So I lost my legs today.
Both of them.
And what was remaining of my patience.
Alright, so I didn't really lose my legs, but in the training scenario I did, because of a grenade that wasn't originally there when I went to clear a room, but whatever. The entire day was a bust, having only had two real things to do: the convoy exercise and the land nav course, where we had to find our way to various points using nothing more than a compass and a map. The convoy exercise was relatively straightforward, but it was frigid outside, and that aggravated my illness. It made it hard to breathe, and I could feel my fever flaring.
Oh, and as it turns out, it's a good thing I didn't go to medical about this: all they do is give you an IV or three and some motrin. lawl, what a ridiculous regimen. And yeah, they would've held me back for three weeks, since they only have flights into Kuwait when a class completes.
But anyway, yeah. At one point in the convoy exercise, I was standing up in the back of the humvee when we came to a stop to get better fire coverage of our area. And without warning, the driver (a Drill Sergeant) gunned it, and I nearly fell out of the truck. Which, with an additional 70 lbs of body armour on, would've been especially bad. I'm thinking smashed nose at best, broken neck at worst.
The land nav course was of little consequence, so I won't talk about it here.
But from there, Jarvis decided to take advantage of that time and give us some "opportune training", in the form of a "wedge formation" in marching.
And what made me lol about this is that I'll probably use the wedge formation as often as I use the Pythagorean theorem. My math teacher told me I'd use it on a constant basis, but in the end, I never have since I graduated from high school.
So yes, more busy work. Followed by cleaning our weapons, which I'd already cleaned days before, and since then only fired two blanks through. Needless to say, there wasn't much for me to clean.
From there, we were let loose to the barracks to get into our wet weather gear to go and wash the humvees that the southern Drill Sergeants had dirtied up with their reckless mudding. One last muster of the day, and I was back in my berthing on my bed, gasping for air.
Let it be known that I can't stand the Navy anymore, because of a certain lack of self-accountability and condescending people. And I've lost some respect for the Army as well, because it's more or less just like the Navy in all the ways I can't stand.
My patience is shot. My health is shot for the moment (thanks to the Navy's countless and doubtlessly useless immunizations). And I'm hating this.
A little over six months to go.
Gonna be without the internet for the next two weeks or so, and even then I probably won't post much here anymore, anyway. But know this: unless you volunteered for an IA, you're in for a potentially terrible experience, and maybe even if you did volunteer.
My thoughts on the Navy at this point? Don't join if you haven't already and are considering it.
Is it a family tradition? Be a trend-setter.
Do you need money for college? Rob a bank.
Do you want to see the world? Get off your lazy ass and get going, you don't need the Navy to do that.
Over and oot.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Full Metal Jacket
The title isn't what you guys think, really. It's kinda funny, but... lemme explain.
Today started off on the wrong foot entirely. The douche Senior Chief that sleeps opposite from me decided that he needs to take it upon himself each morning to wake up everyone in the berthing at the time he deems necessary to get everyone out to the grinder by muster time set by the First Sergeant. That's all well and good, but...
a) He's not in charge of everyone in the barracks, just his side (that's his platoon).
b) Our muster time was set for 8:00 AM, and he felt I needed to be awake at 7:11 AM to make it on time.
In light of the second one up there, I did get out of bed when he started barking out reveille crap, but I went as slow as I could possibly move in order to prove a point; to myself if to nobody else. Sure enough, even moving as slow as I was, it only took me ten minutes to take care of the morning routine, including bathroom crap, making my bed, and getting dressed.
7:21 AM.
So that gave me roughly half an hour to just lay there on my bed, fuming at this idiot's behaviour. What ever happened to self-accountability? I mean, really. I've never been late to muster. If anything, I've been early to the vast majority of them. So why the hell does this guy feel he needs to take it upon himself to rouse me from sleep that, in my sickened state, I desperately need before I need to be?
Whatever.
And as I lay there, another one of the Senior Chiefs (this one, the only one I actually like) comes by and asks me if I'm gonna get ready to go. I hold up my watch, he laughs and keeps walking.
Five minutes to eight, and I finish throwing on the rest of my gear, and walk out to the grinder.
And I make it there at 7:57 AM.
The First Sergeant makes it there at 8:07 AM, and almost all of fourth platoon is late as well.
Even more fodder against that jerk.
But I digress.
From here, we went and marched to a training site where we learned how to check people and vehicles entering the base. I got volunteered to be the guy to check the vehicles/people at the tier 2 portion of the whole deal, and man, did I suck big time. Of course, it didn't help that Drill Sergeant Watson, the one playing the part of potential friend/foe, had one of the most deadpan expressions ever, throughout the entire thing. The first mistake I made was to let him reach into the vehicle and grab a Pepsi can, which he threw at all three of us security people.
"Your entire team is dead, high speed," Drill Sergeant Jarvis said.
"Roger," I replied, "Lesson learned."
"And I've got an idea for you, high speed," he continued, "You're gonna transfer into the United States Army, and you're gonna become a mighty fine Drill Sergeant. But first, you gotta speak up like you got a pair, hooah?"
It's funny: no matter how derogatory he can be, I just can't help but be amused by it. His nickname of "high speed" is roughly on par with "shipmate" for dirtiness, but it's just... it's funny.
Anyway, I went around the van with Drill Sergeant Watson, telling him to open different parts of the vehicle so that I could inspect it. When he opened the rear passenger door, and I saw a few rolls of toilet paper, and some paper towels, I had to assume that in the imaginary world, these represented more than what they were at face value.
"Drill Sergeant," I started, "What would be considered as 'suspicious' in this simulation?"
"Anything you think would be suspicious, high speed," he replied.
"So... like these rolls of toilet paper, then?"
"I don't see what's so suspicious about toilet paper."
"Well no," I replied, "But then, I didn't see what was so suspicious about a can of Pepsi, either."
Finally, Drill Sergeant Watson laughed and broke the illusion.
"Alright, well it's your call," Drill Sergeant Jarvis laughed, "If you feel uncomfortable, give the call."
I shrugged it off and went around and finished inspecting the vehicle with Watson.
"Alright," Jarvis started, "How's the vehicle?"
"Good to go," I replied.
"Good to go," he repeated, "And what about our individual?"
"Still not good to go."
"Alright, so what do we do next?"
"I inspect him?"
"You inspect him?" he asked, "Why you?"
"Because I have the capability to do so, and my other security guys have their paws full of M16's."
"Yes, you do have the capability to do so, but don't you think that you should put your other security team to use?"
And then he motioned to the other guys I'd failed to notice behind the concertina wire.
"Ahhhh," I replied, "Right."
"Ahhhh," he repeated.
"Follow me, sir," I told Watson.
He didn't move. I started walking toward the concertina wire, and he picked up a good solid stride right behind me.
"He's gonna do exactly what you tell him to do," Jarvis said.
I eyed Watson over my shoulder for a few steps, but ultimately smirked it off and kept walking toward my destination.
And seconds later, I had his arms around my neck, giving me a good squeeze.
"You're dead," he said.
He let go and I turned to face him and Jarvis. Fortunately, they were both smiling, so it wasn't too big a failure.
"Never take your eye off the guy," Jarvis said, "Always maintain complete control."
