I think it was logic and the memory that I was the only one who knew anything about these animals. He became very concerned.

“You think it will charge us when it gets up?” he asked, still not convinced.
“No, there will be no charging. He will just fucking gore us, stomp us and kick our teeth into the back of our skulls. Charging happens when his territory is challenged. When he’s pissed, he just kills things.” And for good measure, I added, “Fuck this, I’m leaving.”

Everyone became very concerned at that moment, and the laughing stopped. People ripped down that obstacle as fast as humanly possible, all the time looking over their shoulder to see if Fluffy was going to wake up. I did what I said I would. I got my gear, loaded my truck, and got the fuck out of there.

I feel sorry for that animal, and think that bad karma followed me for a while for not doing anything to stop that production. I asked the Range Control guys if any farmer complained about their cattle, and they said no, everything was okay. That made me feel a little bit better, but I still think of the noise that that poor bull made that day. Horrible.

These are great stories. Absolutely entertaining!

Man, BigBen... my story telling skills can't compete! A lot of your stories are oh-so-similar to my own, and yeah, it's funny... but you have quite a knack for telling them. Military stories really are the best!

Yeah, I have lots to tell.

The people I have served with, the shit I've pulled, the close calls I've had. Its a miracle I'm still alive.

Everyone has a story to tell, I guess.

As far as a movie goes, I want to be played by Colin Farrell. I dunno. His Oscar worthy performances in such classics as "Phone Booth" and "Alexander" just speak to me on a different level. :confused:

Keep the great stories coming, BigBen. Very entertaining style. :thumbsup:

BigBen931, These are well-told, excellent and entertaining stories! I can't wait to read more of them, if you're content to keep sharing! Thanks!

awesome stories man!

im definently gonna have to keep an eye on this thread

these remind me of Readers Digest. they're nice, entertaining stories.
thanks for posting them.

First day on the job...
 

Oddly enough, our experiences are similar. I'm a member of the US Army National Guard, and though we are not full-time soldiers, we go through the same training as regular army (mostly with regular army personnel).

Army Basic Combat Training (Basic) was quite a wild ride. We spent the first week or so in a reception battalion. While we got our shots, exams, filled out paperwork, recevied our uniforms and the like, Drill Sergeants were prepping us (or so we thought) for what was to come. Our biggest challenge as new recruits? Leading off a march in step. DS Slaughter (real name) once told us, "If you pieces of shit don't all lead off with an 18" step when I say march, I'm gonna fly through this formation and punch you in the fucking eye!" We thought that was hardcore, but we had no idea...

When that fateful day came, we all loaded on the cattle truck (actual modified cattle trucks are a common form of transportation at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri). During our trek "down range" our new DS' began informing us of our chain of command:

"You are now H Company, 35th Engineers. Your Senior Drill Sergeant is Drill Sergeant Anderson. Your company First Sergeant is First Sergeant (something). Your company Commander is Captain Bright"... and so on and so forth. When we stopped, the friendly DS says, "Private (so-and-so), who is your First Sergeant?"

*blank stare*

"Private. did I not just tell you who the hell your company First Sergeant was?"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

"Then why the hell will you not tell me his name? Are you that gopddamned disrespectful that you do not recall the names of your chain of command?"

"Negative, Drill Sergeant, I ..."

"Get your sorry ass off the truck! Private (so-and-so), who is your First Sergeant?"

This went on for a few soldiers before we were being literally ripped from the truck and pushed outside. We had to assemble in a large gymnasium for "shake down" where we dumped all of our equipment *neatly* into a pile in front of us, and then were screamed at to do push-ups, sort our equipment, put it back NEATLY into our duffles, do more push ups and why the fuck were we looking at the female Drill Sergeant? Did we like her? Did we want to ask her out? "Not a fucking chance private! Don't look my battle buddy in the eyes!"

It was quite a day...

Crack Thumping… Why am I learning this again?
 

Thanks guys. Any questions you ever had about what it's REALLY Like, instead of that Hollywood shit? Send, Over...

Anyway, next story:

As part of peacekeeper training, one must undergo “Crack-Thump” training. Before you perverts get carried away, here is an overview:
1. You dig a hole, and call it a trench.
2. You dig that hole as if your life depended on it, and not some half-assed effort like you do when they are making you dig trenches for the ‘fun of it’.
3. You put OHP (Over Head Protection) including sandbags and dirt over that hole.
4. The staff then shoots at you, with different sorts of weaponry, and you listen to the distinctive noises that each type of weapon makes.

I bet you thought that there were only a few types of noises, right? If you are an A-Team fan, you thought that an M-16 sounded just like a Mini-14. If you enjoy Vietnam movies, you might think that there was one rate of fire on machine guns. (Editors note: YES, machine guns are called that, and not ‘Machine Rifles’. I don’t know why) The truth is simple and logical. In order to get true sounds onto a movie or TV soundtrack, you would have to perform a “Crack-Thump” demonstration on the poor sonofabitch sound guy, and that would require a permit to shoot live rounds over the head of the poor sonofabitch.

In reality, there are HUNDREDS of unique sounds that can emanate from the business end of a killing machine. The sound the bullet makes as it travels (hopefully) over your head is called the CRACK, due to the bullet breaking the sound barrier. The THUMP is the sound of the weapon firing, and that sound takes time to reach your ears. There is also the sound of the action cycling, the rate of firing, the echo off of hills or buildings, and other small things that can tell information about where the bad things are coming from.

Well, if you listen closely, you can accurately determine:
who is shooting, where they are, if they are shooting at you or just around you, and how determined they are to kill you.
If they are shooting in celebration for a cease-fire being declared (YES, people actually do this in some cultures) and you as a soldier call up the artillery and turn them into a pink mist in retaliation, the cease-fire may not be as long as the Generals and heads of state were planning.

This brings me to my training. Getting fucking shot at, ON PURPOSE, with all manner of weapons.

50 cal., AK-47, C-7, 9mm, FN C-1, C-9 (M-249 SAW), all went over my head. They had it arranged that the firing would be in different directions, and at one point, they drove a guy across the range so we could hear what it was like if the firing was also moving.

I was not thinking, BOY, what valuable training! I was thinking, FUCK, I want out of here!

I also learned that a hole can be a very safe and comfortable place to live, given the external environment was hostile enough.

After they had scared the living shit out of us, they then lined us up and showed us what the weapons can do to different types of cover.
Cinderblock walls (1,2 and 3 deep)
Sandbag walls (1,2 and 3 deep)
Railroad ties (1,2 and 3 deep)
And the almighty House Wall, the fortress of Hollywood.

