Epic Moving Failure Story

I'm acquainted with Dan and Alison Zarrella though my association with the PubCon web marketing conference and have been following their comments on Twitter about their recent cross-country move. Today, Alison made a couple mentions of things which were damaged by the moving company they hired to tote their stuff. I tweeted back that I could certainly sympathize with her plight, given one moving experience I had which was one gigantic mess. As I tweeted certain parts of the story, I realized it certainly warranted more than just a few less-than-140-character comments. Alison agreed, so here it is in all it's insane glory.

I was stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas in 1992. I'd just finished up a tour in the Middle East as part of Desert Storm with the 3rd Armored Cavalry and came down on orders for Germany. This was my first move as a married man, and also the first time my wife and son had been part of a military family move overseas. We were quite looking forward to the experience.

We lived on the bottom floor of the middle building
here on Parseval Strasse.

My orders stated there was no family housing available in Darmstadt, the city where I was ordered to go. Because of that, I went first, leaving my wife and son to wait until I could get an apartment. Of course, bureaucracies being what they are, I found on my arrival there was plenty of housing. I got a very nice apartment in a building leased by the government in the nearby town of Griesheim. It was a great location, off away from all the "Army" stuff, yet very conveniently located.

Of course, my wife and I wanted to get everyone together as quickly as possible, so then came the mad dash to get the house packed up and shipped over to Germany so my wife and son could fly over and join me.

My wife had never undertaken quite such as task as dealing with "professional" movers. On the appointed day, a legion of packers swarmed the house to wrap, box up, crate and haul off everything we owned. When they were done, there was nothing left except three suitcases full of clothes.

Items shipped in those days were divided into two categories:

1. Hold Baggage, which consisted of things needed right after moving into a new place. This would include things like kitchenware, bedding, seasonal clothing, small appliances and stuff like that. These items were sent via air freight.
2. Household Goods, which included furniture and other large items and things which wouldn't be needed right away. These items were crated, sent via ship and then trucked to their final destination. 

When I moved into our apartment, I got some loaner furniture from the Army and set up our home. The hold baggage arrived soon after it was shipped and things started looking more like "our place." The move was going quite smoothly up to this point, but we were soon to hit some major bumps in the road.

Namely, our household goods crates were a long time in coming. What was customarily a wait of several weeks turned into several months. Every time I called the Transportation Office to find out what was going on, I was told they couldn't find my stuff. I finally ended up contacting my Mother-in-Law who worked in the Family Travel Office at Fort Bliss to see if she could contact the right people and find our stuff.

Household Goods Crate #1
She managed to locate one of the two crates into which our things had been packed. It was sitting in a warehouse in Bremerhaven, Germany. That crate was delivered to us within a week of her tracking it down. This had our brand new kitchen table - or at least the top part of it. The legs and the hardware to put it together was missing - presumably in the other, as yet unfound, crate. 

In one box we found our television set. It was a very nice Zenith 18-inch diagonal color model. At least that's what it was before it made the trip from El Paso to Germany in a box packed with a rake and a cinder block. Yes, you read that right: the T.V. was packed in a 5-foot long box with a rake and a cinder block ... oh, and a warehouse club-sized canister of powdered drink mix. Needless to say, it wasn't in working order when it arrived. (The lady at the claims office demanded I get an estimate for repairing the TV before she would process my claim. I ended up having to take the thing to her, pieces in a box, before she would believe it was unrepairable.) Most of our dishes and glassware was broken, too. They were merely stacked in a box with no paper wrapping, padding or anything else in the way of protection.

I'm happy to report, though, that the rake was completely undamaged and the cinder block only received a few minor scratches in transit.

Believe it or not: all the stuff in our junk drawer, including the envelope we kept coupons in, was neatly wrapped in bubble wrap. All of our markers, pens and miscellaneous stuff from that drawer made the move unscathed.

Our mattresses and bed frames arrived, but no headboards. The boy's toys made it, mostly in good condition. There were other odds and ends, including my guitar which was broken even though it was in a case and packed inside another box.

Oh, and half my CD collection was also in this crate. I had them in two of those faux wood three-drawer units alphabetized by artist name. A-M made arrived, but N-Z were missing. Half my VHS movie collection was also unaccounted for. We held out hope they were in the other crate.

Household Goods Crate #2
The other crate had a very long delay, indeed. We'd just about given up on it when I got a call at work one day with the news it had been found. It turns out this crate was on a ship which had been loaded up with supplies for the troops who were operating in Somalia at the time. The situation there caused the ship to be parked in the harbor off Mogadishu for six months. When the ship was finally released, it went on to Germany to drop off my, and presumably others', crates.

When the shipment finally arrived it was quite a welcome sight. Well, at least most of it. The packers in El Paso had been so efficient, they packed up the wastebasket from the kitchen - along with the trash inside of it. You can't imagine the small that issued forth from the box when it was unsealed. This was also carefully wrapped in bubble wrap.

The legs to the kitchen table were in the crate, but the hardware was still missing. Unfortunately, the nuts and bolts designed to hold it together were some custom made ones and irreplaceable (believe me, I tried to find some).  

Also missing were the CDs and VCR tapes along with several other high-value items. These were presumably stolen by the packers back in Texas as I later found that company lost their government contract because so many complaints were lodged against them.

In the end, I ended up with a huge mess and a check for $4500 to cover the damages. 

The Good News
When we moved back to the States, we had no damage and no loss. Even the antique china cabinet we got in Germany arrived unscathed.

Observations In Southeast Asia

Other than flying the missions I mentioned in Part 7 (link above), I really didn't get out much. We were in our camp in the middle of Saudi Arabia somewhere with nothing but desert all around us as far as they eye could see. It was a desolate place with not even as much vegetation as there was in the desert near Fort Bliss nor even in the Mojave Desert at the National Training Center near Barstow, California.

Still, there was a lot of life. Not much of is was very pleasant.

There were the dung beetles. Those guys were like ants in their work ethic. The would find a spherical piece of dung and push it across the desert to their hole. There was no stopping them (except, maybe, to squash them under foot).

The flies were relentless. Because of the dearth of moisture, they would fly around the nose, mouth and eyes seeking water and salt to consume. I joked that they were "Union" flies because they would only come out after the sun rose and they disappeared at sundown.

There were a number of different kinds of spiders, too. Although I don't remember having spider fights like depicted in the movie "Jarhead," I do remember once someone captured a spider and cut it in half. Before it died it turned and the "head" part attacked its own back end like it was another spider. It was aggressive to the end.

We heard stories about cobras and other kinds of snakes. I don't remember ever seeing one and was glad for it.

Now, my observations of the cultural aspects of the area aren't meant to be judgmental. They are merely my thoughts on the differences there compared to the U.S.

One of the few times I was able to leave the camp I was asked to accompany the supply sergeant to a nearby town to get some batteries. We drove to the town in one of our modified Chevy Blazers (called a CUCV). Much of the way was through the desert on a dirt road, much like the tank trails in the northern part of Fort Bliss. The rest was along a 2-lane highway. I was very surprised at poor condition of many of the more rural roads in Saudi Arabia. I remember thinking that a country with that much money coming in could certainly afford to have paved shoulders and filled-in potholes.

It was interesting to watch the truck drivers as sunset approached. Every truck pulled off the road and took a tea break before evening pray time. They would spread out blankets, join up in groups, stoke up fires for their tea pots and talk.

For us who didn't observe this Muslim custom, that was really the best time to drive around because no one was on the road.

