There are literally hundreds of graphic t-shirt companies out there competing for the attention and hard earned dollars of the active duty and veterans communities (yes, full-disclosure..we are one of them). And while we offer our sincerest apologies for saturating your Facebook Newsfeed with ads touting our unique take on veteran t-shirts, we thought the least we could do was arm you with some cool info to share the next time you find yourself standing by to stand by.

So it turns out that the United States Military is to thank for more than just PT belts, cool songs you can sing while running, and tightly-made beds. Yep, you can thank Uncle Sam for the rise of the graphic t-shirt as a staple in the drawers of the modern American wardrobe, and here's how it happened:

U.S. Navy, early 1900's-ish.

On the heels of the Spanish-American War, the United States Navy began issuing crew-necked, short-sleeved undershirts to sailors and Marines to be worn under their uniforms. The new style was a modified version of the 'Union Suit' (pictured below) that some friggin' genius had created with a pair of scissors and a dream (get that guy an Army Achievement Medal).

Nicknamed 'T' shirts because of their obvious resemblance in shape to the letter 'T', the shirts became popular among the men who found doing bullshit details while wearing them was at least more comfortable than doing bullshit details while in full uniform, especially in the crazy hot 'what the hell are we even doing down here?' climates.

Once the Army and other branches caught wind of the super-smiley and highly-motivated sailors and Marines whistlin' while they worked over on their ships, they were quick to adapt the t-shirt as a part of their uniform as well. The t-shirt phenomenon had even caught on in the U.S. by the Great Depression as ranchers and farmers began to wear them as a daily work uniform.

Post World War II-ish.

As the Greatest Generation was re-entering into civvy life, they brought back not only war trophies and exotic venereal diseases from the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific, but their affinity for t-shirts as well. It was during this post-war era that the t-shirt began to catch on in mainstream America as more than just something you wore while sweating your nuts off, it became a style.

It was not uncommon to see veterans and 'flat-footed' (I swear!) civilians rocking plain white tees, leather jackets, and blue jeans as they rolled across America in their custom rods and Harley's in the lead up to the iconic 'greaser' style made popular by Marlon Brando's character, Stanley Kowalski in 1951's A Streetcar Named Desire:

The First Printed T-Shirt-ish.

The printed graphic t-shirt as we know it today was still decades away from adoption into mainstream culture when a photo of Corporal Alexander Le Gerda wearing a t-shirt decorated with an Air Corps Gunnery School design was featured on the cover of Life magazine in July of 1942:

Holding a .30 cal and rocking a schmedium tee, Corporal Le Gerda instantly become the poster boy for the American graphic t-shirt, representing the first person to be featured in mass media wearing a printed shirt and spawning the graphic tee movement which exploded in the '60's and 70's. 

Surely Corporal Le Gerda had no way of knowing at the time that he was to become the grandfather of military apparel and graphic tees in general as he hauled that .30 cal in his 'tighter than Sergeant Major's fade' tee. Had he known that that one simple photo would lead to some of the most horrendous military-themed tees ever produced and sold by PX's around the globe, he may have refused to pose for the pic. 

Conclusion-ish.

There's no doubt about it, without the military there would be no t-shirts, and without Corporal Le Gerda, there would be no graphic tees. So the next time you see an ad from a military-lifestyle apparel brand pop up in your newsfeed, think of Corporal Le Gerda and ask yourself 'WWLD: What would Le Gerda Do?'

If it was an Inkfidel tee like our remake of the tee he made famous (pictured below), he would have definitely ordered one - In a schmedium, of course.

We hope you enjoyed the read, please let us know what you think in the comments below, and click 'Share' to drop a knowledge-bomb on another Vet.

10 Military Themed Gift Ideas for Veterans.

#10. Operation Cookies

Operation Cookies is a veteran-owned online cookie shop based out of Pittsburgh, PA. The company was founded by Paul and Angie, a military couple with a passion for baking and service. When Paul was deployed overseas, Angie made over 20 care packages and these weren’t your ordinary care packages. Each came with a separate theme in an oversized bankers box. They were stuffed full of goodies, treats, and of course – her homemade cookies.