The only thing to stand up to any punishment was the sandbags. Everything else was decimated. I felt sick. The 50 cal didn’t even slow down through everything else. An old Sergeant spoke up, “and watch your fucking background (what is behind your target) ladies, (he meant that term as an insult, even though there were female soldiers present) because when you shoot some poor shit’s family through his house wall, he will definitely join the enemies side and rape you before he kills you.”

I was feeling the urge to get drunk. Very fucking drunk.

Oh, and the answer is yes, you do get used to it...

:lol: Fantastico.

More! More! Encore!
You're style has me hooked. Type until your fingers bleed, please! It's for our entertainment.
Did you indeed learn to decipher all those different sounds? I'm on the edge of my seat.

yeah i have to say, i'm fascinated by this.
it's like a whole other world.

Okay, so I am an evil person but I have this desire to say something bad about Ben's stories - only damn - I can't do it. You guys are going to give this guy a swelled head (ohe what? too late?). Regardless, the stories are very interesting and enjoyable...

Crack Thump training sounds like it would be interesting... I've only come close twice:

1. During our demo ranges, we've occasionally been quizzed on what type/weight of explosive was used both by sound and by resulting crater with regard to the type of soil.

2. An errant blackhawk landing NEAR an unused helipad that resulted in cracks and thumps of stones and pebbles splattering against people (and the food on the grill).

Winter Indoctrination in the CANADIAN ARMY:

Or: You think you are cold? Shut up. Never say that again.

As soon as weather permits, new soldiers are taken on Winter Indoctrination (Winter Indoc) training. They learn how not to die in extreme cold weather, and how to keep being a soldier when all you want to do is fall down and die.

January 1994: It was cold. I mean about -30c, and the wind chill was not great. We don’t usually talk about the wind chill, because first thing it is depressing, and you want to keep spirits high, and second, after a certain temperature, all you need to know is: Your Skin (exposed) Will Freeze In Less Than 1 Minute.

We packed our gear properly, obeying all of our orders. Looking around for 5 minutes for a clean pair of socks could cost you a toe, and therefore knowing where everything was at was important. There is a sense of urgency that happens at -40c, but I think that it is mainly to keep everyone active and moving (and thus warm).

The rules of wearing clothing is simple: COLD
Clean
Overlapping
Layered
Dry

This acronym is intended to make the simple minds remember that there was a reason for dressing the way we do (and the army has a love affair with acronyms. If you don’t have a 3 letter acronym to describe something, you should feel shame). And if you have seen the clothes in the Army Surplus stores, yes Canada has some serious cold weather gear. They tell us that all our stuff is rated to -60c, but at -45c you start to question: What is a soldier rated to?

We pack our stuff into toboggans, either 5 or 10 man versions. The tents are lined, and the “old guys” were fretting with one piece of string, then another, then taping these two things together, then inspecting every tooth on the zipper door. I had no idea what they were doing. It looked like a big pile of cloth and string, with metal spikes taped here and there. We spent HOURS on the Coleman lanterns and stoves, cleaning, taking them apart, putting them back together, cleaning them again. We did all of this stuff indoors on the parade square, and it looked like a green-and-white cloth bomb had went off. I was confused. Imagine what happened next when the Sergeant took us new guys off to the side and handed us a box of CONDOMS. “Here, you’ll need these.” I didn’t see any female soldiers around, and being the ‘new guy’ in my 5-man tent group brought a tear to my eye. Oh shit. I wonder if I can accidentally break my neck to get out of this?

Loaded on trucks and driven off to the wilderness, I was actually quite warm. I had about 6 layers of clothes on, and although it was -30, I was doing okay. Hey, I can handle this…

We got out into the middle of nowhere and put our snowshoes on. It takes a while to put them on and learn how to walk so you don’t trip and fall, but once you have that wide-stance hop step thing down, it is easy. We have to pull the toboggans ourselves, using harnesses appropriately called “Dog Harnesses” since we look like a dog-sled team. The jokes would go back and forth,
“Hey bitch, pull your weight..”
“Look at the cute puppy…” I was getting scared about those condoms again.
“Mush you ungrateful beasts…” and so on, until the atmosphere was pretty relaxed. We worked on a buddy system, and every time we stopped for a smoke break, we had to check our buddy for frost-bite and other weather related fatigue. We had to drink lots of water, even though we weren’t thirsty. Dehydration in winter conditions can be worse than the summer time (yeah, right…).

When we got to our spot (about 7 hours of walking, no real meal yet) everything started to come together. All of the old guys started doing their jobs without anyone saying anything, and it looked incredible. The tent was set up in about 5 minutes flat, and it looked like a palace. Once inside, I saw someone light the lantern and stove in 10 seconds, and put some ice on to make coffee. We were doing really well. I set my sleeping bag (two goose down bags, with a cotton liner) up and inflated my air mattress. Someone said that if the bag deflated in the night and I accidentally slept on the cold ground, I wouldn’t wake up. I would just drift peacefully into death. That scared me a little bit, but then the old guys laughed, so I did too.

The next couple of days we made improvised shelters, kind of like igloos (but not really) and we navigated in winter terrain, we pulled those damn sleds until we were tired, then we would do it some more. I realized that there was good reason that Canada was so big yet so peaceful: No military in the world, except maybe Greenland and the USSR could survive in crap like this. Who would want this tundra? Surveyors and prospectors just said to us, “Naw, that’s okay, you guys keep it.”

The weather turned ugly after a couple of days of sun and -25/-30 temps, and we wondered why the schedule was all fucked up. CBC was supposed to send a camera crew out and some photographers out to do one of those “Hey, you think you are cold? There are guys LIVING OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW” stories, to make the civilians feel better about the weather. We had all of this stuff put up and we had shelters dug, we had weapons in hand, but where was the news crew?

The Sergeant spoke up after listening to the radio. “They aren’t coming. The truck froze up overnight and the film in their cameras snapped in the cold. Sorry guys, none of you are ever getting famous.”
An old guy spoke up “Hold on, sergeant, how fucking cold is it out here?” We weren’t allowed to ask that question (bad for morale) and we were also not allowed to have a thermometer with our kit (bad for morale). I really hadn’t noticed it get that much colder, but that was also a sign of frostbite. My ears perked up.
The sergeant grumbled, “the thermometer is broke at Range Control. They don’t know how cold it is either.” Lie. You could tell.

The wind got worse and worse until we were in a classic Canadian blizzard. You couldn’t see the hand in front of your face, and we had to ‘tie in’ to each other, to keep from losing the group. We hunkered down in the tent, kept warm as best we could, and were ordered not to leave the tent for any reason.