The town we went to was rather plain. We were told that because most Saudis spend most of their time indoors, they don't spend much effort making the outsides of their homes beautiful, favoring spending most of their efforts on the insides. That made sense to me considering the climate.

The store we went to was one of those the front of the store was rather small, dominated by the counter where you told the shopkeeper what you wanted and he went into the back room to get it. No self-service in this place. It was a nice setup, though, as it encouraged conversation and interaction between those running the store and their customers. Of course, that would be more enjoyable without the language barrier.

I remember going outside to have a smoke and watching the traffic go by. At one point, a very small Toyota pickup truck drove by. That wasn't unusual in itself, though. Was was very different than what you might see in America was the one woman, dressed up in her burka, sitting in the bed of the truck while four men were crammed into the small cab. While that made sense to me as a student of the culture of the land, it still struck me as funny because there's no way those four guys could have been comfortable stuffed into the cab they way they were. I don't think it was really safe, either. It's hard enough trying to drive our Ford Ranger with me, my wife and my 14-year-old son in the cab. That Toyota was much smaller and there were four adult men in there. I wonder how the guy steered.

All of us got to take four days off at a camp set up somewhere near the coast in the eastern part of the country. It was nice to be able to relax and take it easy. There was a PX, vendors hawking everything from Saudi clothes to bootleg cassettes, and food that didn't come out of a pouch or a can. Oh, and hot showers. That was probably the best part of the experience.

As 1990 turned into 1991 things started to come to a head. Saddam refused to pull his army out of Kuwait and Desert Storm was about to kick off.

This is part 9 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - Holidays

By the time 1990 rolled around, I was certainly no stranger to being away from relatives on holidays. Note, I didn't write "loved ones" or "family." Those with whom I served were often like brothers or sisters to me; and, in many cases they were (and remain) closer than family to me. Those who have served understand what I'm talking about.

Still, there is a sense of loneliness when one is separated from familiar traditions, away from those with whom one grew up. This was especially so for me as I spent those holidays in Saudi Arabia.

I don't remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas, but I remember eating one holiday meal in the middle of a raging sand storm. We had goggles over our eyes and "dew rags" covering our noses and mouths as we made our way to where the mess folks were serving the turkey, ham and trimmings. I remember sitting in the large tent feeling rather glum as I ate my sandy food. It probably wasn't as bad as I remember, it being somewhat of a fleeting memory now.

One thing I do remember with great fondness is the camaraderie the twenty of us shared during our time leading up to the ground war. There were no secrets among us, as is often the case when people live together in close quarters spending just about every waking (and sleeping) moment together. We told stories about our misspent youths (some of those guys were wild men in their younger days), secrets we never told anyone else, our feelings (which is something men rarely talk about) and other things.

Our senior warrant officer pilot, who was dubbed "The Old Dog" by one of the crew chiefs, told us about some of his experiences as a CH-47 Chinook crew chief in Vietnam. They were personal, heart-felt stories about his own fears and triumphs during that time. He would often end the stories with something like, "I don't know why I'm telling you guys this, I've never told anyone about that." I think it was very good for him to get it out after so long.

I won't share any of his stories, as they are his, except for one. I remember one morning we were all discussing the great support we were getting from home. I've mentioned this a couple times in previous installments of this series. The Old Dog stopped us and related his story of returning home from Vietnam after his first tour. He told us how he landed at an Air Force base near Seattle, happy to be home and ready to be with family and friends. As he was going through the return processing, he was advised that he should change into civilian clothes before leaving the base to avoid confrontations with protesters.

He thought at the time it was their right to protest a war they found unjust, and he felt he was fighting for their right to do so. However, it was the more personal expressions of protest, the "Baby Killer" and "Murderer" signs that really hurt him. As I recall, he said he felt betrayed as the bus he was on left the base and people hurled insults, eggs and even a few rocks at the bus full of servicemen. I can't say I blame him for feeling that way.

He told us something like, "Yeah, everything is fine now. But, wait until the body bags start going home and people start getting hurt. All this support could dry up very quickly." I could sense the hurt in his voice as he related this to us. It was quite sobering. (You'll be glad to know there is a happy ending to this particular thread which I will relate in a later installment.)

To wrap things up, please remember our service men and women always - but especially during the holidays. My old unit, the 3rd ACR is in Iraq right now helping the people there establish their post-Saddam way of life. Check them out on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/3dACR. They're over there working hard doing things most of us wouldn't dream of doing.

This is part 8 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - THAT Day

During our time in Saudi Arabia we would, from time to time, be tasked to fly back and forth along the Saudi/Kuwait border. Although these missions became somewhat routine, they were just a little nerve wracking.

The reason they were nerve wracking was because we were flying along the border, between two opposing armies lined up, arrayed in preparation for battle. We flew over the Saudi side of the border, closer to our guys than theirs. Even so, when the pre-mission briefings included the phrase "keep an eye out the window and yell out if you see a missile headed our way" it made me just a little nervous.

This particular day started off routinely enough. My fellow crew member and I went out with the crew chief and did our part of the pre-flight maintenance check. We pulled a fuel sample, checked the mission equipment, made sure everything that was supposed to be there was there and stuff that wasn't supposed to be there wasn't.

On this particular day, the crew chief didn't fly the mission with us, so I took the role of standing outside while the pilots started the engines. This was always interesting to me. One of the crew members would stand outside with a little fire extinguisher and watch to make sure nothing was blocking the engine intakes while the engines started and ran up. What was with that little fire extinguisher? That was the question. I guess if something really went bad we could put out the fire on one person. I often thought one of those gigantic extinguishers with wheels would be more appropriate to have handy if there ever was a real fire. Thankfully that never happened.

We started up, took off and flew to the Regimental Headquarters to get the mission briefing. Our mission was to fly back and forth along the border for four hours. We went out to the helipad, fired up the bird and took off to do the mission.

Two things went wrong right away. First, I forgot the chock blocks on the helipad. I was supposed to grab them and put them on the floor behind my seat when I got in when the engines were started up and we were ready to go. It wasn't a terrible mistake since we would return there when our mission was complete, but it wasn't good. I didn't pay attention to detail - and it was rather embarrassing to have the folks tasking us to do the mission call to tell me I forgot them. Thankfully I had a radio in the back so the pilots didn't hear about it when they called.

Second the local Stinger team decided to use us to test their equipment. A Stinger was a small, vehicle mounted or shoulder fired antiaircraft missile. There were a few Stinger teams assigned to the regiment to protect against any enemy aircraft which might happen by.

I'm sure they didn't think they were doing anything wrong when they turned on their tracking devices and lit up the cockpit warning panel. The Scounger was the Pilot on Command on that mission. He started yelling and cussing over the intercom and hollered at me to call back to the headquarters and tell the Stinger guys to cut it out. He rarely raised his voice under normal circumstances, so I could tell he was very angry about it.

Off we went to the border and started flying back and forth. Normally, on this type of mission, we would fly along a preplanned path in more or less a straight line, turn around and follow basically the same path back and turn around again. The pilots called this flying "idiot circles."

During this particular mission, about an hour into it and just a little bit before we came to the turn around point, the aircraft dumped over to the left and we started spiraling downward very rapidly. Now, sometimes the pilots got a little bored doing "idiot circles" and would do some fun maneuvers while turning around. Part of me thought that was why we were dropping and spinning, but part of me thought something else was up.

My fellow crew member, Tom, liked the more, shall we say, aerobatic maneuvers. While we were spinning and diving, I could hear him yelling at the top of his voice "YEAH! GET SOME!" He was yelling so loud I could hear him over all the noise in the aircraft - and that was pretty loud.