Now that passion has become a business. Operation Cookies can ship fresh, delicious cookies anywhere in the United States or to APO/FPO addresses. They are individually wrapped and boxed with care and have an option to be gift-wrapped as well.

Operation Cookies also supports military members and their families through their business. They regularly send batches of cookies to active service members on deployment and also support veteran organizations like the Fisher House and Wounded Warrior Project. 

$7.99+

Get your sugar buzz on here 

#9 Freedom Frag

Bottle openers are really hot these days, especially in the military & veterans market. There are hundreds of different companies out there making some really cool stuff, but the kings of high-quality veteran-made openers are far and away Bottle Breacher. Founded by a former Navy Seal, these guys are doing it right by creating high-quality, unique products shipped in some really cool packaging. 

$39.99

Grab one here

#8 Model PPK Rubber Band Gun

If there's one thing I know, it's that veterans like playing 'Fuck Fuck Games' and maintaining a proud refusal to ever completely grow up. That's why this PPK Rubber Band Gun from Elastic Precision appeals to my inner 8 year-old. Crafted from solid wood with the capability of firing five rubber bands up to 20 feet this is sure to provide hours of entertainment, at least for whoever is firing it.

$19.99

Sold here

#7 Paratrooper Poptop™

So I am a little biased here since we sell these on our site, but these things are friggin' cool if you or your vet is a former Paratrooper. Forged from a fully-functional universal static line snaphook, the Paratrooper Poptop™ is the real deal. Each Poptop ships with it's own silk baggie made from a decommissioned parachute and is a really unique item that our brothers and sisters of the silk can't get enough of.

$29.99

Shop here

#6 Custom Slatted Wood Flag

Paul and the gang over at Fire For Effects (who are still active duty) make these killer custom made wood slatted flags that are the ultimate centerpiece for your office or man cave wall. They made us a custom Inkfidel flag this year that is currently hanging in our offices and have done the same for Grunt Style and others. Everyone who comes in compliments the flag on how cool it looks and asks where we got it, I always send them in Paul's direction. If you are going to grab one from them be sure to do it soon, production time can run between 2-4 weeks.

From $139

Available here

#5 Tactical Christmas Stocking

What better way to let Santa know that there's a veteran in the house than with a Tactical Christmas Stocking? Featuring a metal clip, six MOLLE strips for adding pouches, and a rack for holding six shotgun shells this stocking is the perfect way to spread some tactically-sound holiday cheer.

$24.99

Find it here

#4 Pillow Fight Weapons

Veterans like to pass on all the high-speed stuff they learn in the field to their kids, usually by ambushing granny with Nerf Guns or through an epic pillow battle. Who doesn't like an epic pillow battle? Mom. That's who. But with these Pillow Fight Weapons from Oddity Mall  you'll never have to worry about blowing out one of the 'good' throw pillows again. Remember, happy wife...happy life.

$33.00

Start the battle here

#3 Customizable 'Barracks School of Law' Degree

In the military, a 'Barracks Lawyer' is someone who is known to offer up unsolicited and completely inaccurate information in regards to military law, procedure, and your rights as an individual. Much like their civilian counterparts, the Jailhouse Lawyer, the Barracks Lawyer exists in every housing unit of every unit around the world and you should never, ever, ever listen to them. 

This framed degree from the Barracks School of Law is the perfect gift for active duty or retired Barracks Lawyers. Be sure to enter the full name of the person who will be receiving it along with a graduation date in the order notes for a unique gift that is sure to bring back happy memories from their days doling out horrible advice in the military!

Framed Degree:  $49.00

Unframed Degree: $18.00

Check 'em out here

#2 Bolt-Action Pen

This Autumn Summer Bolt Action Pen from Bearded Blue Monkey opens like a bolt action rifle, has a .30-06 caliber bullet tip, and a rifle clip. Made from mahogany wood, each pen ships in a hard paper gift box and can be custom engraved with up to two lines of text for an additional $10. What gun guy isn't going to love finding one of these under the tree this year? I just sent my wife the link...*wink* *wink*

$42.00

See more here

#1 The Inkfidel Boneyard

Last but not least (and we are admittedly biased here) every veteran would love to find a shirt from The Inkfidel Boneyard under the tree this year! We've added our entire catalog of funny military lifestyle themed tees and hoodies to Amazon and you can receive FREE 2-Day Shipping on all Boneyard gear with Amazon Prime Membership. Don't worry if you are looking around and have no idea what the designs mean, just grab one from our collection of Best Sellers and your veteran will definitely 'get' it....