The Arctic Turnip: A rare vegetable, eaten by Caribou? No dear reader; continue on.
When you are in your sleeping bag, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard and you have to piss: take a condom, put it on, piss in the condom, tie it off, and throw it out the door of the tent. When you wake up in the morning, there are a bunch of arctic turnips (frozen bags of piss) waiting for you to dispose of. Hey, it works. I was also relieved in the alternate use.

Being the new guy, I had to go outside and re-fuel the stove and lantern when they ran out. For safety reasons, fuel is not stored in the tent. I got dressed in my gear (about a 10 minute production: 1. put on a layer of clothing 2. shiver until you warm up 3. repeat step 1) and I tied off on the tent pole in the middle of the tent. I knew that the fuel pile was about 10m away on the left side of the door, but I had to search back and forth. I put the funnel in the stove fuel canister, took the Naptha (white gas / Coleman fuel) and tipped the fuel can to pour. Nothing happened. I shook the can, and it was heavy. I SQUEEZED the fuel container, and a glob of fuel landed in the funnel, like toothpaste. I freaked out. I didn’t know what to do. I ran back and got the Warrant from the other tent. “Warrant! The fuel is frozen!” I screamed over the wind.
“Fuck off kid. It’s too cold to play games. Get out there and do your job.”
“I AM SERIOUS. I CAN’T FILL THE FUEL TANKS.”
“If I go out there and you are lying to me, I swear to god you are fucking dead.” Although I had been threatened like that before in the army dozens of times, I knew that this was one of the rare occasions where he was serious.
It took him 10 minutes to get dressed, and during that time I lit a smoke and wondered what we were going to do. If you can light a smoke in a Canadian blizzard, you are CANADIAN. I walked him over to the fuel pile and demonstrated that the fuel had turned to toothpaste. He looked like I had punched him in the stomach. “Take the fuel back to your tent, but keep it as far as you can from the stove and lantern. If you run out of fuel before this stuff thaws, come to our tent.” And then he said to himself under his breath, “40 below my ass…”

I learned later that it was -64 that night, but Range Control kept telling us that everything was okay, no need to worry, it was only -40. I have never complained about the cold since. People tell me its chilly outside once in a while, and I just smile. I don’t even want to tell them what it feels like to be cold. They wouldn’t appreciate it.

I'm not military, but I always get a kick out of the TLA (three-letter acronym, which is redundant) and the FLA (four-letter acronym, which contradicts itself).

Wow, yeah, when the fuel gets semi-solid, that's never a good thing. Very few US Army units do cold weather training. It's mostly those that are stationed with Mountain Divisions. The closest I've come is being at Camp Grayling, Michigan in the winter. It never gets quite that cold, obviously, but around -10F(-23C) is still a touch nasty.

Hot weather training is a bit more prevelant in the States. My poor wife was training in San Antonio, Texas during June/July where it regularly hit 105F(41C) and was humid as hell. The time I spent there visiting I constantly thought I was going to turn into mush. In that type of condition, you are only allowed to do work for roughly 15 minutes out of every hour, and you need to consume a ridiculou amount of water. Then you throw on your NBC gear (chem suit, mask and rubber gloves/boots) and the world becomes a blur.

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.)

reading these stories i keep expecting my grandfather to chime in "it builds character!"

my whole family (with the exception of my father thank god) all went through that old school military training, and therefor expect you to experience the joy by proxy
i learned real quick to shut up, do as i was told, and convince myself i was having fun ;)

I don't know why, but the rucksack story was the most frightening of all so far. I'm seriously creeped out right now.

Wow. I'm speachless.

I'm so glad to be reading about it instead of being the one to recall those memories!

Rambo was a wussy-boy compared to you guys.

Ammo: The cruellest bitch of all

I was tasked as an ammo driver for the artillery, and I really didn’t like it much. As an ammo driver, you are kind of like an outcast: No one wants you around, in case you blow up and take them with you. Everybody needs you around, so you can give them more ammo. This catch-22 is handled by everyone making sure they spend as little time as possible around you, and when they are there, they are working fast and it is all business. I am a people person, and all of my stories and jokes fell on deaf ears. Yeah, BigBen, you told me that one before… can you just shut the fuck up and give me my rounds?
I didn’t take it personally, until the lightning storm hit.
I had 10 tonnes of ammo on my truck, and was following everyone else out to the field for exercise. We set up and got into position when the word came down: BIG STORM COMING, GET BACK TO BASE. Everyone pulled out and high-tailed it back to the Base gate, where Range Control was waiting for us. Everyone was driving through when the NCO flagged me down.
“You can’t come on base, you have Ammo on your truck.”
“Well, no shit Sherlock. I’ll just go to the Ammo Compound and park the bitch there then.” I replied, faced with a master-of-the-obvious.
“Ammo Compound is closed. Lightning Storms are dangerous around ammo.”
“Okay, what should I do then?” I was getting more frustrated as the storm approached.
“You’ll have to park the truck in the Training Area. No Ammo allowed on Base.” This guy knew the rules, and was not about to be talked out of them.
“Okay, where about do you want this pig parked?” I did not see a parking lot or a sign that said AMMO PARKING HERE. The army is usually pretty blunt when a situation arises like this.
“At least 500 metres from any building or person.” Was he reading this straight out of a manual from somewhere? I read something like that before, but couldn’t remember.
“Can you give me a ride back to Base?” I was not enjoying the thought of walking 500 metres in the rain when this storm hit…
“NO. An ammo truck needs to be occupied when loaded unless it is in a secure compound.”
Ah, I remember that regulation. That’s so some nutjob doesn’t steal my ammo. All he would need then is a 105 howitzer and the knowledge on how to use the damn thing (no, it is not that easy, despite what you might have thought) and then he could shoot something.
“SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, STAY IN THIS TRUCK IN A FUCKING LIGHTNING STORM?!?!” I had a few close calls before, and I knew that the odds of being hit by lightning were slim, but then why were the regulations set up like this? To protect people if something DID happen.
“Yep.” And with that, he turned and walked away. Yes, I stayed with that truck. Every time the lightning hit (often) I would flinch, and my asshole would pucker. By the end of the night, I was a ball of nerves, and I was ready to shit a diamond. Boy, am I glad I was chosen to be an ammo driver! Look at how I am serving my country! My parents would be soooo proud!

When the storm was over, it turned hot. Horrible weather. I can still remember it. Not one lick of wind, the sun baking everything. Even the Ammo. The order came down that the company had to find a location where the ammo truck was parked in the shade, because you-never-know. I sat in the cab of the truck, in the shade, while everyone else was being cooked like an egg. Hey, Look how I am serving my country! Fucking assholes running back to base and leaving me there to blow up. Served them right.