We leveled off and flew straight for just a few seconds and then we dumped over to the right and started diving and spinning again. This time the thoughts that something wasn't quite right started winning out over the thoughts that the pilots were merely bored. Those thoughts were confirmed when the copilot, "Digger," came over the intercom in a very calm and level voice: "Hey guys. In case you're wondering why we're doing this. We got a missile warning and we're trying to shake it."

The first thing through my mind after he said that was, "Hey, don't stop on my account!"

Looking back on it, what really gets me is Digger's calm and cool tone. This was, obviously, a very stressful situation and he sounded as cool and collected as if we were sitting around and talking about the weather.

The Scrounger, however, didn't take it so calmly. Once we got close to the ground, we started heading back to the Regimental Headquarters. He came over the intercom cussing and swearing again telling us we were headed home for the day. I can't say I blame him too much. By this time I pretty much had it that day myself.

When we got the the headquarters we went in to talk to the people they wondered and why we came home early. After we explained to them what happened they seemed to understand and let us be done for the day. We headed back to the airfield without further incident.

It was THAT kind of day.

This is part 7 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - Still Waiting

Our daily routine during Desert Shield (which was the build-up phase of the war before Desert Storm officially commenced on January 16, 2001) was fairly sedate. The "OPTEMPO" (Operations Tempo) was rather relaxed. We did have time for side projects as I described in my last installment, but there were "Army" things to do, too.

Guard duty first comes to mind. Doing guard duty was so ingrained in Army life that one's first experience with it comes during basic training. Our time in the desert was certainly no exception to this.

Our platoon was assigned to help the Motor Pool folks guard the "gate" at the southeast portion of the perimeter. There were two troopers on guard at that location at all times, a non-commissioned officer (NCO) and a lower-enlisted person. We had enough people around that we were hit with a two-hour shift about once every 4-5 days. One person was stationed near the gate who was responsible to stop vehicles and check for proper response to the challenge of the day. The other person sat in a small bunker set up about 250 feet away with the M-60 machine gun covering the person on the gate. Each person would put in an hour at each point, sharing the responsibility. A camouflage net was set up near the gate so the person there had at least a little shade. The bunker, as I recall, was rather comfortable to sit in.

On one of my first shifts at the gate, someone from the regiment's support squadron stopped by to drop off food and pick up trash. Of course, he didn't know the proper response to the password. I tried to call the mess sergeant to get him to come and verify the person's identity, but no one would answer. The sergeant driving the truck was rather angry that I wouldn't let him through, but I didn't know who he was - and "orders is orders." The way I looked at it, he should have checked for the proper response before he left.

I remember one day we got quite a surprise. We were hanging around our area, probably playing cards or something, when we heard shots fired from the M-60 in the direction of the gate. We all grabbed our rifles and ran towards the gate. When we go there we found one of the sergeants from the motor pool yelling at the young man behind the M-60. There were two things wrong with this situation:

1. There was no one anywhere near the gate other than the two guys on guard.
2. The sergeant doing the yelling was one of the most easy-going guys on the planet. None of us had ever heard him raise his voice, ever.

This was quite an unusual event. Later we found out that the guy behind the '60 was fooling around and wondered what would happen "... if I turned off the safety and pulled the trigger." Well, he found out. He shot four or five rounds towards the sergeant, all of which missed (thankfully) and hit the ground about 5 feet in front of him. I can't say I blame him for being upset.

Another of our "hobbies" was burying commo wire. Commo wire was what we used to connect our field phones to the squadron's switchboard in the motor pool tent. It was a double-strand cable with plastic insulation, rather similar to 20-gauge speaker wire.Using the field phone it was possible to call any unit within the perimeter. Of course, wire simply laid on the ground would be tripped over and damaged quite easily. It was also standard procedure to hide common wire, and burying it was the easiest way to protect and hide the wire.

Other than the area where engineers had moved the sand aside to expose the bedrock for the flight line, the entire camp was like a huge sandbox with the sand being several inches to several feet deep. The problem with burying something in the sand is that it tends to work its way up and out eventually. This is especially true when the wind blows incessantly and people are walking on top of what you buried. This meant we had to bury the entire length of wire from our camp are to the switchboard every two or three days. That was a hot, sweaty job.

We also had to build fighting positions for the members of our platoons. For the first go 'round, we dug a small trench, lined it with sand bags and put a roof over it. This was similar to a "traditional" type fighting position, except that it held about 10 people.

Later, one of the pilots (our scrounger) thought it would be a great idea to build a bunker. His plan was that we would have some engineers dig a large hole with a backhoe, build a small building inside the hole, and then have the engineers backfill the hole with a bulldozer.

After the engineers dug our hole, we spent a couple weeks building the building. We had some pretty smart folks who were very handy with tools. Because of my lack of tool prowess, I was merely unskilled labor. We put together quite a nice little building, though. It was quite a sturdy structure - until the bulldozer pushed the sand back into the hole. Although the guys who designed the structure were pretty smart about how to put up a sturdy structure, they weren't engineers and forgot to take into account the weight of the sand pushing against the outside walls. Once the bulldozer shoved the sand back into the hole, the building twisted and collapsed. Although it was a bit of a waste, we did learn something from it. And, it was a great way to pass the time doing something constructive.

We also did some running to stay in shape. There were some roads worn cut through the squadron area which were suitable for running. We ran around the roads, sometimes with our backpacks on. This was best done early in the morning or late in the evening when it was cooler.

We had some flight missions during this time. More on that next time.

This is part 6 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - The Wait Is on

We found ourselves in the middle of the desert in the Middle of Saudi Arabia. The area was barren and featureless; so much so that maps of the area were nothing more than brown pieces of paper with grid lines and the occasional elevation marking. There was nothing as far as the eye could see, other than the camel herds led around by Bedouins which passed by from time to time.

It was here that Longknife Squadron made it's home for the next three months. We carved out a spot in the desert where engineers had fashioned a flight line by pushing aside the sand and exposing the bedrock below. The entire squadron was arranged in an oblong circle, longer on the east and west sides and shorter at the north and south. The flight line ran along the western side while our platoon's camp was situated on the southwest side near one of the entrance points. The entire circle was surrounded by triple strands of razor wire (which we called "concertina wire").

When we first arrived, of course, there was nothing but vehicles and aircraft. We soon started putting together a reasonably comfortable camp for ourselves. One of the pilots was an expert scrounger. He managed to get us sheets of plywood to make nice floors for our tents as well as some hooches for some of the guys and a large storage closet for the goodies we received. He also managed to "procure" quite a bit of other lumber for building projects (2x4s and 4x4s).

As time went on we made improvements to the area. We built a nice place at one end of the our site we called our "breakfast nook." This was a patio-like area with a large crate for table where we had our morning  coffee and breakfast time. The benches around the crate were fashioned somewhat like a picket fence as the backs of the seating bench with wooden seats. The large area really resembled a scale model of an Old West Town, so we christened it "Quickfix, Arizona."

For the first part of our stay there, we were only allowed to work in the mornings until around 11 AM or Noon. Work stopped then because it was just too hot. At 4 PM work could commence again.

Not that there was too much work to do. I've heard it said that war is nothing more than hour upon hour of sheer boredom punctuated by brief periods of sheer terror. In this case, the boredom lasted for months. Thankfully we had our projects to keep us busy. We also had daily games of cards (Spades and Cribbage were the most popular), Risk (we played A LOT of Risk), personal reading and answering the many letters we got from home addressed to "Any Soldier." We got so many letters from complete strangers we couldn't possibly have answered them all. After a while we divided up those letters and only answered those which came from our home states. If you sent a letter and didn't get a "Thank you," please consider this your thanks - your support was greatly appreciated.

