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| So there I was Hooah pt 2; Feedback welcome. | |
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| Topic Started: Thursday, 21. November 2013, 02:34 (333 Views) | |
| InhumanBard | Thursday, 21. November 2013, 02:34 Post #1 |
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Fledgling
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Home of the Infantry Swallow Me! So Benning has a very large infantry unit on main post, all the signs say Home of the infantry follow me. I was not sent to that unit. I went to the Third Infantry Division, on Kelly Hill. I know someone at home is reading this thinking; 3ID is on Stewart not Benning. Well that is certainly true, but the 3ID had a brigade on Benning’s Kelly Hill, collectively known as the bastard brigade, or 3rd brigade. Kelly Hill is alone for a mile in every direction; my neighbor stationed on main post told me he was not supposed to talk to Kelly Hill soldiers, because they are all crazy. So I get to my unit, and they tell me to be prepared for the upcoming deployment. To me this was like someone telling me they were going to kick me in the nuts on Friday. Not exactly something you know how to plan for. I listen to my NCO and give my wife a power of attorney, now I did not pay attention in the class so I have no clue what the difference between a general and special POA is. So instead of doing the right thing and getting more information, what do I do? You guessed again I gave her both; more to follow on that later. Though one of you is nodding right now and going to spoil it for someone else. To prepare for Iraq, we get sent to this backwater Army base called National Training Center, Fort Irwin California. NTC is a dusty, sand flea infested, shit hole, where the showers are never hot and you are guaranteed to eat at least two MREs a day. So we spend the first week of NTC putting miles gear on all of our vehicles. Miles gear for those of you not in the know is a five thousand dollar laser tag system. The second week of NTC we spend in the box. The box itself is worse than the rest of the training center. At least the first week we had a small shop to buy soda, and smokes. So my second day in the box, and I am out of smokes. We spend most of the day doing convoy operations, where we train for simulated improvised explosive devices. Well after going four hours without a cigarette, I really don’t want to play anymore. I get the short end of the stick being a private and all. I get put on guard duty, now this guy here was smart, he bought himself a couple cartons of smokes, and here he is chain smoking away. I briefly debate stabbing him in the chest with my e-tool and inhaling the smoke from his lungs. I ask him for about the ninetieth time in the past half hour for a smoke, which he tells me no, even after I offer to buy a pack. So this blue falcon falls asleep on guard, and I think he probably wont notice a pack, I mean he has a couple of cartons right? Wrong. This kid is a cigarette Nazi, he can tell you how many smokes he has in his pack at any given time. So after smoking, I stash his smokes in my camelback. My Sgt who was sleeping when I grabbed the pack as well comes over and searches me, and finds the smokes. Ladies and gentlemen I am slowly becoming that guy. My punishment is to pay for the smokes, and then wear this sign around my neck that says I will not steal. Some of the other soldiers thought my cardboard shame dog tags were hilarious, and they would donate smokes, to take a picture with me and my sign. So after wearing the sign and being run until I reached muscle failure, I was back on guard duty. Now I am not sure if any of you have ever had the vegetarian omelet mre, but I can not recommend it. Maybe it was the chlorine content of the water buffalo, or maybe it was indeed the rehydrated egg like substance I had for dinner, but I got this feeling like a midget just uppercut me in the taint. We went to NTC in January and it gets cold at night, so here I am sprinting with a thirty pound vest on a five pound helmet, and a pair of thermal pants. I can see the portapotty about a hundred meters ahead, when I begin cramping up. I slow my run clenching and taking these awkward little strides, and then it happens. I shit my pants, I tiptoe to the toilet, and have to wait for some jerk to finish before I can go, so I drop my vest outside, and contemplate the meaning of life with crap in my pants for a good five minutes. I get inside the porta john and strip down, and can you guess what the guy before me did? He used the last bit of toilet paper, so here I am covered in my own crap, with not a single square. So what do I do, the only thing you can do, I wipe myself down with my thermals, and leave them hanging there like some sort of white trash trophy for the next Joe to come in and find. If you were in NTC and you took the thermal pants, send me an email, I am short on my clothing record. |
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3:25 PM Jul 11