Part of Ammo is salvage. The boxes the tubes come in, the tubes that the rounds come in, the brass casings that hold the powder, basically everything that doesn’t fly through the air or make the bang sound has to be returned. I was doing a salvage run when the order came that the exercise was over.
When that happens, there is an old tradition that the first Gun detachment that is packed up and ready to go gets free beer bought by the Gun detachment that is ready to go last. Thus, to get free beer and to avoid buying for others, everything happens fucking fast. People start screaming, throwing things into their trucks, trucks start racing, just utter confusion if you did not know what was happening.
Part of being ready to go is returning all of your salvage to the salvage truck (me). I was at the middle of the Gun line (6 Guns in a Det) when people started running towards me with their arms full of salvage. Wooden crates, cardboard tubes, brass shells, all came at me at once. I was working as fast as I could (alone, those fucking pricks wouldn’t give me a helper. ‘It’s only Salvage’) when someone had the brilliant idea:

If handing Ben the salvage was fast, then wouldn’t throwing it at him be faster?

I didn’t see it coming, but a 5 pound brass shell casing came flying at my head. I was lying on the back deck of the truck, everything was spinning.
“Oh sure, kill the fucking ammo driver, that will speed things up.” I remember someone saying that, but couldn’t quite place the voice.
I had a serious concussion, but I shook it off and finished the job. I thought my jaw was broken, and I parked the truck at the salvage depot. I mumbled “I’m going to the Base Hospital, if someone needs to know…” and the salvage guy just said ‘okay’.

The Long Walk:

The hospital was about 3 km from the salvage yard, and I was in no condition to drive. I was also fucked-up enough to not ask for a lift. I just started walking.
I walked past the Base Commander and the Base RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major), the two highest ranking people in a 300km radius. When I did not salute, the Base RSM stopped and followed me. He caught up to me in about 10 steps.
“What’s your name?” he asked calmly. You know things are not going well when people DON’T yell at you. I, however, could not see straight, and I did not know who I was talking to. I could have cared less. My jaw was busted, my eyes were watering, and I was about 2 blocks from the base hospital. “Aw, fuck off, will you pal? I’m in fucking pain here.” I thought it was a Master Corporal with nothing better to do than to jack me up. The RSM grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. He looked me in the eye, and then looked at my name tag. I must have given him quite a shock. I am sure it had been a couple of decades since someone had said that to him.
“What is your problem, son?” He was going to kill me, which was clear in his mind. He just needed more information to fill out the subsequent paperwork properly. An RSM would never leave gaps in the paperwork. When I started to stumble because he spun me around, he knew there was something wrong. “You going to the hospital?” his tone changed, and he looked like a concerned father.
“yeah…” I mumbled.
“Hey Dave, give me a hand with this man!” the RSM called to his colleague he was walking with, who happened to be the Base Commander. A full Colonel. I still thought that these guys were Master Corporals, and did not salute.

You can imagine the stories that circulated when a corporal is dragged into the Emergency Room, with an RSM under one arm and a Colonel under the other.

My jaw was not broken, and the concussion didn’t make me any dumber. The asshole that threw the shell at me came forward and bought me a 60-pounder of rye. We are really good friends, to this day. He’s still an asshole though.

I just realized that lots of my stories involve injury and the Base Hospital.

Honest, that is the wrong impression. We are a safe bunch by rule. It's just not very interesting reading if I said "and then everything went according to plan, so we broke for the weekend early and drank beer."

Still, they're great stories. Kepp it up :)

Sammy

We are really good friends, to this day. He’s still an asshole though.[/quote]

Classic.

Keep it up, these are really fun to read. You might not believe it, but you have a distinct writing style that just keeps us all coming back for more. I feel like I'm going to go into withdrawl now that I've finished all that's there.

This thread is very entertaining.

I'm loving this. Thanks for the stories, BigBen

Well, yeah. I have a great respect for my nation's military, but it's a lot of fun reading the stuff that "didn't go according to plan". :D

These are some awesome stories Ben! Keep em coming!

Who is more important? The grunt that shoots the bullets or the PONTI (Person Of No Tactical Importance) that delivers the bullets to the front line?

One thing you have to get used to is the constant onslaught of insults and ridicule from your fellow soldiers. THE ONES ON THE SAME TEAM AS YOU. It is a simple case of human psychology, wherein the patient is whipped into a frenzy by being informed that they are the most important person in the group and without them the system would fail. The lower functioning soldiers really love this scenario, and grab on to this fallacy with both hands…

Infantry: We take and hold the ground. No one else can hurt us
Armoured: We run over the fuckers, shoot them, and are too fast to hit
Artillery: We don’t move fast, because we blow everything up before they even know it
Medics: We keep you dumb shits alive when something bad happens
Air Force: Yeah, we have it easy. Without us the bombs would be dropping on you right now
Navy: Can you swim? How about with all your gear on? Can you swim across the ocean with your gear on? No? Then you need us.
Communications: Can you hear me now? Good. If people don’t tell each other what they are doing, they soon kill each other by accident

Now everyone is told how important their role is, to help them with morale when the shit is not really warm and squishy. I have reverted to the thought of “I am doing an important job that is critical to the mission” once in a while, when the thoughts of WHAT AM I DOING HERE? Come in to hurt you.

Dear reader, please rest easy tonight knowing that everyone is important. The guy scrubbing the pots in the kitchen is ensuring that you have something to eat. The clerk who ‘rubber stamps the damn forms’ ensures that coordination occurs, and 50 people don’t try to get on a 5 passenger bus.

When we are by ourselves, with no civilians around to puff our chests out for, the contests quickly turn on each other. Infantry hates Armoured, because they get to drive wherever they go. Armoured hates Artillery because they are far from the front lines in relative safety. Everyone hates the Service Corps, because the work they do is never seen and always misunderstood. No one cares about the medics, because we all have first aid training. The fights can quickly turn violent.

“Armoured Rules!” comes a shout from the end of the barracks.
“Infantry!” and so on ad nauseum.

Worse, if there are different Units OF THE SAME BRANCH, you really have a mess on your hands. What do you fight about if there are 300 infantry guys standing around? The units come into play.
“1st Battalion is the BEST!” one infantry guy bellows, proud of his chain-of-command.
“2nd Battalion is Better!” comes the reply. Then the two must fight it out. Juvenile? Yes. Necessary? I say yes, considering the organizational culture.

Like a prison hierarchy, the strongest and best fighters quickly show their dominance. Isn’t that what we want from the Armed Forces? Dominance, aggression, and strong fighters?

What sucks is when someone calls you down and you are horribly outnumbered. You have to defend your honour, and that of your trade and unit. But what happens when there are 10 infantry guys, and you are the only artillery guy? You get your ass kicked, that’s what happens. Only once, and then you are part of the club (if you aren’t a total prick) until someone needs to establish dominance.