Our main project was making sure we had some creature comforts. One of these was a shower. It was interesting that a company-sized unit with only twelve members was afforded a separate shower in their area, while our platoon with twenty members was forced to share a similar shower facility with the rest of our troop, which had over over 100 members. Thanks to some creative thinking, we built our own two-stall shower. It consisted of wooden pallets for the floors and ceiling, a 2x4 framework and plywood for the walls. At first we used camping shower bags for a water source. Later, someone took the rubber hoses off the shower bags and attached them to metal drums mounted to the roof of the shower. A frame was built over which plastic map overlay material was wrapped making for a very nice solar heater.

Next to the shower was our laundry area. We had some large containers, which I believe were for carrying some of the aircrafts' equipment during shipping, which we used for washing and rinsing our clothes. Someone in the group fashioned "T" poles from 4x4s and strung up a clothesline. Clothes dried very quickly in the hot Saudi sun.

For whatever reason, the squadron leadership didn't think it appropriate that we should have our own shower and demanded we give it to another unit. After threatening to burn it down (after all, we procured the materials and built the thing) they relented, only to forbid the water truck from filling it a few days later. Some quick thinking (and some bribes from our "Goody Locker") soon solved that problem.

The Goody Locker was where we stored the largess of the bounty from the support we received from folks back home. We had more candy, cookies (and other assorted baked goods), gum, toilet paper, baby wipes, cigarettes (but not smokeless tobacco), powdered drink mixes, tea bags and other items than we could possibly use. We shared quite a bit of our bounty and used a lot for trading.

For example, I once wrote home that I was tired of the toilet paper the Army gave us because it was similar in texture to 20-grit sandpaper. A few weeks later I got a case (that's 24 rolls) of an extra soft name-brand toilet paper in the mail. Needless to say, that was quite a popular item. Another time I mentioned we had a TV and VCR along with a generator to run them, but no movies. A few weeks later I got a box from home containing a dozen or so VCR movies my sister and her class at school scrounged from home or from video rental places. All of us got stuff like this - and I am quite grateful to this day for that support. It really did make life a lot more bearable.

That's not to say the Army didn't take care of us. We were supplied large quantities of bottled water, a daily ration of ice, food, clothes and shelter. We would have survived quite nicely without the help from home, but it helped made things a whole lot better.

There are a lot of "Army" things to do, too. I'll cover those in the next installment so you don't get the idea we lazed around the whole time we were waiting for the shooting war to start.

This is part 5 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - It's HOT In Saudi Arabia

It was an October morning when we landed in Saudi Arabia. The air was already cooling in the West Texas Desert we left, but not on the Arabian Peninsula. It had to be in the 90s already when we arrived mid-morning on that day.

When the flight attendants opened the door, all the moisture in the aircraft was sucked out and you could feel the dryness on your skin. If you've ever flown to El Paso or Las Vegas, you know the feeling. It was more intense over there, though. It made me think of the science fiction book Dune. I was half expecting to be issued a "still suit" to recover water from my body.

I had a reason to be wary of working in such an environment.

Extreme heat and I have been enemies for a long time. Growing up in Michigan, I really didn't spend too much time in temperatures above 95 or so degrees. My time in the Army, though, was another story.

During my initial training I attended a school near San Angelo, Texas. Towards the end of our time there, we had a field training exercise which they called "Armydillo." It was a weekend trip to the desert to participate in "Army" activities such as digging foxholes and forced marches. I was careful to make sure I drank enough water to stay hydrated and taking breaks in the shade when told to. My tent mate, on the other hand, was a bit of a goof and brought two canteens full of Sloe Gin with him. I'm sure he had more fun than I did.

It was the hottest day in history for that September day in that part of Texas. I think the heat index (temperature eith humidity taken into account) was 110 degrees. We were all hot an miserable, and I more so than the others. I wasn't totally aware of it at the time, but I have a propensity to suffer easily from heat exhaustion (AKA heat prostration). I get to a point where my brain starts to shut down and I act as if drunk. Later, my cohorts in Saudi Arabia got to know my peculiar "thousand yard stare" and knew when I needed assistance.  On this particular day, though, none of us were quite prepared for how I was to spend the latter parts of that Saturday outside San Angelo.

I don't remember too much of what happened in the latter part that day. A lot of what I think I remember may have been related to me after the fact. Things started going downhill for me during the forced march. I remember walking in a staggered formation along with my fellow soldiers and being cold. I think I may have mentioned to someone that I was cold and was glad they made us pack our jackets even though it seemed a silly idea to haul around a jacket in September in Texas. Someone grabbed a medic, who forced me to sit on the side of the road while he poured water over my head. I remember the cool water hitting my body was very painful.

Because the only ambulance available was already transporting someone who fell and broke their leg to the hospital, I had to walk back to where we made our camp. I don't remember much about the walk, other than I remember it was more of a drunken stagger (picture a scene from a movie or TV show where someone is trudging through the desert). When we got back to the camp, the medic had my classmates help me to the just-returned ambulance so I could be further evaluated. I don't remember doing so, but my classmates later told me I had some very choice words for our instructor and told the chaplain to "F*** off" when he asked how I was doing. That was totally out of character for me, so my friends knew I wasn't doing very well. I'm also told that while I was laying in the back of the ambulance, one of my classmates tried to loosen up my belt and shirt and I took a swing at him. Again, this is totally against my nature.

The rest of the afternoon and evening is a blur. The next thing I definitely remember was waking up in the hospital with IVs running into each arm. The doctor told me that I came as close to having heat stroke as one could without actually having it. It mattered little to me at the time as I felt like I'd been hit by a truck.

Fast forward to Saudi Arabia. I'd had heat exhaustion many times up to this point, so I warned my compatriots to watch out for me. I was fortunate that my platoon mates looked out for me quite well. There were 3 or 4 of them who were trained as combat medics to give IVs. When I got to a certain point, they'd know to hit me up for practice. Here's a snap of one such instance (thanks for Spiffyd for the picture):

Yup, that's me on the cot. This was taken sometime during the months we were in Central Saudi Arabia waiting for either Saddam to capitulate or the shooting war to start.

I like to joke around that I had so many IVs during our months over there that I looked like a junkie with track marks when we returned to The States. It wasn't too far from the truth, though.

This is part 4 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - More Preparations

I cannot overemphasize the great help my friends, family and the entire community around Fort Bliss were to me and my fellow troopers. I cannot imagine having pulled off a success deployment such as we did without the support of those dedicated civilians who took on the cause of helping out. Here are some examples:

1. The folks at the Sun City Amateur Radio Club (K5WPH) were good friends and helped me out quite a bit. They were among the first to offer their support to help me get anything I needed for the trip. I especially need to single out John and Jeannie who offered to let me park my truck in their yard and their willingness to let me borrow their truck during the final days before we left.
2. GEICO Insurance: I was renting an apartment when we received notice to deploy. I moved all my worldly possessions into a storage unit and they were very nice about letting me transfer my renter policy to cover the storage unit even though they don't do that kind of thing. I appreciated it very much. (If their rates were more competitive I'd still be a customer!)
3. The manager of the Wallington Plaza Apartments where I lived was nice enough to let me out of my lease even though I didn't have a set of paper orders sending me away. A deployment isn't quite the same as a permanent change of station.
4. The El Paso Independent School District was nice enough to pair some of us up with elementary school students who were great about sending us care packages and mail. Although the sheer volume of mail we got there was astounding (more about that later), it was very nice to get mail from someone I met in person.
5. Of course, my family was great before and after I deployed. My mom and step-dad and my dad flew out to visit me for a few days before we left. Thankfully we had enough time getting ready that they had the opportunity to come down for a visit.