"Roger," I replied, and ushered Watson the rest of the way into the inspection area.
And that was it for that particular run of failures. At that point, the sky was threatening to open up on us, so we got taken back in groups to grab some rain gear. And wouldn't you know it, right when I got safely back in the van with my gear on, the sky literally did open up, and let loose one hell of a downpour. The others in the van made jokes about how everyone back at the site were gonna be soaked, and Watson laughed and laughed.
And when we got there, everyone was just standing in the rain with the most miserable expressions on their faces.
We joined them pretty quick.
Fortunately, my platoon had headed for cover in one of the buildings we were using for practicing breaching and the like. And I got to shine once again with my level of suck for this crap. I was standing in front and off to the left of the door, and Jarvis came and more or less kicked it in to get in.
"Whoops, my bad," he said, "But that's why you don't stand in front of the door, high speed. Violence in action."
Yet another lesson learned!
Aside from there, the only lesson I'd learn is that I excel at kicking down doors. After that, we had lunch, and then one final lesson before being taken back to the barracks via bus. After a bit more training there, we were let go until our final muster of the day at 4:50 PM. Which would later be canceled, and we'd be set free for the day at 4:00 PM on the dot.
Score.
Aside from that, not much else to report. Went to the exchange and got me a copy of the Military Appreciation Edition of Microsoft Office 2007 for $80.00, and an 8Gb iPod Touch for $240. And this is where the title of this post comes in:
Throughout the entire day, I had several people come up to me and ask, "Are you okay there, Shaw? You're not gonna go all crazy and kill us, are you? Because if you are, just remember... I'm your friend... right? Just asking, because you have that 'Full Metal Jacket' look on your face."
Yes, well... stress and sickness will do that.
Out.
Today started off on the wrong foot entirely. The douche Senior Chief that sleeps opposite from me decided that he needs to take it upon himself each morning to wake up everyone in the berthing at the time he deems necessary to get everyone out to the grinder by muster time set by the First Sergeant. That's all well and good, but...
a) He's not in charge of everyone in the barracks, just his side (that's his platoon).
b) Our muster time was set for 8:00 AM, and he felt I needed to be awake at 7:11 AM to make it on time.
In light of the second one up there, I did get out of bed when he started barking out reveille crap, but I went as slow as I could possibly move in order to prove a point; to myself if to nobody else. Sure enough, even moving as slow as I was, it only took me ten minutes to take care of the morning routine, including bathroom crap, making my bed, and getting dressed.
7:21 AM.
So that gave me roughly half an hour to just lay there on my bed, fuming at this idiot's behaviour. What ever happened to self-accountability? I mean, really. I've never been late to muster. If anything, I've been early to the vast majority of them. So why the hell does this guy feel he needs to take it upon himself to rouse me from sleep that, in my sickened state, I desperately need before I need to be?
Whatever.
And as I lay there, another one of the Senior Chiefs (this one, the only one I actually like) comes by and asks me if I'm gonna get ready to go. I hold up my watch, he laughs and keeps walking.
Five minutes to eight, and I finish throwing on the rest of my gear, and walk out to the grinder.
And I make it there at 7:57 AM.
The First Sergeant makes it there at 8:07 AM, and almost all of fourth platoon is late as well.
Even more fodder against that jerk.
But I digress.
From here, we went and marched to a training site where we learned how to check people and vehicles entering the base. I got volunteered to be the guy to check the vehicles/people at the tier 2 portion of the whole deal, and man, did I suck big time. Of course, it didn't help that Drill Sergeant Watson, the one playing the part of potential friend/foe, had one of the most deadpan expressions ever, throughout the entire thing. The first mistake I made was to let him reach into the vehicle and grab a Pepsi can, which he threw at all three of us security people.
"Your entire team is dead, high speed," Drill Sergeant Jarvis said.
"Roger," I replied, "Lesson learned."
"And I've got an idea for you, high speed," he continued, "You're gonna transfer into the United States Army, and you're gonna become a mighty fine Drill Sergeant. But first, you gotta speak up like you got a pair, hooah?"
It's funny: no matter how derogatory he can be, I just can't help but be amused by it. His nickname of "high speed" is roughly on par with "shipmate" for dirtiness, but it's just... it's funny.
Anyway, I went around the van with Drill Sergeant Watson, telling him to open different parts of the vehicle so that I could inspect it. When he opened the rear passenger door, and I saw a few rolls of toilet paper, and some paper towels, I had to assume that in the imaginary world, these represented more than what they were at face value.
"Drill Sergeant," I started, "What would be considered as 'suspicious' in this simulation?"
"Anything you think would be suspicious, high speed," he replied.
"So... like these rolls of toilet paper, then?"
"I don't see what's so suspicious about toilet paper."
"Well no," I replied, "But then, I didn't see what was so suspicious about a can of Pepsi, either."
Finally, Drill Sergeant Watson laughed and broke the illusion.
"Alright, well it's your call," Drill Sergeant Jarvis laughed, "If you feel uncomfortable, give the call."
I shrugged it off and went around and finished inspecting the vehicle with Watson.
"Alright," Jarvis started, "How's the vehicle?"
"Good to go," I replied.
"Good to go," he repeated, "And what about our individual?"
"Still not good to go."
"Alright, so what do we do next?"
"I inspect him?"
"You inspect him?" he asked, "Why you?"
"Because I have the capability to do so, and my other security guys have their paws full of M16's."
"Yes, you do have the capability to do so, but don't you think that you should put your other security team to use?"
And then he motioned to the other guys I'd failed to notice behind the concertina wire.
"Ahhhh," I replied, "Right."
"Ahhhh," he repeated.
"Follow me, sir," I told Watson.
He didn't move. I started walking toward the concertina wire, and he picked up a good solid stride right behind me.
"He's gonna do exactly what you tell him to do," Jarvis said.
I eyed Watson over my shoulder for a few steps, but ultimately smirked it off and kept walking toward my destination.
And seconds later, I had his arms around my neck, giving me a good squeeze.
"You're dead," he said.
He let go and I turned to face him and Jarvis. Fortunately, they were both smiling, so it wasn't too big a failure.
"Never take your eye off the guy," Jarvis said, "Always maintain complete control."
"Roger," I replied, and ushered Watson the rest of the way into the inspection area.
And that was it for that particular run of failures. At that point, the sky was threatening to open up on us, so we got taken back in groups to grab some rain gear. And wouldn't you know it, right when I got safely back in the van with my gear on, the sky literally did open up, and let loose one hell of a downpour. The others in the van made jokes about how everyone back at the site were gonna be soaked, and Watson laughed and laughed.
And when we got there, everyone was just standing in the rain with the most miserable expressions on their faces.
We joined them pretty quick.
Fortunately, my platoon had headed for cover in one of the buildings we were using for practicing breaching and the like. And I got to shine once again with my level of suck for this crap. I was standing in front and off to the left of the door, and Jarvis came and more or less kicked it in to get in.
"Whoops, my bad," he said, "But that's why you don't stand in front of the door, high speed. Violence in action."
Yet another lesson learned!