One task, I was quietly doing my job when I was informed by a group of young soldiers that I was “Useless”. They were trying to bait me into a fight, and I was in no mood to get jumped. I simply said “Yeah, maybe, but since I am driving out your meals to you, I suggest you take that comment back or the whole fucking lot of you will go hungry.” The young man committing the offence is quickly told to apologize. Worse still is if I cut off the coffee.

I was cornered like a rat in a cage one time, and about 5 guys decided to teach me a lesson in manners. I had to concede that they were better than I, or the beating would start.
“Oh, absolutely. You guys are hard core and I would never win a fight with any one of you. My unit sucks, my buddies suck, and as soon as I can I am going to my career manager and ask to transfer into your unit. Please oh please let me be one of the cool guys…” I wanted out of the situation, and was hoping the bait would work. It did.

Late that night, I was on fire watch (Overnight duty to ensure that no one catches on fire, don’t ask why) when I decided to wake up my new friends. With the heel of my boot to their nose. “Who’s unit is the best now, asshole?” I hissed, five times over.

The next morning, I got the beating of my life. My new friends did not appreciate the visit I had paid them, and gave it back to me in spades. I still have scars on my face, and every morning when I look in the mirror I think two things:
1. My unit is best.
2. Chicks dig scars.

Anyhoo, I took my lumps, because they were well deserved. The Sergeant knew what happened, and simply bellowed, “BEN! You are on night fire watch again.” And I smiled with swollen lips. I got to sleep during the day, but those assholes had to sleep with one eye open for the rest of the exercise.

These stories are amazing. I used to entertain a notion of going into the Canadian army, but I don't think I can handle it. I'm what is reffered to as a chickenshit. :P

Keep these stories coming, I want to hear them all! They're so much more interesting than the err... stories my grandfather tells.

"So the commander said we didn't have enough energy for communications, I told him to do this, and it worked. He gave me a weird look. Then six years later, I cut down some trees, and he gave me the same look again. I saw it in his eyes. The he asked me if I was the radio guy. I said Yessir, and he gave me a cigarette. That was the best day of my life."

If he told stories like you, I would never leave his house! So good!

Great stories. Keep 'em coming!

I love this thread.

Keep 'em coming, Ben. I'm a sucker for a good story.

Ben, thanks for reliving your amazing adventures for us. I can't wait until the next installment.

lol i love old military stories, keep em comin! :P

Let’s see, where did I leave off?

How about a couple of recruiting stories?

If you don’t know already or have never seen one, I have to say that the Recruiting part of the Forces is probably the toughest. You have to put on a happy face and endure all sorts of shit from the public that noone would ever put up with in other situations. The word comes down “We are running out of guys. I guess that we need some more. Go get some.” And we are then tasked to make up a stupid display for the public.

The questions we are asked are bullshit.
“Is that your gun?” No, it is my RIFLE. See post above
“Have you ever killed anyone?” How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? What could you possibly want from asking that?
1. Yes, but they were very bad people and they were trying to hurt other people.
2. Yes, my Sergeant told me the guy was bad, and only later did I find out that it was a 14 year old kid.
3. Yes, I’ve killed hundreds. But they were far away and I was just pulling a cord on a 155 howitzer.
4. No. I dress up like this to impress girls. Go ask your mom if it is working.
5. No. Like other PONTI’s, I pretend that I am tough, but the only time I heard hostile fire I wet my pants and hid in a hole.
6. No, but the day ain’t over yet kid. (my favourite)

The other good one you get is from the people that USED to be in the forces, and want to tell you their stories. Fuck off, old man. If you were anywhere near as cool as you think, you would have travelled forward in time and you would be kicking your own ass right now.

The best recruiting story ever:
I was told by my command that there was a technical school that requested we give a recruiting speech to the class.

Technical school? Like qualified trades personnel? Cooks, plumbers, mechanics? SHIT YES, we need those people bad, and having them trained already was a bonus. All they had to do was Basic and an equivalency exam. They could be qualified in about ¼ of the time. I got the posters, the hand-outs, the ‘freebies’ and headed there with a buddy.

We were early, as always. We set up in the classroom and started to make bets:
“First one to sign a mechanic gets a case of beer.”
“First one to sign a hot female gets a case of beer.” (sorry for the sexism. I have since realized the error of my ways)

And then the class came in. These folks looked a little rough. I was expecting some fresh faces, instead I saw some neck tattoos and scars. What was this?

About 10 minutes into the speech “We can provide a steady income and a rewarding career with a clear promotion ladder blahblahblah” I noticed that their eyes started to glaze over. There was someone to my right that was translating into sign language. No big deal, I just kept on going. These were TRAINED PEOPLE WITH A TRADE…

“Are there any questions so far?” I asked. You have to ensure you aren’t lying to them, and when the attention goes (you presenters know what I am talking about) you have to make things a little bit more participatory.

A hand flew up into the air. Young man, about 20ish “Do you guys accept people with epilepsy?”
I paused, having never been asked that question. I was caught off guard:
“Uh, no, I am sorry to say we don’t. There are basic medical qualifications that are needed, and I think that epilepsy is on the list of conditions that would make a candidate unsuccessful.”
“Oh…” was his reply, and his eyes sunk to his shoes. Obviously this guy had epilepsy, and was hoping to find a rewarding career with us.
Another hand flew up. “What about amputees?” Oh shit, I thought. What have I got myself into? “Um, no, part of the physical nature of the job requires that people have all of their body parts.” Another disappointed look on someone’s face.

Right about then I decided to go into the bare requirements of the application process, and people looked at me in puzzlement. The person standing with me interpreting sign language muttered, “I guess hearing impaired people are out too?” and as I nodded, I could hear a sigh from the back of the room and the interpreter made a rude gesture.

We were thanked politely for our time and sent on our way. I asked the commander later “What the fuck did you send us into? What just happened over there?”
“It was an adult basic education class for people who have special needs. They asked for us to come.” He saw no problem with the situation.
“You sent me into a fucking ambush! I thought we were recruiting Journeyman Trades, Asshole!”

It ended up that the only person that fit the basic medical and educational requirements (and I mean real basic) was under a court order to stay away from firearms for the next 3 years. He asked if I could make an exception. I said no.

It was the toughest crowd ever. Their teacher told them that if they apply themselves they could be anything they wanted to be in the whole world, and I suppose some of them thought that the army thing was a pretty good gig considering their alternatives. To go in there and kill their dreams was one of the hardest things I have done.

If you have a bad job to give someone, at least tell them what they are getting into, and why they are doing it in the first place. Please, as a personal favour to me.

"Nah, that's ok, you can keep it."