I know there are some I missed who were very helpful. Please accept my apologies for not singling you out. These are just the ones that stick out in my mind 20 years later.

We got all packed up and ready. By the time we actually got on a plane to go it was October. So in all, it took the better part of three months to make ready and leave.

On the day we left we met up in the large hangar on Biggs Army Airfield (across from the hangar where our aircraft and offices were housed) and waited. This was one of those famous Army "Hurry Up And Wait" occasions. I remember we were supposed to get on the plane early in the morning and ended up waiting until sometime in the late afternoon before our plane finally arrived to take us to Germany.

I don't remember much about the flight to Rhein-Main Air Base (near Frankfurt, Germany). We may have stopped somewhere along the way for fuel, but I my memory is a bit fuzzy on the details. I do remember everyone on the flight crew was very nice. One of the pilots in the group ended up getting the address of one of the flight attendants, with whom he corresponded regularly while we were overseas.

In Frankfurt, we deplaned and waited for our flight to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. This is a port city in the east, central part of Saudi Arabia. There were tents set up with recreation areas and mess facilities. I remember parking in front of a TV watching Armed Forces Network while we waited for our flight out. More "Hurry Up And Wait."

View Larger Map

I remember the vast number of commercial aircraft parked in a row as we walked out to our plane. There were a large number of wide-bodied aircraft such as 747, DC-10 and such. I think we walked a couple miles down the flight line before we got to the plane which was to take us on the final leg of our trip.

All in all, it took about three days to get where we were going. And this was really just the beginning.

This is part 3 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Desert Storm - Getting Ready To Go

After we were officially told we were being deployed to the Middle East, preparations started in earnest. There were personal preparations as well as packing up our platoon's gear and equipment. It takes a lot of work to get an armored cavalry unit across the ocean with all its heavy vehicles.

Rail loading our trucks wasn't hard, but it was rather tough on me. Apparently, the wood on the flat cars is covered with some kind of pine tar to which I am allergic. My nose ran like crazy the two days we were working on the rail head.

Personal preparations included getting lots of shots. The worst one was the Gamma Globulin. This fun consisted of two shots given simultaneously in both buttocks. The reasoning for two simultaneous injections? I was told because they hurt so much after the first one, too many people were opting out of the second. Oh yes, it hurt a lot - for three days. I was reminded of the horror every time I pressed in the clutch of my truck.

As the preparations when on, the members of our platoon were given the opportunity to have a going away picnic. While we were having our picnic with friends and family, someone from the squadron's operations office came to the park to tell us that the FORSCOM Commander (General Edwin Burba) was visiting Fort Bliss and specifically wanted to see our platoon's aircraft. We packed up the picnic, ran home to change into our uniforms and headed over to the air field for the "Canine & Equestrian Show."

All of us met back up at our hangar and plugged a ground power unit into one the aircraft so we could turn on the equipment and show all the flashing lights. We waited for at least an hour before the General, the Regimental Commander, the Squadron Commander, our Lieutenant and a host of other officers made their way to where we were waiting.

Our LT gave a short briefing, the "elevator pitch" if you will, about our aircraft's purpose and capabilities. Everyone nodded and smiled - until The Question came up. The General asked, "Are you men ready to go?"

That's when our platoon sergeant (PSG) spoke up. "No, sir, we are not."

The General turned to him with a puzzled look on his face. No doubt, this was not the answer he was looking for. The color drained from the LT's face as the faces of the other leaders in our chain of command turned very red.

"Well, Sergeant, what seems to be the problem?"

The PSG went on to explain that in order to do our jobs properly, we needed to be trained in the Arabic Language. Since we were all Czech linguists, we would be less than useless to the regiment's mission. He stated that in order for the platoon to work properly we'd either need to go to school to learn Arabic (which would mean several months of intensive training) or we would need to turn our platoon equipment over to some who were already proficient in Arabic.

The General thought for a moment, turned to the other officers in the entourage and asked, "Is this true?" The LT spoke up, "Yes, sir. This is true. The men are willing to do whatever they can to help the mission, but as it stands they are not properly trained."

The General said, "Well, we'll have to look into this. Thank you." And, he turned and walked away.

I was rather shocked. Of course, the PSG was correct. I was quite surprised he didn't drop dead on the spot, with most everyone in the General's group staring at him with looks that could kill.

In the end, we still ended up deploying (of course, or there wouldn't be much reason for me to write this). The linguist problem was solved somewhat after we arrived in country.

In the meantime, we kept on working to get ready to go.

This is part 2 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

Another Inspection Story

Inspections were a way of life in the military service. Uniform inspections, room inspections, barracks inspections, vehicle inspections ... lots of inspections. During my time in the Army, one of the worst was the dreaded I.G. Inspection.

I never understood who the I.G. was who was doing the inspecting. "I.G." stood for "Inspector General," but the Inspector General him/herself never actually showed up to do the inspections, it was always a bunch of sergeants. And they inspected everything. Unlike the normal inspections by First Sergeants, Commanders and whatnot, these guys moved furniture around, took mirrors off the walls, pulled covers off light fixtures and generally dug around all over the place. A fine-toothed comb doesn't even come close to describing what they did during their inspections.

One way to reduce the time spent in the room was to wax the floor to a very high shine. Apparently the shiny floor distracted them and kept them from digging around too much. Under normal circumstances, for normal inspections, the regular emulsion wax the Army supplied with a quick buff was good enough. For the I.G. inspection, though, some extra effort was needed.

The best trick to get the floor to shine almost like a mirror was to use Johnson Paste Wax. The exact method was passed from soldier to soldier. Here's the steps as I remember them - and don't try this at home:

• Make a handle for the can out of a wire hanger. The handle can be fashioned a number of ways so long as it holds the can securely when held upright and tilted to the side.
• Attach the handle to the can and open the can.
• Light the wax on fire and allow some to melt.
• Put the lid back on the can to extinguish the flames.
• Pour a small amount of wax on the clean, dry floor in strategic locations around the room.
• Buff the wax into the floor using a floor buffer with the brush attached.
• Buff the floor again, only this time cover the brush with a woolly toilet seat cover.

With a little practice, you could have the floor almost good enough to shave with.

Oh, I forgot to mention this practice was strictly forbidden - for reasons you will soon plainly see.

I mentioned earlier that this trick was passed on from soldier to soldier. One time, I remember, it didn't work out quite so well for one guy. We were getting ready for the "Big Inspection." A few of us chipped in for a can of Johnson Wax and took turns with the buffer and the toilet seat cover. A new guy who just moved in across the hall was wondering what we were doing, lighting wax on fire and pouring the liquid onto the floor. We explained to him it was to get the floor as shiny as possible. He caught onto the idea quickly enough, so a couple of us "more experienced" guys gave him the quick rundown on how to do it. He decided he'd surprise his new roommates by waxing the floor while they were at chow.

We finished our floor and were relaxing after a hard day's work, when we hear a panicked "Oh shit!" from the room across the hall, immediately followed by what sounded like a fire extinguisher being discharged. We looked at each other, wide eyed, and ran out of our room into the hallway. There stood the new guy, fire extinguisher in hand, smoke floating out of the door to his room and into the hallway.