Aside from there, the only lesson I'd learn is that I excel at kicking down doors. After that, we had lunch, and then one final lesson before being taken back to the barracks via bus. After a bit more training there, we were let go until our final muster of the day at 4:50 PM. Which would later be canceled, and we'd be set free for the day at 4:00 PM on the dot.
Score.
Aside from that, not much else to report. Went to the exchange and got me a copy of the Military Appreciation Edition of Microsoft Office 2007 for $80.00, and an 8Gb iPod Touch for $240. And this is where the title of this post comes in:
Throughout the entire day, I had several people come up to me and ask, "Are you okay there, Shaw? You're not gonna go all crazy and kill us, are you? Because if you are, just remember... I'm your friend... right? Just asking, because you have that 'Full Metal Jacket' look on your face."
Yes, well... stress and sickness will do that.
Out.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
So, Let's Review...
Alright, for lack of anything really new and interesting to enter today (although there will be a bit of news here after this first bit), I've decided to go ahead and tackle some of the assumptions I'd posted earlier on that people had given me to think about.
1. It's a lot of fun, it's good for your career, and a once in a lifetime experience.
This one has yet to be proven or disproven, but given that the Navy ain't a career, I think it's on a one-way trip to oblivion.
2. You'll make a lot of cash over there. An insane amount.
Yeah, this one is already looking good, and I'm not even over there yet.
3. You're coming back a first class.
I have some major doubts about this one, particularly given how many second classes make up the total IA strength we have going on this one, and of those, a good deal of them are IT's.
4. When you get back, I'll be your detailer. You'll go through me and have your choice of shore stations.
My final opinion of the Navy hinges on this one. Preferably, I'd like to go to Florida and get me some of that thar instructor duty, and get me a house and settle down. I start negotiating for orders a month or two after I hit the sand in Afghanistan, apparently.
5. Not many people go outside the wire. 90% of you won't ever leave the safety of the base.
According to just about every Drill Sergeant we've heard, this is a complete falsehood. We'll all get a chance—more than once—to go on a convoy patrol. Huzzah.
6. Most of your stress will come from getting used to the Army way of doing things.
Hahaha, nope. The vast majority of the stress I've gotten over the past couple of weeks alone have been from my Navy peers. The majority of them are being all-too-typically Navy, and their imitation of the Army staff is getting under my skin worse than any parasite ever could. No, this one is most definitely a false assumption, but then, I knew it would be from the start.
7/8. Assumptions either proving there would or wouldn't be downtime in South Carolina.
There is and isn't a lot of downtime in the training here. When we do have it, it's quickly filled in with mindless repetitive tasks like, cleaning our weapons even though they were cleaned mere hours ago after we finished firing, and are still clean from said cleaning session. Although I've gained a new respect for Army grunts due to having some pretty cool instructors down here, it's painfully apparent that the Navy as a whole follows the same gameplan.
And there we have it for the assumptions.
News...
Saturday wasn't fully our own—much like it wasn't last week—but then, it wasn't fully theirs, either. The only thing that we had to was go to the simfire range and learn when to shoot versus when not to shoot. Sounded pretty straightforward, really, but in the end... we had the usual level of machismo going on from some of the asshat males (and I'm sure we had some females doing the same):
"Remember, guys: you gotta kill the women and children, too, before they grow up to become terrorists themselves."
This is coming from a man with so much grey on his head, I'm surprised he hasn't been kicked out for high-year tenure. What got me about this particular guy was that when we were all done and released for the weekend, he had his own three kids over to visit him. Had I been more tactless and far less caring, I would've said, "So kids, ask your father to explain to you his stance on Arab women and children. It's quite amusing."
But of course, I digress.
The simfire range was pretty simple, but my particular group got shafted with all but one scenario filled with peaceful endings, and we didn't legitimately get to shoot at any of the targets whatsoever. It was odd, though, because there were rioters outside one of the checkpoints, just shouting. Alright, that's fine... sticks and stones and all that. But when one of the local law enforcement showed up with an AK47, and the rioters went and snagged the weapon from him, pulled him off the truck, and proceeded to bash in his trachea, sorry, but I'm gonna open up.
And I did. I took careful aim and shot the one man who'd grabbed the weapon off the cop (and was pleased to see on the playback that my shot had, in fact, hit true and only gotten him).
Then I was grilled by the Drill Sergeant on why I did what I did.
"With due respect, Drill Sergeant," I told him, "If I saw one of them grab a weapon, and then seriously injure one of their own, I didn't want to risk seeing what they'd do to me."
"Alright," he replied, "I'm just making sure you can defend your actions."
In my head, my logic was sound, just to make sure that's clear.
Anyway, once we were done with all that, we went back to the barracks and were cut loose to clean them up and prep them for inspection. I went up to the clearing barrel to go through that ritual that'd made—I'm willing to wager—all of us pretty complacent about it. Particularly since it's not anywhere near as bad over in the country we were going to.
I pulled the charging handle back, didn't see a round in the chamber, let it go, and squeezed the trigger.
BAM!
One of the blank rounds that'd been in the blue training magazine we'd been told to put in fired off, and flew to the ground. It wasn't that loud, really—maybe about as loud as a firecracker—and the shell looked the same as it had before it was fired. Still, I got a slap on the shoulder, and a warning put out to everyone: "Make sure you take out your blue mags, people."
Yeah, complacency is definitely bad when it comes to weapons. Still, I'm fortunate to catch on after at most one mistake.
After that, I went out in town with one of the other guys I'd gotten to know. Stopped at the Army Exchange to look around, then caught a $25.00 cab to go to a pretty huge mall setup downtown, and watched JUMPER. To be honest, the story—if there is one—is pretty weak, but the gimmick and effects are phenomenal. And best of all, Hayden Christensen isn't a complete bitch like he is in the other movies I've seen him in (episodes two and three of Star Wars, anyone?).
From there, we went and checked out a store that specializes in military gear to try to find me a neoprene face mask and some gloves (it's been getting cold here, and I've been told Afghanistan gets even worse during the winter months), but no luck. They did have some gloves, and they felt awesome (the name "2nd Skin" was actually quite apt), but I didn't feel like paying $40.00 for them. So we went to Wal-Mart to look for some stuff, and the first thing I wanted to do was to get a new el cheapo watch.
For those of you that don't know, I've got some serious OCD issues, and when it comes to watches, I have some crazy criteria that they have to meet before I'll settle on one. In no particular order, that criteria is:
1. It has to be rather small and stream-lined.
2. It has to have a masculine design, while still following number 1.
3. If I can get some metal in there with the plastic, so much the better.
4. Due to how much I can sweat, plastic/rubber bands are great. Metal is an alright last-resort.
5. The font has to look good. Not too tall, not too short.
6. The watch face itself has to be laid out in a relatively minimalistic design, but not too minimalistic.
That in mind, it took me a good twenty minutes or so to find the right watch. And once I did, I still had some complaints with it, as it's silver with bronze highlights. Everything else is acceptable, however, so we went on. Got me a few movies (Army of Darkness, Inside Man, and the Riddick trilogy on a single disc), some silver sharpies to ID my stuff, and a 4Gb thumb drive.
From there, on to Chick-fil-a, and then back to base at 9:00 PM.
Huzzah.
Just a little bit more shopping today for some extra niceties. Might get a DS, might not. We'll see.