God I love it. . . I just spent 2 hours reading this and I'm still laughing, thank you!

aww, man, that story was sad...i could totally see myself gettnig bummed over that one..

you'd think that the military would at least have the sense to ask, prior to send you guys there, if any of these possible applicants would be able to fit the minimum requirements..
i mean it is a program for adults with special needs.. i don't think i'd be able to do something like that hehe. i'd probally end up thinking up alternative suggestions for them to look into vs the military

Wow, awesome stories.

Justy somethign to point out, I've noticed similarities in your style of writing that is similar to Simon Murray, this englishman wback in the sixties who joined the French Foreign Legion, incredible read, and it sounds like most armies are similar around the world.

I reccomend checking it out BigBen, and anyone else who is into military experiences.

I-Told-You-So, Army Style:

I-Told-You-So never did anyone any good, and results in a beating more often than not. Like the civilian world, you are never allowed to say those words to someone of a higher rank than you. It is usually good practice to just shut up before you say anything that could be found out as a good idea after the fact…

Oh, you want to turn left up there, sergeant? Everyone knows that we should be going right, but if I said it, I could then say “I Told You So” when we turn around and walk back here eight hours from now. If I am doing the math properly, the Shit that you will make me do if I say something will account for about 10 hours of labour. Walking for four hours the wrong direction and then back still gives me 2 hours to spare. Carry-on.

Remember your career, ladies and gentleman, when you are computing the above equation.

I told a Warrant once, “I think you have the map upside-down Warrant” to which he said, “You know what? I think you are right. I also seem to have the LEAVE SCHEDULE UPSIDE DOWN TOO…” (I was the next on the list for leave. I was then put to the bottom of the pile). :crazy:

An exception to this rule is safety: If there is a possibility that someone’s stupidity could get someone hurt, the lowest rank can say something without fear of retribution. I once heard “Maybe we should reconfigure the order of those actions, Sergeant.” A private said.
“And who put you in charge, shithead?” came the reply.
“I was just hoping that the fire could be extinguished BEFORE you made me carry the jerrycans of fuel across the line there…”
“Oh, yeah, sure, we COULD do it that way I guess…” the sergeant says quickly, and carries on.

This may sound silly, but I actually like it when shit gets dangerous, because people start to cooperate more, and everyone gets their two cents in. Almost democratic.

Speaking of “Map & Compass” training, I have a pet peeve to air out in the open here:

There are two words to the phrase “Map & Compass” training, and as a result the properly trained soldier will use both of those tools to accomplish an orienteering mission. Why is it then that people take a bearing and start to march towards the objective, oblivious to the terrain or the corresponding map?

I cannot tell you how many swamps/bushes/streams/festering holes I have walked through while seeing a dry path on the map. LOOK AT YOUR MAP. If there is an easier, faster, DRIER way to get there, how about we try that way instead of relying on your compass? Imagine a 3/4/5 triangle. Geometry says that you can get to point B by travelling in a straight line from A, which you will travel a distance of 5. You can alternatively go to point C on the way, avoiding the swamp, hills, cactus and poison ivy that lie on line segment AB and your route will only be a distance of 7. I don’t think that I have ever convinced one of my instructors or commanders the simple concept that you readers understand.
:thumbsup:

I have to say, man, that I have such a huge amount of respect for you.

All throughout my life, I had always wanted to be in the US armed services. However, I knew I could never pass the physical tests (don't get me wrong, I'm no fatass - 5'8, 150lbs - but I can't run worth shit).

People like you - those that have sacrificed nearly everything to fight for their nation - are incredibly important to me. Best wishes, and thank you for what you've done for the world and the hell that you've gone through.

:) Time to bump the thread, and hopefully BigBen is in a good mood and will give us more!

Good thinking, liquidlight; however, considering that Ben is still alive, I can't imagine how many more of these stories he could possibly have...

Ben... when I was a kid I used to do Orienteering courses... I was never a fast runner or the strongest guy there... but I would often win simply because I would use the map...

I remember leaving one check point and after quickly getting my bearings and checking the map, I headed off the in my chosen direction. I remember hearing the derisive laughter of another competitor as he headed off on the straight line to the next checkpoint, "You're going the wrong way!!!"

At the end of the race, I not only won but was the only one in the group with dry feet...

No, I am not running out of stories. On the contrary, I am getting more!

That is the reason I haven't posted here in a while. My mind has been on other things, and I am busy with about a hundred things in the present and about a thousand things coming at me in the future. Thus, the past sometimes takes a backseat.

I will stress again, thank you for enjoying these as much as I enjoyed writing them. I think that this is a feeling a really successful writer gets when they see themselves on the bestseller list!

I have to warn the members here on the TFP: I just recieved my orders for the summer, and they include 11 weeks of field training. This means that I will not be here very much (if at all) starting the end of the month.

Old soldiers don't die, they just fade away; or so the saying goes. I have to fade away from the TFP soon, but here I promise:

I will be back. And when I come back, get ready for some serious fucking war stories.

Don't cry; I don't leave until the 28th. I will try and give you guys at least one more tale before then to hold you over. It will have to be a good one. Let me think...

What exactly does field training involve? I am picturing columns of soldiers put up in drab green tents in the countryside, training with weapons, marching, orienteering etc. am I close?

Very close. Read the stories above (all from the field, I think...) and take out all of the fun.

"Dig your bed, then sleep in it" refers to the trenches that we dig for defensive positions, and how we sometimes spend days in those holes, training in defensive manouvres.

It is hard work, when you don't get to see friends and family for so long. It puts a strain on things, and they usually deprive you of sleep to "simulate combat stress". Living in the field is an artform... it requires training, teamwork and a little bit of old fashioned GUTS.

Lots of weapons, marching, orienteering!

I was about to give this topic a polite, feminine yawn. I've been spellbound instead. Wonderfully done, Ben. :)

Thanks. I am building a bridge for the gender gap. I mean, who doesn't like to blow shit up?

I believe that people like to consider the group as a whole, instead of thinking about the individual soldier and their experiences. It is easier to make judgements about "The Army" or worse, "The Army Guy" and the personal experiences may not be shared.

Do you think that the next time you see a person in uniform you will ask about their personal experiences? You will probably put them on edge.

This is great! I'd seen this topic sitting here, but didn't ever take a look at it until today. I sat here and read the whole thing, hilarious!

I have found this thread to be very exciting to read. Not boring at All.Thanks Ben, I'll miss it.

I'm not sure if I would approach a guy on the street to quiz him. I do remember being mortified once in Kingston when I was waiting in an A&P checkout (th eexpress line) and a CFB Kingston soldier was at the cash. Another guy who clearly outranked him, just walked up and started to dress him down. Yelled at him for a good 5 mins in front of everybody because he did not have his beret with him. I felt so badly. Especially when some of the Queen's students in the lineup started to yell at the officer for 1) making a spectacle and 2) for delaying the express checkout because the officer just hunkered down like a bulldog and berated that poor beret-less soldier even more...