Available here

Batteries. I look back now and it seems my entire professional life from 2004-2005 revolved around batteries. I can recall a myriad of instances as I prepared my rifle and equipment for a mission that I would mutter to no one in particular, “Seriously, where the hell are all the batteries for this stuff?” Donald Rumsfeld was even quoted on this issue having infamously stated “As you know, you go to war with the batteries you have, not the batteries you might want or wish to have at a later time.” He couldn’t have been more right as finding batteries for equipment back then was like trying to find a Sunni Muslim in a Bible factory. I sat there holding two 3V lithium batteries in my hand contemplating how best to ‘spread the wealth’ amongst my various optics and devices. My PVS-14 Night Vision Monocular took one, my weapon light took two, and my PAQ-4C IR Laser Targeting Device (which only works in conjunction with Night Vision Devices) took two AA’s. I had no AA’s to power the PAQ-4C so that was out, but at least my rifle would still look badass…which was nice. No PAQ-4C meant that shooting accurately under the PVS-14’s would be challenging at best so in the end, I went with my overt weapon light. “I may not immediately see the enemy but at least they’ll be able to see me.” I thought…while pondering my life decisions. As I finished inserting the batteries and testing it, the call to mount the vehicles and prepare to roll squelched across my radio.

It was sometime in September of 2004 and our Cavalry Troop was about to embark on yet another raid to net a High Value Target and personal confidant of none other than Saddam Hussein. Saddam had been captured about nine months prior to this and since then had been enjoying regular dental check-ups, semi-professional lice removal, and for all intents and purposes, growing a pretty sick beard. However, in that time, his former minions, along with quite a bit of inadvertent assistance from our own Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA: Can’t Provide Anything), had been growing and employing a fairly successful army of insurgents. On this particular moonless night, our target was a man known to us simply as ‘The Tailor.’ He had been Saddam’s personal couturier so it wasn’t a very clever codename for him at all. He no doubt had a real name but if you think any of us knew it, you’d be wrong. I’ll bet you think we had a photo of him, too. At first I was a bit surprised to learn that Saddam had once had a personal fashion designer. But in hindsight, it makes perfect sense; you can’t possibly ascend to that level of sexy by just owning two pairs of jeans like this writer does. That realization eluded me though as the smell of diesel fuel permeated the air; emanating from the plethora of tactical vehicles only moments away from beginning the 20 kilometer movement to the target.

That target, located in the village of Ad Montassim, was the residence of the village elder. I don’t remember his name so we’re just going to call him ‘Gary.’ Up to this point, Gary had been aligned with US Forces and was fully committed to doing his part to end the insurgency. He was truly a decent man, a good leader to his people, and he had urinals in his bathroom. However, we were going to raid his house during his Mother’s funeral to try and capture a guy who had made a living off of saying “Make it work, Saddam!”  Needless to say, this little operation (even if successful) would surely, and dramatically, alter the nature of his relationship with us. I mean, unless The Tailor knew that Saddam’s inseam, waist size, sleeve length, and neck circumference all combined and decoded would translate to a Latitude/Longitude reading that would lead us to either WMD’s, Bin Laden, or even Waldo at that barber pole warehouse, this was a terrible move in terms of alienating an ally and destabilizing a wide swath of our Area of Operations. The juice, as they say, was not worth the squeeze. But what did I know; I was just a guy that couldn’t even find batteries.