Over and oot.
1. It's a lot of fun, it's good for your career, and a once in a lifetime experience.
This one has yet to be proven or disproven, but given that the Navy ain't a career, I think it's on a one-way trip to oblivion.
2. You'll make a lot of cash over there. An insane amount.
Yeah, this one is already looking good, and I'm not even over there yet.
3. You're coming back a first class.
I have some major doubts about this one, particularly given how many second classes make up the total IA strength we have going on this one, and of those, a good deal of them are IT's.
4. When you get back, I'll be your detailer. You'll go through me and have your choice of shore stations.
My final opinion of the Navy hinges on this one. Preferably, I'd like to go to Florida and get me some of that thar instructor duty, and get me a house and settle down. I start negotiating for orders a month or two after I hit the sand in Afghanistan, apparently.
5. Not many people go outside the wire. 90% of you won't ever leave the safety of the base.
According to just about every Drill Sergeant we've heard, this is a complete falsehood. We'll all get a chance—more than once—to go on a convoy patrol. Huzzah.
6. Most of your stress will come from getting used to the Army way of doing things.
Hahaha, nope. The vast majority of the stress I've gotten over the past couple of weeks alone have been from my Navy peers. The majority of them are being all-too-typically Navy, and their imitation of the Army staff is getting under my skin worse than any parasite ever could. No, this one is most definitely a false assumption, but then, I knew it would be from the start.
7/8. Assumptions either proving there would or wouldn't be downtime in South Carolina.
There is and isn't a lot of downtime in the training here. When we do have it, it's quickly filled in with mindless repetitive tasks like, cleaning our weapons even though they were cleaned mere hours ago after we finished firing, and are still clean from said cleaning session. Although I've gained a new respect for Army grunts due to having some pretty cool instructors down here, it's painfully apparent that the Navy as a whole follows the same gameplan.
And there we have it for the assumptions.
News...
Saturday wasn't fully our own—much like it wasn't last week—but then, it wasn't fully theirs, either. The only thing that we had to was go to the simfire range and learn when to shoot versus when not to shoot. Sounded pretty straightforward, really, but in the end... we had the usual level of machismo going on from some of the asshat males (and I'm sure we had some females doing the same):
"Remember, guys: you gotta kill the women and children, too, before they grow up to become terrorists themselves."
This is coming from a man with so much grey on his head, I'm surprised he hasn't been kicked out for high-year tenure. What got me about this particular guy was that when we were all done and released for the weekend, he had his own three kids over to visit him. Had I been more tactless and far less caring, I would've said, "So kids, ask your father to explain to you his stance on Arab women and children. It's quite amusing."
But of course, I digress.
The simfire range was pretty simple, but my particular group got shafted with all but one scenario filled with peaceful endings, and we didn't legitimately get to shoot at any of the targets whatsoever. It was odd, though, because there were rioters outside one of the checkpoints, just shouting. Alright, that's fine... sticks and stones and all that. But when one of the local law enforcement showed up with an AK47, and the rioters went and snagged the weapon from him, pulled him off the truck, and proceeded to bash in his trachea, sorry, but I'm gonna open up.
And I did. I took careful aim and shot the one man who'd grabbed the weapon off the cop (and was pleased to see on the playback that my shot had, in fact, hit true and only gotten him).
Then I was grilled by the Drill Sergeant on why I did what I did.
"With due respect, Drill Sergeant," I told him, "If I saw one of them grab a weapon, and then seriously injure one of their own, I didn't want to risk seeing what they'd do to me."
"Alright," he replied, "I'm just making sure you can defend your actions."
In my head, my logic was sound, just to make sure that's clear.
Anyway, once we were done with all that, we went back to the barracks and were cut loose to clean them up and prep them for inspection. I went up to the clearing barrel to go through that ritual that'd made—I'm willing to wager—all of us pretty complacent about it. Particularly since it's not anywhere near as bad over in the country we were going to.
I pulled the charging handle back, didn't see a round in the chamber, let it go, and squeezed the trigger.
BAM!
One of the blank rounds that'd been in the blue training magazine we'd been told to put in fired off, and flew to the ground. It wasn't that loud, really—maybe about as loud as a firecracker—and the shell looked the same as it had before it was fired. Still, I got a slap on the shoulder, and a warning put out to everyone: "Make sure you take out your blue mags, people."
Yeah, complacency is definitely bad when it comes to weapons. Still, I'm fortunate to catch on after at most one mistake.
After that, I went out in town with one of the other guys I'd gotten to know. Stopped at the Army Exchange to look around, then caught a $25.00 cab to go to a pretty huge mall setup downtown, and watched JUMPER. To be honest, the story—if there is one—is pretty weak, but the gimmick and effects are phenomenal. And best of all, Hayden Christensen isn't a complete bitch like he is in the other movies I've seen him in (episodes two and three of Star Wars, anyone?).
From there, we went and checked out a store that specializes in military gear to try to find me a neoprene face mask and some gloves (it's been getting cold here, and I've been told Afghanistan gets even worse during the winter months), but no luck. They did have some gloves, and they felt awesome (the name "2nd Skin" was actually quite apt), but I didn't feel like paying $40.00 for them. So we went to Wal-Mart to look for some stuff, and the first thing I wanted to do was to get a new el cheapo watch.
For those of you that don't know, I've got some serious OCD issues, and when it comes to watches, I have some crazy criteria that they have to meet before I'll settle on one. In no particular order, that criteria is:
1. It has to be rather small and stream-lined.
2. It has to have a masculine design, while still following number 1.
3. If I can get some metal in there with the plastic, so much the better.
4. Due to how much I can sweat, plastic/rubber bands are great. Metal is an alright last-resort.
5. The font has to look good. Not too tall, not too short.
6. The watch face itself has to be laid out in a relatively minimalistic design, but not too minimalistic.
That in mind, it took me a good twenty minutes or so to find the right watch. And once I did, I still had some complaints with it, as it's silver with bronze highlights. Everything else is acceptable, however, so we went on. Got me a few movies (Army of Darkness, Inside Man, and the Riddick trilogy on a single disc), some silver sharpies to ID my stuff, and a 4Gb thumb drive.
From there, on to Chick-fil-a, and then back to base at 9:00 PM.
Huzzah.
Just a little bit more shopping today for some extra niceties. Might get a DS, might not. We'll see.
Over and oot.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Repetition is... Repetitive
So why the hell does the military as a whole feel that it constantly needs to repeat itself? We spent the entire day today inside one classroom or the other, and only the first half an hour or so of it was stuff that I'd never heard before, and that's because it was heavy weapons training.
We go to fire tomorrow, and I'm not particularly looking forward to it, but then I am, because it's the last day we have to worry about firing weapons of any sort. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed firing the M16, and shooting a grenade launcher should be fun... I guess... but I just don't want to do any of this anymore. I want to get this deployment started as soon as I can to get it finished as soon as I can.
Oh, and by the way, Chief, I found out that I can't get my FMF pin, because I'd need to actually be attached to a Marine battallion, which I've been told is pretty rare for us IT's. It could be another misinformed opinion, but that's just what I've been told.
But anyway, after the heavy weapons training, we all poured outside onto the grinder to be dispersed for a quick break, and then it was back into the classroom for some training on cultural awareness.