In short, I've been doing that for a long time. :)

Ben,

As many of your numerous fans here have stated, your stories are absolutely amazing. I'm loving the behind the scenes glimpses into military life.

Strangely enough, I'm getting the urge to go talk to a recruiter. I've often thought about joining the CF, but never actually carried through...

Keep the stories coming!

Why Ben is afraid of spiders and mice, and everything nice…

96 I was in the field, and we were digging our bed (read: sleeping in a trench. Uncomfortable) to sleep at night. Before we deployed to the field, a medic gave us the speech, unofficially referred to as the “Fucking glad I ain’t YOU” speech.

“Please be aware that the local fauna is not your friend, and many things will kill you slowly, and some will kill you fast.”

There are many different types of spiders, and I really had no problem with them. I liked the way their webs looked in the morning dew. I was soon introduced to a Brown Recluse spider, whose bite will not kill you, per se, but will instead just take your arm or leg with a blood clot or necrosis. If the necrosis hits your heart or lungs you are a gonner, but don’t worry, people just usually lose an arm.

I really don’t mind mice either! I thought that the way they helped poor Cinderella with her dress was nice, and any good seamstress mouse was okay in my books. I was then introduced to the Hanta-virus carrying Deer Mouse, who can provide hours of enjoyment with flu-like symptoms and seizures causing death.

To take care of the mice, the RSM declared that all snack food was forbidden, and anyone caught storing food in their kit would be severely penalized. The mice still enjoyed a nice warm place to sleep, so therefore people were not allowed to set up tents, and instead were instructed to keep things tight and unpleasant. They didn’t mention this in the brochure… To take care of the spiders, we wore 98% DEET repellent, which would make your lips tingle and peel paint off of surfaces.

I would wake up daily with the fucking spiders crawling on my face, and I had to calmly brush them off to avoid a bite.

I would store my boots upside down to avoid making a nice place to sleep for a filthy Deer Mouse.

After returning to civilization, my girlfriend (now wife) tickled the back of my neck as we were watching a movie. I FUCKING LOST IT. I started screaming and freaking out, and then SHE started screaming and freaking out, and then I started to cry, and then SHE started to cry. What a mess. I didn’t think that I had PTSD from a spider or mouse, but when I reacted that way, I realized that I was waaaay more messed up than originally thought! I went for counselling.

Dude, you are f*cking awesome.

This is superb. I've never considered joining the army - I'm interested in prevention rather than cure - but your stories certainly put things in perspective.

Just a silly question: When it comes to blowing stuff up/shooting people, has Hollywood ever got anything right?

That is an excellent question...

Worthy of its own thread really. I think, off of the top of my head:

1. Full Metal Jacket, by Stanley Kubrick: The first part with Drill Instructor Hartman (played wonderfully by F. Lee Raimey(sp?)) was pretty close to my first day.

2. Heartbreak ridge (Clint Eastwood): That showed what the team atmosphere is really like. You get so that you trust each other completely.

That's all I can think of right now.

The effects of small arms fire is really bad in hollywood. It just is nothing like that. The sound is like *pop* instead of this huge KABOOM, and the cracking of the bullets can't really be described, except by thinking of it like someone cracking a whip by your ear, but steady and repetitive, never waivering.

Noone flies through the air when they are shot. They just slump over. There is never a big huge fireball with explosions. It looks like a big dust cloud, that instantly appears like magic. When a concussion hits you, it is like a football player hits every square inch of your body, and pushes you over.

And the noise you hear is like the ring tone off of a really expensive golf club driver, and then a steady humming, like you were humming a high note under water.
"Ping-mmmmmmmmmmm..."

When someone is hurt bad, they never say something heroic. They either ask "What happened" "Where am I" or the worst "Am I okay". And I have heard my fair share of "Oh shit".

I remember the time that a guy dropped his glove on the grenade range. He cursed "Oh, shit..." and then reached down to pick it up. He didn't have any grenades, he wasn't in any danger, he didn't do anything wrong. Everybody on that range shit their pants. I know I did. The Warrant came over (after shutting down the range for a minute) and screamed at us for about 2 minutes. "NEVER SAY THOSE WORDS ON A GRENADE RANGE!!!"

And in Hollywood, there is always a 'bad guy' in the group. Someone always acting selfishly, blaming others, not pulling their weight. In real life, noone is like that. We work together, we play together, we drink, smoke, sleep, shit, shower and shave together. I have met smart guys who quit, and dumb guys who last forever, but one thing is the same: We work together, and help each other.

Love the stories on this thread BigBen, but I gotta correct you here. It was R. Lee Ermey, who started out as a technical advisor for the movie.

From IMDB: Carry on.
/threadjack

BigBen931,
Thanks so much for all you've continued to share. I really enjoy reading your stories and the tone you set. You aught to consider writing a book. You do have a bestseller here you know. I will surely miss reading your tales while you're away; I wish you all the best of luck.

I really thought that I had posted this story already:

Man, I haven’t slept in like, a week!

I here that phrase quite often by people who are complaining that they are tired, and although it is kind of like saying that you are cold (no, you aren’t, you just think so) I have a hard time believing someone when they say that…

I have stayed awake a long time, and there is a funny story following:

The same summer that the roads got blown up, I was tasked as a radio operator for the command post on the demolition range. I had 4 radio nets (frequencies) that I had to monitor, and I was in charge of 2 of them…
1. Range Control net: These guys are in charge of everything that happens in the field, and their position outranks the highest rank. When they say jump, one merely responds ‘How High?’
2. Company Net: Everyone involved used this frequency, and 99% of the time, they were talking about shit that had nothing to do with us.
3. Command Net: The guy in charge of the operation used this frequency, and he needed to be in contact with everyone, at all times.
4. Sentry Net: The people positioned around the demolition area had a radio to contact me if there was any breach in security (ie cow wandering into area, DUMP TRUCK flying through the barrier, et cetera).

Now this job can be split however you want, but ideally you would have at least 3 or 4 people doing this. One person listening to 2 nets each, and a third sleeping or standing by to provide relief (piss break, smoke break, meal times). We were short staffed, and instead of pulling someone off of sentry duty, or 2 more people, I was tasked with doing the job, solo.

I learned not to say no, and I soon found myself with one radio net in each ear, one with the volume turned all the way up, and one with a blinking light that was turned all the way up so that I could distinguish the 2. I became accustomed to staring at the little light, and the cord to the headset I wore was 25 feet in length so I could walk outside and take a quick piss.