"How do you guys do that without lighting the whole building on fire?" was the question he asked. You see, we didn't exactly spell out to him the fourth step in my instructions above - "Put the lid back on the can to extinguish the flames." He misunderstood and thought we poured the BURNING LIQUID WAX onto the floor WHILE STILL ALIGHT.

The tragedy was lost on us as we had a good laugh at his expense. After the howling died down we got together and scrounged up a couple of extra blankets to replace the ones he partially torched so at least his roommates wouldn't have to explain to the I.G. why their bedding was singed and smelled of smoke. Unfortunately, he had to replace one roommates expensive gold-plated stereo cable out of his own pocket.

Desert Storm - The Beginning

I remember it rather well. On Thursday, August 2, 1990 I was stationed with the 3rd ACR at Fort Bliss, Texas. I got home from work that day and was ready to settle in for an evening of television.

Being single, I lived on ramen noodles and tuna fish along with peanut butter. Good stuff, that was.

I was living in my first apartment, which I rented shortly after arriving in El Paso after three years in Augsburg, Germany. I had already been at Ft. Bliss before and asked to go back. I had friends there and I wanted to go someplace familiar.

I turned on the evening news in time to see the headlines of the day. Iraqi forces under Saddam Hussein invaded and annexed their neighbor Kuwait. This action brought immediate and strong condemnation from most of the other countries of the world.

I remember thinking to myself that we were going over there. At least I was pretty sure the U.S. would end up sending troops over. I had no idea how big this was going to get and I certainly wasn't sure whether or not my unit would be sent over.

The next day all the talk was of the pending war. Many of the people I worked with were anxious to go. I was not. I knew the odds of the 3rd ACR going were pretty good, but nothing was certain. In those first days there was talk of 3 divisions being deployed, and those would probably deploy from Europe (since they were already half-way there). It took a few weeks for the full scope of the operation to take shape - and for the full scope of overwhelming force to be fully appreciated.

I don't remember when we got the official word we were going. It may have been up to a month later. We'd already started planning and packing "just in case." No sense in waiting until the last minute, "just in case," and it did keep us busy while we waited.

This is part 1 in a series. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

My Most Embarrassing Moment

Back in the '80s I was in the Army and assigned to the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment at Fort Bliss, Texas. Sometime during my duty there, one of the Regiment's squadrons was assigned the new M1 Abrams tank. After some training on the new equipment, the Regimental commander decided to have a mock war pitting one squadron equipped with the older M60 tanks against the regiment equipped with the new tanks.

During this particular mock war, I was working in a command post on the side with the old tanks. One afternoon, right before lunch, we got a call on the radio that the "enemy" was headed our way and we needed to get ready to move. Given that information and seeing the dust cloud in the direction the opposing force would come from, we packed up our stuff and got ready to go.

During these training exercises, we could watch an approaching cloud of dust and estimate how long it would take before the cloud arrived. After doing this for a few years we were pretty good at it, too. In this case, we figured we had about 30 minutes before the "enemy" tanks arrived. I thought that since we had some time before we were going to move, I would take the opportunity for a nature call.

In those days, for the most part, there were no portable restrooms out in the desert training area. We would grab a roll of toilet paper and a shovel and do our thing behind a sand dune. We dug a "cat hole" in the sand, stacked up the shovel and our rifle so the rifle stood muzzle up. This kept sand out of the barrel and also made the weapon a dandy toilet paper holder. All the comforts of home.

There I was, hind end bared to the desert, in mid - well - business when, suddenly, I heard what sounded like a jet passing low right behind me. It startled me, but I was not able to do much more than finish what I started. I didn't think about it too much since it wasn't all that unusual for jets to make low passes over this part of the southern New Mexico desert. After the sound passed behind me, though, it went off to my right, fading only slightly into the distance. Then, the sound turned and started headed back towards me. This would have been strange for a jet plane since they required a lot more room to turn around. After a couple of seconds, a brand-new M1 Abrams tank came screaming out from behind a sand dune and stopped dead about 25 yards in front of me.

To anyone but the most unobservant, it was quite obvious what I was doing. The people in that tank crew, unfortunately, weren't so unobservant. The hatch closest to me on the top of the turret flew open and out popped one of the crew members. He turned, pointed at me and started to laugh. He grabbed the machine gun, aimed it at me and fired (shooting blanks, of course). My only consolation was that he was laughing so hard, he would have, no doubt, missed me completely if he had been shooting real ammunition. There's no way anyone could shoot straight in full belly-laugh, guffawing as he was.

The man dropped back into the tank, the hatch closed and the tank accelerated away - sounding remarkably like a jet plane.

Left alone, I finished my business, including the paperwork, assembled what little dignity I had left and slowly made my way back to the folks in my group who were gathered around our vehicles. They were ready to leave, waiting only for my return so we could mount up and head out. Since we were all "dead" we were required to immediately leave the battle area to a place designated for mock casualties. We drove away in humiliation - I much more than the others.

It didn't take long for word to get around that someone had been killed while taking a nature call. The tank crew reported it to their command, who reported it to their command, and so on and so on. By the time we got to the casualty area I was the butt of many jokes going around (pun intended). Thankfully, not too many people knew it was me, and my comrades in arms were very nice to keep the identity of the "crapping casualty" a secret.

Desert Storm/Desert Shield 20th Anniversary

2010 Marks the 20th Anniversary of the beginning of the war in the Persian Gulf which was known as Desert Storm. On August 2, 1990 Iraqi forces commanded by Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, an action which brought the world against them and me on a free trip to the Middle East courtesy of Uncle Sam.

I've been regaling you with stories from my military career in this space for some time now. This year I will focus on some of the stories, some humorous and some not, which happened during that time.

To kick things off, I refer you to the story of someone else, Mark Murphy - someone I've never met. He put some of his Desert Shield/Desert Storm experiences on line back in 2007. Please check out "Eye Of The Desert Storm." I found his stories interesting and I suspect you will, too.

The Inspection

For a time during my Army career I was assigned to the 66th MI Company, 3rd Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment. At that time, the 3rd ACR was at Ft Bliss, TX, just outside El Paso.

My roommate Jim and I were both from the Detroit area. We tried to bring as much Motor City culture as well as creature comforts with us into our barracks room. When the First Sergeant said we could have cable TV, we had it hooked up within days so we could watch hockey. When we asked for a phone, he gave permission for that as well, provided we paid the bill.

We had things set up very nicely. At the time ESPN carried the NHL nationally, so we had "Hockey Night in Texas" on whatever evening they had a game. That was a night for pizza and beer.

And, not just any beer. I've always been a bit of a beer snob (much so since living in Europe, too), so we weren't drinking just any crappy beer. No, we had to have Molson Canadian. We found one store on the west side of El Paso who would see us Molson Canadian - but he had to special order it and would only sell it to us by the case.

That wouldn't have been a problem, except that the rules our unit had was that there could be only one six-pack of beer per person in a barracks room at any given time. With 24 bottles in a case, that meant two six-packs per person. We felt it was worth the risk, though. After all, what were we to do about it?

Over one Christmas holiday Jim and I both went to Michigan on leave. When we returned, we headed out to our favorite store to purchase our Molson beer. The proprietor informed us that he was closing up for a couple of weeks to go on vacation, so he got us two cases of Molson in case we wanted extra while he was gone. Of course, we took him up on his kind offer.