To be honest, before this started, I was worried that we were gonna be in for the same ol' CMEO crap, and I was dreading it from the very beginning.
But when the instructor, Sergeant Hage (pronounced Hawzsh) came up and started talking with a very Arabic accent, I knew this was something different.
And it was the first and only thing we'd been taught in the past two weeks that I was completely attentive and awake for the entire time. I listened with all the attention I could muster as he went to explain the subtle differences between Islam and Muslim, and how not all Arabs are Muslim, not all Muslims are Islam, and so forth. He went into detail about the Islam faith, and how Bin Laden isn't Islam, nor is he a man, but is in fact, "just a person with a lot of money and time on his hands".
He even went so far as to explain his own beliefs, and said, what I believe, is probably one of the coolest religious statements I'd ever heard:
"If I wanted to convert to Christianity, I'd go and read a bible. I wouldn't go and as ask a Christian to explain their faith to me, because maybe they wouldn't be a good Christian."
He then went on to say that he doesn't care one way or another what other people believe, because we're free to believe what we will.
I've never had anyone talk about religion in such an indifferent sounding manner.
And with that classroom experience, I gained some respect for the Islam religion. I'll never become Islam, myself, because I'd sooner be polytheist than to believe in a single almighty entity, but that's neither here nor there.
Once that was over, we were cut loose for lunch. What sucked about this was that once again, CDR Burgess thought that he'd go ahead and take charge of the platoon, and told us to be back in the classroom by 12:30 PM, which gave us a little over half an hour to eat lunch, or do what we had to do.
I went back to the barracks and reorganized my locker, and then headed out.
And once I got there, it turns out the actual muster wasn't until 1:00 PM.
I could've taken a nap, but because Burgess had to be top dawg, I missed out on that opportunity.
And unfortunately, personnel recovery was the next block of instruction. For four hours.
Three breaks in between: five, ten, and five minutes, respectively
I'm gonna do a data dump of everything I learned in that class just to spite every instructor who's ever taught me about the Codes of Conduct.
If I'm ever captured, short of treason, I'll do what I have to to survive and get rescued. I'll be damned if I follow some stupid rules that sound like some childish cops and robbers variant.
The laws of conflict state that before capture, you're a legal combatant, and can use force to accomplish your goals, but once you've been captured and have been escaped, you can no longer use force. Self defense is still authorized, however.
I lol'd.
We go to fire tomorrow, and I'm not particularly looking forward to it, but then I am, because it's the last day we have to worry about firing weapons of any sort. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed firing the M16, and shooting a grenade launcher should be fun... I guess... but I just don't want to do any of this anymore. I want to get this deployment started as soon as I can to get it finished as soon as I can.
Oh, and by the way, Chief, I found out that I can't get my FMF pin, because I'd need to actually be attached to a Marine battallion, which I've been told is pretty rare for us IT's. It could be another misinformed opinion, but that's just what I've been told.
But anyway, after the heavy weapons training, we all poured outside onto the grinder to be dispersed for a quick break, and then it was back into the classroom for some training on cultural awareness.
To be honest, before this started, I was worried that we were gonna be in for the same ol' CMEO crap, and I was dreading it from the very beginning.
But when the instructor, Sergeant Hage (pronounced Hawzsh) came up and started talking with a very Arabic accent, I knew this was something different.
And it was the first and only thing we'd been taught in the past two weeks that I was completely attentive and awake for the entire time. I listened with all the attention I could muster as he went to explain the subtle differences between Islam and Muslim, and how not all Arabs are Muslim, not all Muslims are Islam, and so forth. He went into detail about the Islam faith, and how Bin Laden isn't Islam, nor is he a man, but is in fact, "just a person with a lot of money and time on his hands".
He even went so far as to explain his own beliefs, and said, what I believe, is probably one of the coolest religious statements I'd ever heard:
"If I wanted to convert to Christianity, I'd go and read a bible. I wouldn't go and as ask a Christian to explain their faith to me, because maybe they wouldn't be a good Christian."
He then went on to say that he doesn't care one way or another what other people believe, because we're free to believe what we will.
I've never had anyone talk about religion in such an indifferent sounding manner.
And with that classroom experience, I gained some respect for the Islam religion. I'll never become Islam, myself, because I'd sooner be polytheist than to believe in a single almighty entity, but that's neither here nor there.
Once that was over, we were cut loose for lunch. What sucked about this was that once again, CDR Burgess thought that he'd go ahead and take charge of the platoon, and told us to be back in the classroom by 12:30 PM, which gave us a little over half an hour to eat lunch, or do what we had to do.
I went back to the barracks and reorganized my locker, and then headed out.
And once I got there, it turns out the actual muster wasn't until 1:00 PM.
I could've taken a nap, but because Burgess had to be top dawg, I missed out on that opportunity.
And unfortunately, personnel recovery was the next block of instruction. For four hours.
Three breaks in between: five, ten, and five minutes, respectively
I'm gonna do a data dump of everything I learned in that class just to spite every instructor who's ever taught me about the Codes of Conduct.
If I'm ever captured, short of treason, I'll do what I have to to survive and get rescued. I'll be damned if I follow some stupid rules that sound like some childish cops and robbers variant.
The laws of conflict state that before capture, you're a legal combatant, and can use force to accomplish your goals, but once you've been captured and have been escaped, you can no longer use force. Self defense is still authorized, however.
I lol'd.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Final Score... Bleh.
Final score all tabulated and such was 34. And they didn't hesitate to tell you if you did better the prior day, even if it was only by one point.
I've been taking pictures the entire time, and I'll be posting them upon my return (unstable wi-fi doesn't really do a lot in the way of promoting photo uploading). A lot of people did very well today in comparison with yesterday, and I think that it's primarily because the targets beyond 100m were painted white, and in contrast with a very vibrant green background, they contrasted quite well.
I'm a tad bitter at the results, having fallen two points short of getting Expert, but whatever. I don't even know if we'll be getting ribbons for having done this through the Army, but I guess we'll see. If I do, it's one more thing to put on my purchase list for things to buy when I return. If I don't, well... that much is obvious.
Full day at the range again, so aside from my score, nothing further to report public-side.
Out.
I've been taking pictures the entire time, and I'll be posting them upon my return (unstable wi-fi doesn't really do a lot in the way of promoting photo uploading). A lot of people did very well today in comparison with yesterday, and I think that it's primarily because the targets beyond 100m were painted white, and in contrast with a very vibrant green background, they contrasted quite well.
I'm a tad bitter at the results, having fallen two points short of getting Expert, but whatever. I don't even know if we'll be getting ribbons for having done this through the Army, but I guess we'll see. If I do, it's one more thing to put on my purchase list for things to buy when I return. If I don't, well... that much is obvious.
Full day at the range again, so aside from my score, nothing further to report public-side.
Out.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Doctor is In...
Still surgical.
Still lethal.
If I wanted someone dead, it'd happen.
Well, 35/40 times.
Of course, the actual qualification shooting is tomorrow, but I have a feeling it's gonna be more of the same.