“You Guys Need to Hurry”

Those were the words that came over the radio from our Squadron’s Tactical Operations Center before we had even moved a solitary inch. This was not at all their fault as just like most tactical and strategic blunders throughout the history of warfare, this one belonged to a higher level of command. Someone at either Brigade or Division had decided that they wanted in on the action and ordered a drone over the target area. Not a good drone though (like a Predator that flies at high altitude, can’t be heard, and you know…can shoot stuff); they launched a Shadow UAV which flies low and sounds like a lawnmower…a really loud and crappy lawnmower. Needless to say, as soon as this glorious piece of technological advancement and tactical superiority arrived over the target area, everyone (with the obvious exception of Gary’s Mom) ran in every conceivable direction. Apparently, it looked like a shotgun going off but I wouldn’t know as we were still about 15 kilometers away moving as swiftly as a convoy of Abrams Tanks, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, and HMMWV’s can move. Picture Rosie O’Donnell leaving from (not arriving to) the all-you-can-eat buffet and you have a fairly good sense of how rapidly we were rolling. Michael Moore would also be an acceptable comparison.

As we finally neared our objective, a flight of two OH-58D Kiowa Scout Helicopters swooped in and began to aggressively orbit the target area. Unlike the Shadow UAV, the Kiowas and their pilots were very useful. As we dismounted our vehicles they were already giving us pinpoint locations on the ground where we would find the individuals that had quickly decided that the funeral was over prior to our arrival. Our entry team breached the target and immediately found a very dissatisfied Gary in the sitting room with his deceased Mother. He had quite a bit to say which, not surprisingly, consisted mostly of wishing death on everyone. While all of this was happening, the bulk of the force was busy rounding up the majority of those that had fled but not gotten very far. So far, it did not appear that The Tailor was present; not that any of us knew what he looked like anyway. As we were zip-tying our detainees and preparing to ship them off to Abu Ghraib Prison so that they could learn to hate us even more, one of the Kiowa crews came up on the radio and advised us of one more individual that seemed especially desperate to elude capture.

“That’s a Bold Move, Cotton.”

As the Kiowas were providing overwatch, they observed and reported one individual who had actually leapt into the Tigris River in an attempt to flee our little dragnet. How the ‘lawnmower’ missed this is beyond me but what can you do? Immediately, the thought became that this had to have been The Tailor as only the most despondent of people would ever even consider making physical contact with that absolute cesspool of a river. Do you have any idea how many dead and decaying bodies have been found by Coalition Forces floating in that river? I don’t have the exact statistics right here in front of me but I’ll bet they’re startling. Unfortunately for Staff Sergeant David Ridings and me, at the very moment this revelation came to be, we were standing amongst those in charge. Right away it was abundantly clear to both of us who would be going to go recover The Tailor. As our target swam further across the river, a plan was conceived.

It was simple enough really; One Kiowa pilot would hover his aircraft low above The Tailor and flare, raising its nose so that the aircraft’s downdraft would push him back to the riverbank. As he was doing so, the co-pilot would lean out his door and keep his M4 Rifle trained on the target in case he was armed and decided to get brave. Once forced onto the strand, David and I would search and secure him before bringing him back (perhaps slightly damaged due to necessary falls) to the Command. The pilots brought the aircraft down and just as Kiowa pilots always do, performed the maneuver flawlessly. The Tailor attempted to continue his grandiose escape but there was no fighting that downdraft. Within seconds he was quite noticeably incensed but nonetheless on his way back to our side of the river. We guessed that he would hit the brink about 50 or so meters down from us so David and I headed that way. The problem we would discover was that beginning at the embankment and continuing out for 20-30 feet into the river was a very thick and seemingly impenetrable concentration of reeds and the Helo had blown him right into it. The reeds ran the entire length of the Tigris and now we had to figure out how to even get to him let alone retrieve him. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere so we walked back to those in charge and while I reported our findings, David quickly inspected a small rowboat that was sitting at the riverside. He determined that it was seaworthy despite both of us being in the Army and we quickly began to board it in the hopes of paddling our way into Squadron and Division history. We hadn’t even gotten it completely in the water when we were advised that we weren’t “certified” to operate a rowboat which deemed our rendezvous with destiny unsafe. There was also concern that The Tailor might pull us into the water in which case we would surely drown under the weight of our body armor. David and I decided we’d have to go back to where our target was located and swim out to get him. As we moved back down the bank, those in charge decided to join us. Hooray for us, am I right? As soon as we got to the spot, David and I began removing our body armor and preparing to fight our way through the reeds and an unknown depth of bacterial casserole in order to claim our prey.