I had a small dorm refrigerator in which we kept our beer. In good military fashion, all the bottles were lined up neatly inside with the maple leaves on the caps pointed upwards; neat and orderly. Since I just came back from Michigan, I also had the extra room in the refrigerator stuffed with Vernors Ginger Ale, a soft drink which was not available in El Paso at the time.

The Monday we went down and outside for our first morning formation. When we assembled together, we were told the barracks people were going to have a Health And Welfare Inspection. During a "Health And Welfare" the people would go inside and stand outside their rooms until the Commander and First Sergeant came in. Then they went inside their rooms, opened their wall lockers and stood by while the Command, First Sergeant, Platoon Sergeant, and just about anyone else with stripes or bars who cared to would go through all their stuff looking for contraband and checking for cleanliness.

When we got upstairs, Jim and I took our team sergeants aside and let them know we had more than the permissible amounts of beer in our rooms. While in the middle of explaining why we had the extra beer, the Commander and his entourage arrived to check our room. They already weren't too happy as they found more than a few two-liter bottles of pee in the locker of one person who lived in the room across the hall. Apparently he was too lazy to walk down the hall to the latrine when he needed to pee in the middle of the night. I'm glad he wasn't my roommate.

As the people went through our stuff, Jim and I were summoned into the room. The C.O. queried me, "Specialist, why do you have a case of beer in your wall locker? I'm sure you're well aware of the rules about how much beer you can have in your room."

"Um, well, Sir, it's like this; we like to drink Molson Canadian beer. Only one store in town will sell it to us and the guy who runs the place special orders it for us, so we have to buy it by the case."

"Oh, I think we can let that go. What do you say, First Sergeant?" I don't recall what he said, but I assume he agreed.

They made their way to Jim's locker and found two more six-packs in his locker. "I understand one case, but there's another two six-packs in here. What's going on with that."

Jim responded to this one. "Well, Sir, the guy who runs the store we purchase the beer from closed his store for two week to go on vacation. Since we're regular customers, he was nice enough to buy two cases so we wouldn't run out while he's gone. He was so nice about taking care of us, we didn't want to refuse."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's OK."

Then he went to the refrigerator.

"More beer?"

"Yes, Sir," Jim responded. "We have to buy by the case, so we have two cases total."

"Oh, I see," the C.O. replied as he looked back into the refrigerator. "Hey, you've got Vernors in here."

"Yes, Sir," I responded. "I just came back from Michigan, so I stocked up on some while I was up there."

"Wow, I haven't seen that in years. I grew up in Ohio and we drank that all the time."

"Would you like one?"

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Please," I said, "I've got plenty. Help yourself."

"Well, Thank you. I won't drink it now, it's a bit early. I'll have it with lunch."

Then the phone rang.

Neither Jim nor I answered since we were in the middle of an inspection. After four or five rings the C.O. finally asked, "You've got a phone in here, too? Are one of you guys going to answer it?"

I picked up the receiver. It was my mom.

"Hi. Oh, hi mom."

"Oh, I'm fine. Things are going well."

"Yes. Hey, mom. We're in the middle of an inspection. Can I call you back later?"

"No, it's OK. You didn't know. Yes, I'll call you later."

"OK. Love you, too. Bye."

"You guys are living the 'Life of Reilly' up here, aren't  you? Well, everything looks OK here." And with that the entourage left.

In Memory: Richard Flick

I just found out that one of the men I served with during Desert Storm/Desert Shield was killed in an auto accident in 2006. I was informed of his passing by a mutual friend. Although I'd not had any contact with him since 1992, news of his death still struck me.

Rich Flick was a friendly, funny guy. When I met him he was full of youthful exuberance and excellent at what he put his hands to. He was a quick learner and eager to participate in whatever tasks were going on. He was quick with a joke and often made me laugh out loud.

• If I recall correctly, he was the one who nicknamed me "Uncle B."
• I, and the others in the platoon, called him "Flickster."
• Also, if I recall correctly, he was the guy I was told who barfed on Cloudcroft, New Mexico. Supposedly, he was on a training flight and got air sick, and, rather than barf inside the cabin (a big "no-no") he opted to open the door and let loose over a parking lot in the town.
• He and another guy were party animals for a time when we returned from the Middle East. Like I mentioned above, he was full of youthful exuberance when I knew him. There was no way I could have kept up with the pace those two guys maintained.
• At a bar-b-que held at another of our platoon member's home, he and three other guys tossed me into the pool. I remember it scared my, then, 2-year-old son because he thought they were hurting me. Far from it, though. We all had a good laugh over it. At least the host of the party was kind enough to empty my pockets before they tossed me in so my stuff didn't get ruined.
• He could also be very quiet and contemplative. He was very generous, too.

It was nice to read about the accomplishments he made since the time we served together. I would rather have read them under very different circumstances, though. 

He was a good man.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/houstonchronicle/obituary.aspx?n=richard-edward-flick&pid=17397994

Professor Slavitsky's English Lesson

Warning: This story makes many references to the "F-word." Although I will make this as family-friendly as possible, some might be offended.

While I learned Czech at the Defense Language Institute, one of our teachers was a linguistics professor in (at the time) Czechoslovakia, Dr. Slavitsky.

One day, Dr. Slavitsky came into class and announced to us: "I just watched 'Eddie Murphy: Raw' and I have a number of questions about this word F***. He uses it as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and adverb, an exclamation and in many other ways I simply do not understand. Will you please explain this 'f***' to me?" He held up the video as he said this.

Of course, being rough and tough young soldiers, all of us in the class were well-versed in the use of the F-word. Because all of us were from different parts of the country, we also had knowledge of the unique way the f-word is used in different parts of the US. It was natural for us to be able to fully explain to Dr. Slavitsky the proper (or, more appropriately, improper) use of it in colloquial speech.

Also, most of us having seen "Eddie Murphy: Raw" we knew what the good doctor was referring to when he mentioned the different parts of speech in which the f-word was used. Being rather current and fresh in our minds, we were more than able to discuss this as an intellectual pursuit.

Each of us, in turn, went to the chalk board and wrote down a sentence or two using the f-word which we either remembered from the video or from our own vast experience using the word. We would go over our sentence, explaining in detail what the sentence meant, and answer any questions Dr. Slavitsky might have. Of course, each question led to a different sentence, which led to more explanation, which led to even more instances of the f-word being written on the board.

Over the course of the hour, as we talked, Dr. Slavitsky took copious notes in the composition notebook he always carried. He wrote furiously, diagramming sentences and making arrows and underlining things he wrote as we emphasized certain points of "grammar." All in all I think he learned more English slang that day than a normal student of American English might learn in a month. He took it all in, occasionally looking up and saying, "Yes, yes, go on."

At the end of the hour, he thanked us for helping him better understand the f-word and left us to our next teacher. Our next teacher just happened to be our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Lang.

Mrs. Lang was a wonderful lady, who I describe as being "grandmotherly." Indeed, she was old enough to be a grandmother to most of us in the class. She was a proper lady who came from a family of means (at least they were of means before the Communists took over after World War II).

We came into class and sat at our desks, never thinking about the verbal carnage we'd left on the chalk board during the previous hour. Nor had any of us erased what was there. I don't think we did this deliberately, I think we just didn't think about it.

Mrs. Lang came into the class a few minutes late. As she turned toward the front of the class from closing the door, her eyes fell upon the, perhaps, hundreds of sentences on the chalk board - each containing one form of the f-word or another. I distinctly remember the color draining from her face and the audible gasp she made as she read some of the filth we'd managed to conjure up.

