Tag: military story

A Thanksgiving to Remember

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As Thanksgiving approaches (with lightning speed, I might add), I’ve been walking down memory lane and revisiting past holidays. As the years go by, fewer and fewer stick out in my mind (what can I say? It’s a side effect of getting older 😉 ), but there will always be a select few that I’ll always remember and treasure forever.

One of the few I can still picture in vivid detail was my first Thanksgiving away from home.

It was 1999, and I was fresh out of Basic Training. That September, I was sent to Keesler AFB in Biloxi, Mississippi for tech school. I volunteered for the drill team right out of the gate. I loved the marches, formations, my teammates, and the comradery; hell, I loved everything about Keesler. To this day, I look fondly on the time I spent there.

Let’s fast forward to November of that same year because this will end up being a novel if I don’t!

The powers that be did what they could to let us go home for the holiday, but this isn’t an ideal world, and this is the one part that is fuzzy. I don’t remember why some of us couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving, so I’ll leave it at that.

We were hanging out around one of the smoke pits near the dormitories (just picture a wooden gazebo) and lamenting over the fact that we had to stay and were going to miss out on some good food. I mean, the chow hall was awesome, but there is nothing like a home-cooked Thanksgiving turkey.

The drill team leader, a short airman with black hair cut just below her ears stood up, her manner stoic as she lifted her head. The movement was so commanding, that it silenced the entire gazebo.

“We will make our own Thanksgiving,” she declared.

 And that was all it took.

The smoke pit turned into an excited Thanksgiving Command Center as we planned the meal. It would be held in the fishbowl (a community center for us airmen in training, complete with a kitchen). We had everything worked out to a capital T, right down to who’d ask the chaplain for permission to use the kitchen. 

I’ll never forget playing Risk, laughing and joking the day away as the cozy aroma of turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie filled the air. I’ll never forget drinking cider as I looked down at my plastic little men (contemplating their next move as I eyed the plastic men of my friends), the cheerful chatter, the fervent excitement when the food was ready, or the way everyone pitched in to clean up.

It was our first Thanksgiving away from home, but we made it our own, and I will always treasure the memory of us coming together that wonderful Thursday afternoon.

It was a testament to the America I love, the America where people from all walks of life come together in love and kindness. This is the America we must fight for, now, more than ever.

Happy Thanksgiving, and remember:
Kindness matters.

❤ mlc

A very Summer Post

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The year was 2004, the place, Iraq.

We worked 12 hour shifts (sometimes more) 6 days a week, so midday chow was the thing to look forward to. It was the event. We’d pile into our squadron’s white pick-up trucks or bread trucks—yes, you read that correctly.

Bread trucks.

I don’t know if a bread truck vendor donated a bunch of them or what, but we had them, and they had been painted white to match the pick-up trucks. Hey, it was a truck that could haul stuff!

Anyway, we’d pile into them. On this particular day, it was a pick-up truck. We climbed in the bed of it; flack vests, helmets, and all, and prepared for the excitement of lunch.

As it went down the dusty roads, a spring-like breeze drifted over us. We couldn’t believe how nice and cool it was. We kept asking ourselves, how hot was it? It couldn’t be more than 80!

* Read footnote for more info!

We had a thermostat in one of our buildings that recorded inside and outside temps (see above pic). Temperatures would get upwards of 120 degrees, so on our way back, we made a game of guessing the number. Most of us guessed in the 80s.

Ready for the big reveal? Want to make a guess yourself?

It was exactly 100 degrees.
100 on the dot.

* Footnote:
I scoured my old digital photos for something hotter, sadly I either didn’t think to snap a pic until it was too late, or I took it on my disposable camera and the photo is buried in a photo album somewhere. But this was the norm even though some days it was 120.  

The nice, breezy 76 degrees inside was for the benefit of our equipment (it had to be kept cool). 

The ticks you see on the wall were left by a previous Airman. They ticked each day they were there. I guess they weren’t having a good time. 

SITREP Oops

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A military story

Back when I was in Okinawa, I had gotten my line number for Staff Sergeant, and off to Airmen Leadership School (ALS) I went. ALS = the special leadership training you have to go through before you become an NCO.

One day we had a special guest instructor. Our desks consisted of three long tables set in a U shape so that the instructor could walk around and interact with us as he taught. If there was one thing to be said about ALS, it was that they were fair with breaks so that we could use the facilities or grab a bite from the vending machines. They did not care if you ate a snack during class so long as you weren’t disruptive.

My story begins when we came back from a break.

I had grabbed myself a small bag of M&Ms because I needed something to hold me over until lunch. I sat in my spot as everyone filed back into the room. The instructor proceeded to go over a serious topic (unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the actual topic, but let’s pretend he was talking about something as sensitive as what to do if one of your subordinates is showing signs of depression).

Once we were all seated, he started his lecture. I quietly grabbed my M&Ms and figured a quick tear to the corner would do the trick. I tugged at the plastic, but nope! It made a hair raising wrinkling sound, so I set them in my lap and tried again–Before I continue, yes, this story is going exactly where you think it is.

The tiny bag refused to open.

No matter what I did, the darned plastic would not tear. I put them back on the table and decided to try again later. I took notes as any dutiful student would and tried again.

I picked up the bag, pulled at the little flap in the back, and

POP!

M&Ms flew everywhere. It was a shock and awe of colorful chocolate candies raining down on the table, thundering like an F15 down the flight-line. I froze, my face transfixed into an expression of utter horror. Not only had my precious snack rained all over the table, but one of the M&Ms smacked the instructor in the chest.