“WTF are you guys doing?’ was queried emphatically from one of our onlookers. “Splitting Atoms; what does it look like we’re doing?” I thought, but wisely kept to myself. “Keep your body armor on! We don’t know if he’s armed, for Christ’s sake!”

At this point, I feel we should quickly recap what you just read:

1. We couldn’t take the boat in case we fell or got pulled into the water because we would drown under our body armor’s weight.
2. We had to leave on said body armor in order to swim out to get him.

Everyone good on that?

Alright, moving on…

For the next three or four hours, David and I fruitlessly attempted to get through the reeds and to our target. We crushed them down and balanced precariously on them, tried to push our way through them, but mainly just tried not to drown. There were several instances that we took a step only to find there was nothing beneath our feet as we went completely under. At one point while completely submerged, a very strange looking and glowing fish attempted to rob me before I scared him away with my weapon light. Made the right call on those batteries, didn’t I?

Needless to say, we never got to him. Shortly after dawn, our B Troop arrived to relieve us on the objective and David and I, along with the rest of A Troop, headed back to our FOB. I can’t speak for David but I was actually hoping for an IED attack. We had to be near hypothermic at that point and an explosive would have certainly brought some heat. We arrived back unscathed for breakfast, showers, and tetanus shots, just in time to get word that B Troop had recovered our target. These were the main bullet points of their report:

• It took them ten whole minutes
• They very ‘uncertifiably’ used the rowboat
• It was not The Tailor
• Carl swore death on all of us

In terms of winning hearts and minds and reducing the numbers of young men and women that would join the insurgency, this entire operation was obviously a complete failure. Even if we had captured our target, the anger amongst the Iraqi people would have been the same. But in the fall of 2004, no one knew what success even resembled. We were fighting the war we wanted to fight and not the war in which we actually found ourselves. We didn’t analyze, or even give any thought to, the second and third order effects of our actions; that for every military-aged male that we (rightly or wrongly) killed, wounded, or sent off to Abu Ghraib Prison, we created more insurgents out of his friends and family. It would be another three years before the military as a whole figured these things out and dynamically altered the course of our efforts.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can say that if given the opportunity, I would do a lot of things differently. But in all my time in combat, I can’t say that I actually have more than just a few regrets; and swimming in the Tigris River with David Ridings will never be one of them.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my laptop is about to die and I don’t have another battery.

**The Tailor’s name was Kamal. I just remembered so that one’s on me everybody.

The early spring of 2004 found me in Salah ad Din Province, Iraq; frolicking carelessly through the endless palm groves along the Tigris River by day, and kicking in a multitude of doors by night. I was 29 back then and a Scout Section Leader in a Mechanized Cavalry Squadron. My Squadron’s Area of Operations was centered around the relatively small town of Ad Duluiyah. Predominately Sunni, Ad Duluiyah had a population of roughly 50,000 people; and while I have no census data to back this up, I would estimate that by the time we left, they had a population of about 49,900...give or take. Being Sunni, the former leadership in the town had belonged to Saddam Hussein's now defunct Ba’ath Party. In addition, being one of the myriad of towns and cities that had been completely bypassed and ignored during the invasion a year prior, they did not at all feel defeated even after the regime had fallen and Saddam had been captured. They had spent the previous year gathering weapons, planning operations, and waiting for the right time to start opposing our presence. All they really needed was for the coalition to do something so heinous as to build popular support for the steadily growing insurgency.  Thanks to the commander of Multi-National Force-Iraq (MNF-I), the CIA, and a few pathetic losers dressed as Army Reservists, they were given exactly what they needed...The Abu Ghraib Prison Scandal.

Things Get Sporty

Overnight, the insurgency in our area, which had been relatively quiet, increased its attacks at an immense and alarming rate. ‘Kill an American Day’ had been declared throughout the country and that day would last for about three years. IED’s, RPG’s, Small Arms Attacks, and Indirect Fires were now as commonplace as the call to prayer ringing out five times a day from the many minarets that dotted the skyline. In other parts of the country, they targeted embassies and bases of coalition partners in an effort to drive those elements out of the country and leave the United States isolated. It was an absolutely brilliant campaign and even rivaled the 1968 Tet Offensive in terms of both tactical and strategic gains. Needless to say, things got really sporty. In an effort to keep people from burning out, a policy was put in place that would give those fighting there a few days off in-country in addition to the 14 day R&R program. This four day break would take place at a mountainous resort on the banks of Lake Dukan in the northern part of Iraq commonly referred to as ‘Kurdistan.’