In a very un-grandmotherly fashion, she sprinted across the room, lunged over the desk and managed to grab the eraser from the chalk board's ledge and erase a good portion of the board before she almost toppled over the desk head first. She managed to complete her lunge over the desk, plant both her feet in front of the board and continue erasing in almost one motion. She spoke with each stroke of the eraser, in much the same fashion as one might speak to a child with each swing during a spanking: "I ... don't ... know ... what ... Professor ... Slavitsky ... was ... thinking ... having ... you ... talk ... about ... such ... filth ... instead of ... training ... your ... lesson ... from ... the ... book!"

After the board was erased, Mrs. Lang took a deep breath and composed herself again. She picked up her book and started the lesson as if nothing had happened. Flappable, but only for a short time.

I Broke the Drill Sergeant's Nose

There I was, a young private in the Army at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, daily thinking to myself, "What did I get myself into?" It was quite a transformational experience for the long-haired, non-conformist I was prior to enlisting.

The scariest experiences of my young life happened there. One was climbing that giant ladder and sliding down the rope at the confidence course. That thing was a hundred feet tall if it was an inch. And, this was no ordinary ladder - the "rungs" were about 5 1/2 feet apart and one had to really climb to get to the top. "Confidence course" was right - I was confident I never wanted to climb anything that high like that again!

The second scary experience was when I broke the drill sergeant's nose.

My platoon was at the hand grenade range running through a scenario where we would practice running from place to place, shoot covering fire, and throwing a practice hand grenade at an enemy bunker. We walked through the task a number of times, practicing throwing the grenade into a bunker situated the end of the course. Then, in pairs, we ran down the course "for real" to be tested and evaluated by a group of drill sergeants.

There was on particular sergeant who didn't like the way I threw the grenade. Each time we walked through it, he was highly critical that I did not lock my left knee when I leaned back to throw. Try as I could, my left knee wouldn't quite straighten out all the way. Though I was able to toss the grenade with a fair amount of accuracy, he was still not satisfied with my performance.

When it was my turn to run down the course my partner and I were "moving and shooting" (which consisted of us taking turns yelling "moving" and running while the other yelled "shooting" and "bang, bang, bang" until the other person ducked behind something and yelled "shooting"). We were in lock, teamwork going between us. There was no enemy to stand against us - except the ones in the bunker at the end of the course.

I was the designated grenade thrower on our team. I got into position, pulled the pin, released the safety and counted. When my counting was complete, I yelled "GRENADE!" at the top of my lungs and let my arm fly to loose the instrument of death onto our hapless foe. But, our enemy was not vanquished - the only casualty of our mock battle was the sergeant who didn't like my left knee.

Just as I was letting loose with my throw, he ran to me, bent over to yell at me about my knee and caught my closed fist with grenade inside it right on the side of his nose.

He fell to the ground yelling and holding his face. I stood, transfixed, probably with my eyes wider than wide open and my mouth gaping. He stood with the assistance of the other drill sergeants, holding his nose while blood gushed out.

The only thought going through my head was, "Oh man, I'm going to jail." I took out the obligatory handkerchief we all carried and offered it to him stammering, "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there." Anger showed in his eyes as he was led away to seek medical attention. His nose was broken, he had two black eyes coming and I was scared to death.

Our platoon's drill sergeant took me by the arm and led me behind a nearby shack. I don't remember the conversation too well other than I remember he told me not to worry because it wasn't my fault and to stay there and collect my thoughts for a few minutes before joining the rest of my group.

When I did emerge from behind the shack, I remember all of my fellow platoon members looking at me as I imagine one might look at a condemned man getting ready to go to the gallows. It seemed they were all afraid for me just as I was afraid for myself.

Thankfully, it really wasn't my fault. It was an accident, nothing more. Nothing more was ever said about it.

Still, it remains as one of the scariest things I ever experienced.

My Tool Mess

I'm not a tool guy. I understand mechanical things very well. I can tell you how they work, how to maintain them and how to repair them. But, to actually work on things myself is usually out of the question. Thankfully I have a wife who is very handy and skilled with her hands.

Here's an example of my tool bad luck:

In one of my previous lives, in the Army, I was on a helicopter crew. As a crew member, I was expected to assist in maintenance of the aircraft. I certainly didn't mind helping out, so long as it involved cleaning, greasing and the occasional safety wire application. I tried to draw the line on tools, though, knowing my weakness in that area.

One day we were out on the flight line getting ready to do a regular maintenance inspection on our Blackhawk helicopter. The crew chief hands me a screwdriver and instructs me to take the sound-proofing panels down from inside of the aircraft. I told him quite plainly, "You don't want me touching this aircraft with tools. Something bad will happen." He "poo-pooed" me and told me to do it anyway.

It's not that I was totally incapable of doing the job. The panels weren't even held up with regular screws, rather they were those lock things with screw heads. I objected again, but was told I was being silly and to get to it. So I did.

I removed the panels, the crew chief inspected the things he needed to inspect, and I put the panels back up. No problem, or ...

After a maintenance inspection, a test pilot is required to take the aircraft on the first flight to make sure everything is in order. So, we all got out of the way as the crew chief set up outside the bird to assist with the run up for the test flight. The pilot fired up the engines and got ready to go. Just as he got both engines running, the wing on the back of the aircraft, called the stabilator, fell off.

In the inspection we performed, nothing was done to the stabilator other than to look at it. There was no reason for it to fall off - except that I touched the aircraft with a tool. Bad, bad, bad.

Needless to say, I was never allow near any tool box for the rest of the time I was in that unit.

A Pack of Smokes Eased The Cold War

I my last post, "Healthy Train Stations" I told the story of my trip to Liberec in the Czech Republic on the first small unit military to military contact visit. One of the best benefits of that trip was to learn about things from those on the other side of the Cold War.

Historical Curiosity

One of our group was a bit of a history buff. He asked a lot of questions about what life was like during the Cold War in (then) Czechoslovakia. He asked one of the Czech officers rather pointedly, "Did you hate Americans during that time?" 

The Rest of the Story

The Czech officer told this short story. I'll tell it in first person as he did as best as I can remember it:

When I was a young soldier, I was assigned to a unit that was charged with watching the German border and to report any suspicious activity. One day I was hidden in a fox hole, under a bush, about 100 meters away from the border.

As I was watching the border, I saw two American jeeps on the German side of the line. They stopped opposite from me and were setting up some kind of equipment. I watched intently through binoculars so I could give a good report. 

I thought they did not know I was there. But, suddenly, two of the soldiers got into a jeep and started driving directly towards me. I was very nervous as they came closer and closer. Just as I was about to pick up the phone to report them, they stopped about 20 meters away. The soldier who was not driving stood up in the jeep, waved at me, and threw a pack of cigarettes towards me, which landed about a meter in front of me. He waved again, and they drove back to where their group was.

I knew they had seen me, there was no denying it. I climbed out of my fox hole, picked up the pack of cigarettes, lit one, and waved back at the Americans. Soon they all packed up their equipment and drove off.

That day I learned that soldiers are soldiers. There could be no animosity towards one soldier who was kind enough to give another soldier a pack of cigarettes. After that day, I had no ill feelings towards Americans.

Cigarettes For Peace

I was quite impressed by his story. It goes a long way towards showing how one, seemingly small, random act of kindness can go a long way.

That brings to my mind a question: How much faster the Cold War might have ended if we sent waves of B-52 bombers over the Warsaw Pact countries and carpet-bombed them with packs of smokes? That might be politically incorrect today given how much we know about the ills of smoking, but back then it might have been the bold move of a genius to ease international tensions.

Image credit: http://www.grenzer.com