He looked at me, his face a serene picture of calmness. All eyes were on me. Silence clung to the air. He looked down at his feet, bent over, picked up the culprit, and ate it.

He walked over to me and picked a few off the table and ate them.

I sat, with my mouth gaping open. I couldn’t form words or utter an apology because how do you come back from such a disaster?

“You going to clean those up, or do I have to eat them all?” he asked. He stepped back and laughter erupted from his form, and soon, we were all laughing.

Yes, this really happened! Leave it to me to be the one to open a bag of candy for the classic candy explosion!

Escape from the Club!

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~ A military story

Back in 2003 (gosh, has it really been thirteen years?), I was deployed to South Korea for military games. They packed us into a plane, and off we went. We landed around midnight (naturally, I mean you never arrived at your destination during normal person hours). They bused us to Tent City, and we rushed to form an unspoken assembly line to unload all of our bags.

An example of a standard Tent City. 
The image is in public domain and can be found here

Once the logistics were taken care of, we were assigned tents, and off to bed we went to be at work by 0800 (I honestly don’t remember being tired or pissed about not getting enough sleep. Maybe that was because I was 22, and at that age I could live off of Pepsi, candy bars, and 2 hours of sleep).

The next morning I was up and ready with the two other gals I’d be working with. We made it to our squadron in time to play war, but this isn’t the point of this story. I just had to give you all an idea of the setting. Things were not totally made of work, work, work. After your 12 hour shift was up, you could do whatever you wanted. The shops and enlisted club still ran like normal.

Come Friday, my new found gal-pals and I decided to hang out at the enlisted club. We had little knowledge of the “normal” side of the base. We were basically tourists when we weren’t working. The three of us sat at a table, drank, and enjoyed the music. It was a nice break from our flak vests, helmets, and MREs.

…That was until the club closed for the night.

“EVERYONE OUT! OUT! OUT!” The managers spouted war cries instead of stating a standard “We will be closing in five minutes!” over the intercom. We were introduced to the club busting SPs. To this day I will never understand why they had the SPs (and their K9 companions) “announce” that the club was closing for the night. Was it part of the war games? Was it how they always did it? I will never know. Suffice to say, it was a very unique way of closing up shop for the night.

Confused, dazed, and utterly Whisky Tango Foxtrot, we looked at each other and followed the running crowd out the door. We made it to parking lot and, for whatever reason I have long forgotten, we hung out and chatted while the base taxis picked the regulars up. Once the place was deserted, we shrugged and decided to wait for the next cab.

And wait.

A battered pick up truck with janitorial equipment in the back pulled up to the curb. The two Airmen in the cab peered at us with quizzical expressions. We probably screamed “We aren’t from around here!” I mean, we were just standing there in the chilly winter air, hardly feeling the cold.

“Hey, you guys…eh. Just to let you know the taxis stop running at 1130,” the driver said. We glanced at each other. Tent City was miles and miles away. “You guys aren’t from Tent City are you?”

We nodded.

“Oh man. That is a walk. We’re not supposed to take passengers, but get in the back and put that tarp over yourselves. We’ll drop you off!” He didn’t need to explain further. Our introduction to that base’s SPs was enough motivation to not ask questions.

So we climbed the back of the truck in our bewildered, slightly drunken stupors and laid among the buckets, mops, and bottles of cleaner. We held the tarp over us with an iron grip.

A part of us laughed at our predicament, and the other part was terrified the two Airmen would get pulled over. Thankfully no such thing happened, and we were dropped off at Tent City without incident.

I will never forget the kindness of those two Airmen! We would have had a three hour walk in the middle of the night ahead of us.

The Adventures of Double-Oh Awesome

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It’s been a while since I’ve shared a good ol’ military story!

Turkey – 2001
The shop I worked in was responsible for hooking buildings up to the base network (among many other things that have nothing to do with this story).  Agent Double-Oh Awesome entered the scene when we got word that they just finished building a new *drum roll* building that had to be wired up to the network.

We looked at the floor plans and decided that we would need to use the dusty, hardly ever used radios that sat in the corner in our shop in order to communicate with each other to get everything connected properly.

Two of us went out assuming that our dusty radios were just simple two way devices. When we got to the site and found that we were the only ones there, well…put two young adults with radios together, and you get the adventures of Double-Oh Awesome fighting the Taliban and their evil laser sheep.

I can’t remember exactly what was said, but our game went something like this:
“Qsssshhh! Qssssshhh! Double-Oh Awesome, I got a bad guy by the truck!”
“Roger! I’m on my way *fake fighting noises* Hold on, I’m busy kicking a**!”
“Ahhhh! They have wild sheep! Sheep with lasers!”
*Karate sounds*

And so forth….This went on for a good ten minutes until a third voice joined the foray:

“WHO IS USING THE SQUADRON RADIOS? I DEMAND YOUR NAMES.”

I remember exchanging expressions of horror and utter shock with my coworker. We had no idea the simple radios were connected to the rest of the squadron (they had always been turned off, and there were only two of them). After giving each other sheepish looks, we held our radios out at arm’s length, turned them off, put them in the bed of the truck, and continued our work.

How did we finish the job? We popped our heads out of the building’s windows to shout numbers and instructions to each other. When we got back to the shop, we said nothing of the radios and returned them to their corner. Not a word or a reprimand was spoken, and we decided to never mention Double-Oh Awesome.