Soldiers were plucked from units throughout our Division based on their R&R lottery numbers. The higher the number you picked, the further away your 14 days were...so those troops were selected first. I’d be going as my number was 118 out of a Troop of approximately 130 Soldiers. My friend, Smitty, from 3rd Platoon was going as well so I was happy about that. One clear morning, Smitty and I loaded up into a plastic HMMWV for the relatively brief, but often sketchy, convoy to Balad. We’d be flying in Chinook Helicopters from Logistical Support Area (LSA) Anaconda all the way up to Lake Dukan but there was a lot of bad road between us and our aircraft. Surprisingly, we arrived without incident and were soon taking in the vast expanse of the Iraqi desert from about 200 feet in the air (even at that altitude it still smells like shit). Later on after we arrived, someone said we’d taken ground fire but to this day, I doubt that. However, there were two Chinooks and for all I know Brian Williams may have been on the other one.

Wall to Wall 'Stealth' Equipment

Lake Dukan is absolutely beautiful and I spent about the first ten minutes on the Landing Zone trying to comprehend that a place like this even existed in Iraq. The lake was crystal blue, surrounded by mountains, and the air was actually clean and devoid of the odor of raw sewage which plagues the rest of the country. The hotel even had a pool and the grounds were meticulously landscaped. A Staff Sergeant met us all and escorted us into the hotel. The first thing Smitty and I saw was what can only be described as the 'Undeniable Crown Mesopotamian Jewel' (UCMJ)...a fully stocked bar. We were led down to the basement to a room where our gear and weapons were inventoried and then stored. From there we went to another room where we would naturally have to endure the mother of all buzzkills; a standard, lengthy, mind-numbing briefing. He began the briefing by informing us that since we were still in Iraq, General Order #1 was in full effect. This meant that despite the presence of alcohol (which was at that moment being removed from the bar), we were not permitted to drink. I am fairly certain that the combined groan of everyone in the room could be heard in the far reaches of space. The briefing continued as he excitedly explained all the activities in which we could partake. These included mountain biking, boating, fishing, and kayaking. He followed that by informing us that since this was a new program, not all of the equipment that had been ordered had arrived. The equipment that hadn’t arrived included mountain bikes, boats, fishing gear, and kayaks. For anyone that has ever served in the military, this made perfect sense. He also mentioned a bazaar just down the street but within the guarded perimeter that we could peruse. We were then escorted upstairs to the front desk where we would be assigned our rooms. Smitty and I got assigned a room together so we threw our assault packs over our shoulders and pouted our way to the third floor. We then spent the next four hours on our individual beds watching ‘The Godfather’ on his portable DVD player. We both agreed that this sucked and that we wanted to leave.

Heineken...WHERE?!?!

There was a knock at the door about an hour into ‘The Godfather Part II’ and I will be forever grateful for it not only for the information we were about to receive, but also for the fact that I didn’t have to suffer through another terribly boring movie. Two guys from Headquarters Troop came storming in as soon as I opened the door proclaiming that there was beer at the bazaar and we needed to go right then. Not requiring any additional information, Smitty and I rapidly dumped the contents of our assault packs and the four of us headed out the door. As soon as we walked through the bazaar entrance, there it was...a massive cooler full of Heineken tall boys. Even though I don’t like Heineken, it was a beautiful sight and I swear it had a glowing aura around it just like Rick James does. The shopkeeper took a little convincing but soon all four of us were leaving with packs on our backs that contained 24 individual tall boys each. The cost of this haul per person…$60. It was a steep price for sure but when you combine supply and demand with the probability that we may all be dead soon, $60 was more than fair. Over the course of the next four days we went to the bazaar every morning after breakfast and spent the rest of the day and night completely ‘wallpapered’ off of that delicious ‘Nokum Stiff.’ We rented a boat from a Kurdish man and went out on the lake for an afternoon. We somehow all got invited to a Kurdish family’s house for a huge party they were having one night. I elected not to go as it was outside the secured area and I like my head where it is, but the other three guys had a great time and made it back safely. Word spread like wildfire and soon every hotel guest was drinking everywhere. Personally, I’ve always believed that discretion is the better part of valor but it was clear that I was in the minority.