It was stressful, but not too bad. There was a pot of fresh coffee on all the time, and people came and went as they got their orders or stopped to eat a meal. This was the command post after all, and there was a low buzz of activity surrounding me. When I needed to stretch my legs, or shave, I would grab one of the other staff and say “Listen to this headset. If anyone calls for callsign ZERO or Delta-Charlie-Five-Seven, give me a shout. I’ll be back in 3 minutes.”

This went on into the night. Then the sun came up. Then I emptied the garbage can and ashtray. Then I ate a meal. Then I had my 743rd cup of coffee. Then the sun set again. Everything started to run into the next. I kept talking on the radio, giving hourly reports to my boss, and so on, and so on.

Suddenly, everything was finished. The call came to shut down, and we started packing up.

My boss came over to me and said “Ben, I want you to get in that truck and move it over to the administration area so that we can get everything organized.”

What I heard was “Ben…….Truck…….Move” and I said “OKAY!!”

I got into the truck (2 ½ ton, 6 wheel drive) and started the engine. I put it into reverse, and stamped on the gas. I was travelling merrily in reverse, when I came to a steep hill. The truck was having difficulty making it up the hill in reverse. I stopped, put the transfer case in LOW range and engaged the 6-wheel drive function. AHA! Much better! I continued to merrily climb the hill.

I crested the hill, In Reverse remember, and all of a sudden, I lost traction. Hmmmmm, I wonder what is wrong. I stepped on the gas, again and again, and all that happened is that I revved the engine. I put the truck in park, shut the engine off, set the parking brake, and got out. I stepped onto a big rock, instead of the running board.

I saw in the distance at the bottom of the hill a Warrant officer. He looked really, really mad. He was running up the hill towards me.

Boy, I’d hate to be the guy that he is mad at!

I lit a cigarette, and wondered how this rock got underneath my truck. It sure looked big. On closer inspection, I seem to have parked my truck on top of this rock, and all 6 wheels were off the ground. I wonder how I will get this rock out from under here?

The Warrant finally got there. Maybe he will know how to get the rock out. I looked at him. He was yelling, and little veins were popping out of his neck. His face was red. I couldn’t hear a thing.

Maybe he is mad at YOU, Ben. Uh-oh. All of a sudden, my hearing came back.

(all of the following at absolute top volume, including spit flying and arms flapping)
“What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck happened here? Where the fuck were you going? Answer me!”

He was really, really mad. He was mad at me. I could not understand why. He told me to move the truck and I moved the truck. What did I do wrong?

“Uhmmm, I, I, I dunno. I think Warrant… Ummm” I was desperately trying to find an explanation to this whole twisted mess. My brain just couldn’t work. It was stuck in some kind of slow motion muddy substance.

He looked up at the top of my head and slowly down to the bottom of my feet. He calmed down, and stopped yelling. He looked me in the eye like a concerned parent. He used my first name:
”Ben, what happened? Are you okay?”
I looked down at my feet and noticed that I had just pissed my pants. I couldn’t feel anything.

I didn’t respond, and the Warrant took my shoulder and led me down the hill. I didn’t notice before, but the hill was quite steep!

He sat me down, called the commander, lit a smoke, and we sat there and waited. The Military Police showed up first. Then the medics. Then the recovery truck to get my truck off of the hill. It was pretty stuck I guess.

Someone found out that I had not been relieved since the start of the demolition range, and that everyone thought that I was someone else’s responsibility. I had not said anything, so everyone thought everything was taken care of.

I was awake for 72 hours. The Warrant immediately sent me to bed. I laid down, and I woke 2 hours later. I had to piss badly. I went to the can, and looked at my watch. Time for Lunch! I was suddenly starving, and had two meals. Everyone asked how I was feeling, and I guessed correctly that the word had got around about me and my fuck-up.

I went and checked in on my Warrant, expecting a huge punishment. He saw me and met me half way. He was smiling. He asked if I wanted a coffee and a smoke. I was nervous, but I obliged him.

“You have a good sleep?” he chuckled.
“Yeah, a 2 hour nap did me wonders.”
“Son, you slept for 26 hours, not 2.” He was laughing, and everyone else started to laugh. So I started to laugh.

They nicknamed me ‘Sleeping Beauty’ for a while. I found out that a soldier is no longer responsible for their own actions after being deprived of sleep for 48 hours.

So you can see when I hear people say that they haven’t slept in a week, I assume that they mean that they haven’t got a full night’s sleep in a week, not that they have been fully awake for 7 days. A few hours of napping here, a few there, but I can’t believe that anyone has ever gone a full week!

brief threadjack

Dear Elphaba

please tell us more - in a thread all your own :crazy: I am so glad BigBen is sharing his gift of stories. Maybe you could too :thumbsup:

threadjack over. Carry on.

This is definitely a frequent pitstop for me now to read the latest posts. I wish other readers that had good military stories would share. I love this shit.

I know what you mean. It sounds like you were borderline delerious after that time, whereas I find that visual and auditory hallucinations generally begin anytime between 55 and 65.

Unfortunately, I've gone from being able to stay awake without any sort of chemical assistance other than cafeine to what I suspect to be teh beginning stages of chronic fatigue disorder. Don't stay up multiple days in a row too often, you'll burn out.

Ben, my utmost respect to you and your colleagues. I was denied the opportunity to do what you're doing due to medical reasons, but hell, the next best thing is living vicariously through your stories.

Great writing, too. I could definitely see a career for you as a columnist at the very least, some day.

Good luck on the field exercises!

actually, you *can* go for a week w/out real sleep, but your body will force you into 'microsleeps' lasting a few minutes or until you are awakened by something. After about 48 straight hours of no sleep, you really do lose motor control and your cognitive skills drop to a remarkably low level where they remain until you get *enough* sleep again. The funny part is that 8 hrs will generally have your body back in normal shape, but your body will probably want more sleep/rest, so your 26 hrs is not unusual. Another strange phenom is that a lot of special forces training is based around how to sleep w/out losing sense of your environment, but this type of sleep would leave you feeling not so refreshed...

interesting note about the 48 hrs of sleep relieving you of any responsibility of personal actions...

If you ever want some interesting reading or viewing, try to find some studies on sleep deprivation. the body is definitely strange about sleep

Awsome thread man, I enjoyed it greatly.

Thread bump. . . read the military master

Well, i'm sure Ben will have some great stories for us soon since it's approaching the end of the summer.

This is an awesome thread. I can't believe I didn't see it until today.

my thoughts exactly...

great stories Ben,

*subscribe*

The 26 hours, and the "no longer responsible for their own actions" parts... i have never laughed so hard in my life. I about lost my lungs, i laughed so hard.

This whole thread is priceless, please don't ever stop. :)

That's Comedy Gold!