To be honest, today was probably the best day of actual training I've had that wasn't a Saturday. We woke up at whatever time we felt like—the first official muster was at 7:15 AM—and then got our crap together to go. Donning our body armour and anything else we wanted to put on to combat the cold, we got issued our MRE's for the day before we got on the bus, because there'd be no delivery of them to the range today.
Got to the range, and it was straight-forward. The guy who was in front of me was shooting horribly wrong, even for my "no real method of shooting" standards. For the prone supported, he rested the weapon itself on the sandbags, which is a no go for one primary reason: you lose control of the weapon. Not in the "oh my gawd, he's shooting everyone with his uncontrolled recoil!" kinda way, but in the "having to pivot his weapon on a central point instead of moving the entire thing as a whole to transition from target to target" kinda way.
And because of that, he didn't qualify.
Throughout the first magazine of rounds he was doing it, the Drill Sergeant for our section of the range was back there telling me how not to do it like the other guy was doing it. And when it was all said and done, the other guy comes back and asks, "Was that guy telling you what I was doing wrong?"
"Er, uh," I replied, "No, Chief... he was telling me how to improve on your methods."
And with that, he stormed off, and I took my place. It was exactly as before with whether I hit or miss: I knew immediately if I'd hit or missed it, not because the targets either would or wouldn't fall down, but because I'm fully aware of where each shot is going, and unfortunately, there's no way to correct it once it's outta the death tube.
But in the end, I got my score. As I said at the beginning, it was 35/40, which is one under the required score count for Expert marksman.
But still, for practice... I'm a sharpshooter.
It was because of my score as compared with the rest of my platoon, though, that got me chewed out.
"You got a 35?" Drill Sergeant Jarvis asked.
"Hooah," I replied, giving in to the Army way of doing things.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, without missing a beat.
"Then you need to get out there and teach your team what you're doing and how to improve, hooah? I pride myself on getting 100% qualification on the first time out with each of my platoons, and this is no exception. That's the first thing you should've done when you got off the range, hooah?"
"Hooah," I replied again.
That's the closest thing I've ever gotten to being chewed out by our Drill Sergeant, and to be honest, there's no way to fix it to make sure that it doesn't happen again. Because if I go and tell everyone that the way that I got my score was a healthy regimen of video games and holding my breath, and just being attentive, he's gonna tell me that...
a) I need to employ the fundamentals to get my score to 40, guaranteed.
b) The reason I got what I did was because I didn't use the fundamentals.
So it's pretty much a lose, lose situation. But, I dun care, really. I just need to make it through another week of this, then it'll be on to Kuwait.
Still lethal.
If I wanted someone dead, it'd happen.
Well, 35/40 times.
Of course, the actual qualification shooting is tomorrow, but I have a feeling it's gonna be more of the same.
To be honest, today was probably the best day of actual training I've had that wasn't a Saturday. We woke up at whatever time we felt like—the first official muster was at 7:15 AM—and then got our crap together to go. Donning our body armour and anything else we wanted to put on to combat the cold, we got issued our MRE's for the day before we got on the bus, because there'd be no delivery of them to the range today.
Got to the range, and it was straight-forward. The guy who was in front of me was shooting horribly wrong, even for my "no real method of shooting" standards. For the prone supported, he rested the weapon itself on the sandbags, which is a no go for one primary reason: you lose control of the weapon. Not in the "oh my gawd, he's shooting everyone with his uncontrolled recoil!" kinda way, but in the "having to pivot his weapon on a central point instead of moving the entire thing as a whole to transition from target to target" kinda way.
And because of that, he didn't qualify.
Throughout the first magazine of rounds he was doing it, the Drill Sergeant for our section of the range was back there telling me how not to do it like the other guy was doing it. And when it was all said and done, the other guy comes back and asks, "Was that guy telling you what I was doing wrong?"
"Er, uh," I replied, "No, Chief... he was telling me how to improve on your methods."
And with that, he stormed off, and I took my place. It was exactly as before with whether I hit or miss: I knew immediately if I'd hit or missed it, not because the targets either would or wouldn't fall down, but because I'm fully aware of where each shot is going, and unfortunately, there's no way to correct it once it's outta the death tube.
But in the end, I got my score. As I said at the beginning, it was 35/40, which is one under the required score count for Expert marksman.
But still, for practice... I'm a sharpshooter.
It was because of my score as compared with the rest of my platoon, though, that got me chewed out.
"You got a 35?" Drill Sergeant Jarvis asked.
"Hooah," I replied, giving in to the Army way of doing things.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, without missing a beat.
"Then you need to get out there and teach your team what you're doing and how to improve, hooah? I pride myself on getting 100% qualification on the first time out with each of my platoons, and this is no exception. That's the first thing you should've done when you got off the range, hooah?"
"Hooah," I replied again.
That's the closest thing I've ever gotten to being chewed out by our Drill Sergeant, and to be honest, there's no way to fix it to make sure that it doesn't happen again. Because if I go and tell everyone that the way that I got my score was a healthy regimen of video games and holding my breath, and just being attentive, he's gonna tell me that...
a) I need to employ the fundamentals to get my score to 40, guaranteed.
b) The reason I got what I did was because I didn't use the fundamentals.
So it's pretty much a lose, lose situation. But, I dun care, really. I just need to make it through another week of this, then it'll be on to Kuwait.
Monday, February 18, 2008
I'm Surgical, Baby
Took that line from a friend of mine: Jake back in Virginia. And to be honest, it actually fits this post quite well.
In the past few days, things have been kinda rough and tumble as we've gotten different things taken care of. Most importantly, we were given time on Friday to fire some rounds down the range. 160 rounds, to be exact, and it took a lot of us a lot longer than I think it should've. Because I mean hell, out in the field, I doubt the insurgents are gonna give you a good hour or two to launch so many rounds at them.
Friday actually caused me a bit of grief early on in the morning, because I had to go to the optometrist. Well, as I'd figured, they didn't have me there for much more than to tell me that I didn't need to be there. We had to wear our body armour and our helmets and all that jazz for going to the range, and when we got to medical, they had us ground all our equipment and stack our M16s before we could go inside.
Once inside and comfortable, the HM3 told us, "I know you already grounded your weapons and stuff, but... if you've already got your UVEX inserts and all that, you don't need to be here, and you can leave."
But as annoyed as I was with that, I was glad that I didn't have to stick around for something I didn't want to stick around for. So, I went back outside, got my gear back on, hopped on the bus, and nearly had my tailbone shattered from an impatient Drill Sergeant who didn't want to wait for me to take my seat before he put his foot down on the pedal.
Now take 170 lbs, add 70 lbs in kevlar and all that, and you've got quite a bit of weight to fall backwards onto a metal stump sticking out of a bus seat.
Yeah, ouch.
But, I survived, and made it to the range without any further incident.
Once I got there, we had range safety procedures drilled into us again by not one, not two, but three different people.
I blew them off completely. I was daydreaming about coming back home from a deployment that hadn't even started.
And you know what? The world didn't explode. Nobody died. There were no mishaps throughout the day. Not from me, and not from anyone else.
You know why?
It's common sense crap.
But as far as my performance on the range goes, yes... I was quite surgical. We had targets at 75, 150, and 300 meters. And with few exceptions, I hit every single one of them.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It started out with us "shotgunning" our M16s once again to let the Drill Sergeants see that our weapons were in fact, clear of any rounds in the barrel. Once I did that, I walked up to the First Sergeant to get my eight 20-round clips.
"Lane twenty-nine," he told me.
"Roger," I replied, and headed down the range to my lane.
And when I got there, I was dismayed to find that not only was their no computerized monitoring system there, there were no targets for me to fire at down range.
"Did he tell you twenty-nine?" someone asked from behind.
"Yeah," I said, looking back at him.
"Well, go ahead and take twenty-eight," he said, "And I'll take twenty-seven."
So I did as he said, and as I started setting up in that lane, I was called out and told that that lane was to be used for people who hadn't zeroed their weapons days prior to do just that. So, I gathered up my crap and stood idly by in the sand behind the lanes with the most distraught and confused look I could possibly muster, hoping a passing Drill Sergeant would see me and set things straight.
"Which firing order are you?" she asked, pulling me to another lane.
"Uh," I replied, "Uhhhhhh..."
"Are you first?" she asked.
"Uhhhhhh..."
"No, you're second. You'll go after this man does."
I nodded and took a seat, putting my gun into the v-notch stake in the sand. I sat there and watched (and took some pictures of) one of the few people in my platoon I really can't stand. I watched him as he took his sweet ol' time firing his rounds off at targets that did nothing more than fall down and reset themselves into the same place time and time again. At the very least, his shots at the 75m target should've been in quick, successive bursts.
But they weren't. He took his time, and to his credit, he didn't miss a single one.
But then it was only 75m away, and that's not far away at all.
In any stance.
I watched him go through all his rounds, getting the gist of how things were done.
Without our armour on, we'd go and fire from the prone supported position. We'd fire five rounds at the 75m target, 10 rounds at the 175m target, and 5 rounds at the 300m target, for a total of 20 rounds fired. Then from there, we'd get another magazine from the monitor, and fire from the kneeling position. Five rounds at 75m, and then five more rounds at 175m. From there, we'd put our weapon on safe and assume the prone unsupported position, fire five more rounds at 175m, and then the final five at 300m.
From there, we'd go back and repeat the process for two more magazines. Then we'd put on our body armour and repeat the entire ordeal for the last four magazines.
The monitor would watch, and give us audible feedback of our performance. A simple "hit" or "miss" report based on, obviously enough, whether we hit or miss the target.
So there I sat... through all 160 of his rounds. It took him roughly forty-five minutes to do it.
Once he was done, it was my turn. Or so I thought. His monitor stood up, raised his hand in the air and waited for a minute or two. When no Drill Sergeant came to check them out, he shrugged, and took his place in the sand.
I was pissed.
This douchetard was taking my spot? I wanted to get in, get my rounds off, and get the hell off the range and doing something else. Anything else. But, whatever.
So I sat there and watched him as he put his eight magazines on a small ledge near his position, and watched as he basically did a self-serve kinda deal. He'd run out of rounds, eject his magazine, and then get a new one all by himself. No big deal, we're adults here... if you can't get your own magazine, well... you suck.
Once he was done half an hour later, he called me up. I picked up my M16, brought it to the v-notch stake in the lane, and then proceeded to lay my magazines down on that same stand he'd used.
But no, he'd have none of it.
LT Hanke was his name. I'll never forget it. I'm pretty vindictive.
He grabbed up my magazines and put them to his right, far out of my reach.
And then he proceeded to walk me verbally through everything I'd just watched twice.
I could feel my blood boiling as he talked. He had such a condescending air about him, I wanted to slap him upside the head. Say, "Look, douche, all I need you to do is tell me whether I hit or miss, and if my barrel is placed right. Other than that, stfu, and leave me be."
But he's an officer, so I couldn't do that.
Quick sidenote: I don't care who you are, from the senior enlisted in my chain of command to the CNO. My respect isn't given out of tradition or requirement. No, you'll get what I like to call "pseudo-respect". It's just enough respect to make you think I actually care. You have to earn my respect just like everyone else does.
And this guy was sucking at it, big time. Treating me like a child, this guy was losing credit pretty quick.
Anyway.
I took my position and fired away as quickly as I could to show those cretins that it was possible to maintain a superior level of accuracy while at the same time moving faster than molasses uphill in the winter.
And you know what I got from that?
"Slow down there, shipmate. They're not going anywhere."
No, I thought, Maybe not now, but they will when it comes time to actually qualify, douche.
I can't tell you how much of a pet peeve of mine it is to be called "shipmate". Most people use it as a detrimental way, and I don't care for it at all.
So, I kept up my pace regardless of his incessant coaching, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. "Don't tell them where they miss if they miss," the First Sergeant had repeatedly told us, "Just tell them if they miss. If you tell them how they're missing, they'll aim to compensate, and we want them aiming center mass every time."
This is key, as it would lead to my downfall here shortly.
On my second to last magazine, the female Drill Instructor paid me a visit, and I could hear her talking with LT Hanke as I fired. I couldn't hear what she said, exactly, but I heard Hanke say, "...but he's doing it pretty consistently."
Aiming to impress, I took a bit more time on my first shot at 300m.
"Remember," she said, "On that 300m target, you gotta aim up a bit to compensate."
So I took her words to heart, and squeezed the trigger.
"You hit center mass!" she yelled.
I squeezed again.
"And again!"
And again.
"God damn!"
And once more.
"That's the most impressive shooting I've ever seen, sailor. Good job!"
When she walked off, Hanke paid me respect in his own little way. "Nice shooting, Tex."
Yeah. Thanks, douche.
All said and done, I did very well up until the very last rounds in my last magazine. Because Hanke stepped up his coaching, and I did exactly what I shouldn't have: I aimed to compensate for how he said I was missing. And when you do that at huge distances, even the smallest corrections can have major consequences.
I completely missed four of the five shots I fired at the 300m target.
They didn't even register anywhere on the printout.
Asshat.
Bleh, but still, I scored an average of 34 out of 40 rounds for each 40-round printout, which put me ten points ahead of the 24 points needed to qualify.
Oh yes. Surgical.
The weekend was empty of anything except for a bit of training in the morning. And today, all we had was some map training and some IED training, and a bit of "SHOTEX" (injections) later on, followed by a cookout.
On that note, I leave you.
And Happy President's Day, all.
In the past few days, things have been kinda rough and tumble as we've gotten different things taken care of. Most importantly, we were given time on Friday to fire some rounds down the range. 160 rounds, to be exact, and it took a lot of us a lot longer than I think it should've. Because I mean hell, out in the field, I doubt the insurgents are gonna give you a good hour or two to launch so many rounds at them.
Friday actually caused me a bit of grief early on in the morning, because I had to go to the optometrist. Well, as I'd figured, they didn't have me there for much more than to tell me that I didn't need to be there. We had to wear our body armour and our helmets and all that jazz for going to the range, and when we got to medical, they had us ground all our equipment and stack our M16s before we could go inside.
Once inside and comfortable, the HM3 told us, "I know you already grounded your weapons and stuff, but... if you've already got your UVEX inserts and all that, you don't need to be here, and you can leave."
But as annoyed as I was with that, I was glad that I didn't have to stick around for something I didn't want to stick around for. So, I went back outside, got my gear back on, hopped on the bus, and nearly had my tailbone shattered from an impatient Drill Sergeant who didn't want to wait for me to take my seat before he put his foot down on the pedal.
Now take 170 lbs, add 70 lbs in kevlar and all that, and you've got quite a bit of weight to fall backwards onto a metal stump sticking out of a bus seat.
Yeah, ouch.
But, I survived, and made it to the range without any further incident.
Once I got there, we had range safety procedures drilled into us again by not one, not two, but three different people.
I blew them off completely. I was daydreaming about coming back home from a deployment that hadn't even started.
And you know what? The world didn't explode. Nobody died. There were no mishaps throughout the day. Not from me, and not from anyone else.
You know why?
It's common sense crap.
But as far as my performance on the range goes, yes... I was quite surgical. We had targets at 75, 150, and 300 meters. And with few exceptions, I hit every single one of them.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It started out with us "shotgunning" our M16s once again to let the Drill Sergeants see that our weapons were in fact, clear of any rounds in the barrel. Once I did that, I walked up to the First Sergeant to get my eight 20-round clips.
"Lane twenty-nine," he told me.
"Roger," I replied, and headed down the range to my lane.
And when I got there, I was dismayed to find that not only was their no computerized monitoring system there, there were no targets for me to fire at down range.
"Did he tell you twenty-nine?" someone asked from behind.
"Yeah," I said, looking back at him.
"Well, go ahead and take twenty-eight," he said, "And I'll take twenty-seven."
So I did as he said, and as I started setting up in that lane, I was called out and told that that lane was to be used for people who hadn't zeroed their weapons days prior to do just that. So, I gathered up my crap and stood idly by in the sand behind the lanes with the most distraught and confused look I could possibly muster, hoping a passing Drill Sergeant would see me and set things straight.
"Which firing order are you?" she asked, pulling me to another lane.
"Uh," I replied, "Uhhhhhh..."
"Are you first?" she asked.
"Uhhhhhh..."
"No, you're second. You'll go after this man does."
I nodded and took a seat, putting my gun into the v-notch stake in the sand. I sat there and watched (and took some pictures of) one of the few people in my platoon I really can't stand. I watched him as he took his sweet ol' time firing his rounds off at targets that did nothing more than fall down and reset themselves into the same place time and time again. At the very least, his shots at the 75m target should've been in quick, successive bursts.
But they weren't. He took his time, and to his credit, he didn't miss a single one.
But then it was only 75m away, and that's not far away at all.
In any stance.
I watched him go through all his rounds, getting the gist of how things were done.
Without our armour on, we'd go and fire from the prone supported position. We'd fire five rounds at the 75m target, 10 rounds at the 175m target, and 5 rounds at the 300m target, for a total of 20 rounds fired. Then from there, we'd get another magazine from the monitor, and fire from the kneeling position. Five rounds at 75m, and then five more rounds at 175m. From there, we'd put our weapon on safe and assume the prone unsupported position, fire five more rounds at 175m, and then the final five at 300m.
From there, we'd go back and repeat the process for two more magazines. Then we'd put on our body armour and repeat the entire ordeal for the last four magazines.
The monitor would watch, and give us audible feedback of our performance. A simple "hit" or "miss" report based on, obviously enough, whether we hit or miss the target.
So there I sat... through all 160 of his rounds. It took him roughly forty-five minutes to do it.
Once he was done, it was my turn. Or so I thought. His monitor stood up, raised his hand in the air and waited for a minute or two. When no Drill Sergeant came to check them out, he shrugged, and took his place in the sand.
I was pissed.
This douchetard was taking my spot? I wanted to get in, get my rounds off, and get the hell off the range and doing something else. Anything else. But, whatever.
So I sat there and watched him as he put his eight magazines on a small ledge near his position, and watched as he basically did a self-serve kinda deal. He'd run out of rounds, eject his magazine, and then get a new one all by himself. No big deal, we're adults here... if you can't get your own magazine, well... you suck.
Once he was done half an hour later, he called me up. I picked up my M16, brought it to the v-notch stake in the lane, and then proceeded to lay my magazines down on that same stand he'd used.
But no, he'd have none of it.
LT Hanke was his name. I'll never forget it. I'm pretty vindictive.
He grabbed up my magazines and put them to his right, far out of my reach.
And then he proceeded to walk me verbally through everything I'd just watched twice.
I could feel my blood boiling as he talked. He had such a condescending air about him, I wanted to slap him upside the head. Say, "Look, douche, all I need you to do is tell me whether I hit or miss, and if my barrel is placed right. Other than that, stfu, and leave me be."
But he's an officer, so I couldn't do that.
Quick sidenote: I don't care who you are, from the senior enlisted in my chain of command to the CNO. My respect isn't given out of tradition or requirement. No, you'll get what I like to call "pseudo-respect". It's just enough respect to make you think I actually care. You have to earn my respect just like everyone else does.
And this guy was sucking at it, big time. Treating me like a child, this guy was losing credit pretty quick.
Anyway.
I took my position and fired away as quickly as I could to show those cretins that it was possible to maintain a superior level of accuracy while at the same time moving faster than molasses uphill in the winter.
And you know what I got from that?
"Slow down there, shipmate. They're not going anywhere."
No, I thought, Maybe not now, but they will when it comes time to actually qualify, douche.
I can't tell you how much of a pet peeve of mine it is to be called "shipmate". Most people use it as a detrimental way, and I don't care for it at all.
So, I kept up my pace regardless of his incessant coaching, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. "Don't tell them where they miss if they miss," the First Sergeant had repeatedly told us, "Just tell them if they miss. If you tell them how they're missing, they'll aim to compensate, and we want them aiming center mass every time."
This is key, as it would lead to my downfall here shortly.
On my second to last magazine, the female Drill Instructor paid me a visit, and I could hear her talking with LT Hanke as I fired. I couldn't hear what she said, exactly, but I heard Hanke say, "...but he's doing it pretty consistently."
Aiming to impress, I took a bit more time on my first shot at 300m.
"Remember," she said, "On that 300m target, you gotta aim up a bit to compensate."
So I took her words to heart, and squeezed the trigger.
"You hit center mass!" she yelled.
I squeezed again.
"And again!"
And again.
"God damn!"
And once more.
"That's the most impressive shooting I've ever seen, sailor. Good job!"
When she walked off, Hanke paid me respect in his own little way. "Nice shooting, Tex."
Yeah. Thanks, douche.
All said and done, I did very well up until the very last rounds in my last magazine. Because Hanke stepped up his coaching, and I did exactly what I shouldn't have: I aimed to compensate for how he said I was missing. And when you do that at huge distances, even the smallest corrections can have major consequences.
I completely missed four of the five shots I fired at the 300m target.
They didn't even register anywhere on the printout.
Asshat.
Bleh, but still, I scored an average of 34 out of 40 rounds for each 40-round printout, which put me ten points ahead of the 24 points needed to qualify.
Oh yes. Surgical.
The weekend was empty of anything except for a bit of training in the morning. And today, all we had was some map training and some IED training, and a bit of "SHOTEX" (injections) later on, followed by a cookout.
On that note, I leave you.
And Happy President's Day, all.
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