 ‘We can’t fly without the spare hydraulic pump.’

The late afternoon of day four found us hungover as usual and sitting on the Landing Zone waiting for the Chinooks to come pick us up and fly us all back to reality. The birds showed up on schedule but after landing, one of them shut down. One of the pilots and a crew chief approached us and asked us how it had been. Being discreet, we explained that most of the equipment hadn’t arrived and there wasn’t much to do. Someone then said “Yeah, except drink.” This caught their attention and after determining that they were cool, we explained to them the bazaar and its glorious supply of beer. They laughed and after a few minutes returned to their aircraft. Not long after, the other Chinook completely shut down and the two returned only this time with the other aircraft’s two pilots. They explained that aircraft #1 was having an issue with a hydraulic pump and that they were going to have to replace it. By Standard Operating Procedure each aircraft flies with a spare so the delay would be relatively short and we’d be wheels up as soon as they replaced it. However, the issue, as the one pilot explained to the other three, was that if they installed the spare pump, they would no longer have a spare pump with which they were required to fly. This would mean that they would have to submit an Air Mission Request to have a spare pump flown up to them. However, being so late in the day, their AMR would not get approved for a few hours and their needed equipment would not get flown up to them until the next morning. Pilots are geniuses.

Needless to say, we all got our rooms back and then headed to the bazaar with four pilots and six crew chiefs in tow. The next morning we found a few of them passed out in the empty hotel bar (two slept on pool tables) and the rest were in lounge chairs next to the pool. A few hours later, two Blackhawks arrived with a spare hydraulic pump and we took off for 'home' shortly thereafter.

 I regret nothing

As you may imagine, several changes were made to the Lake Dukan experience after we were there. I could (and maybe even should) apologize to any of you reading this that visited that place after April 2004. You most likely found the entire area devoid of any 'spirits' and most definitely found yourselves under the constant watchful eye of a Sergeant Major. However, no apology shall be forthcoming as I'll bet you had kayaks.

Text Exchange: When a 2LT finds himself lost on the Land Navigation course he knows there is only one man who can save him: his loveable 1SG

Circa 2012:

Being in Arizona when it rains is a lot like being in the South when it snows; absolute pandemonium ensues. You can see the panicked look on driver’s faces as they desperately flip through their owner’s manuals (whilst driving) trying to find the section that will tell them how to turn on their windshield wipers. Even better is the look of confused anger when they finally get them into operation and they keep making that awful farting sound as the rotted blades drag back and forth across the windshield. You can sometimes even read their lips as they scream, “WTF?! I just replaced these three years ago and I’ve never even used them!” It’s quite entertaining. This level of panic, as I discovered on the night in question, is not at all limited to humans. No species likes to be out in the rain in Arizona...especially flies.

As you may have deduced, it was raining on the night this event occurred. I was cooking dinner while my then girlfriend and our French Bulldog, Zuri, were on the couch watching television. We were having spaghetti with homemade meatballs and the water was just beginning to boil. All was right with the world when I decided we should open the patio door and enjoy the breeze and the smell of the rain. My girlfriend, let’s just call her ‘Betty,’ had grown up in Arizona. I had not. Betty advised me the second I opened the door that it was not the best idea. However, it was already too late.

Our house was suddenly under attack by what I came to call ‘Al Flyda.’ Within seconds they were inside and everywhere in the house. Their numbers were incalculable and even worse, judging by how quickly and smoothly they had swarmed in, they were also trained and organized. Betty made some disparaging comments, mainly about me not listening or something, while Zuri just kind of looked around with that all too familiar ‘not my problem’ dog face.

I needed a plan...and a weapon.

Flyswatters are an interesting item; you never think to buy them until you need them. Plungers are very similar that way. Have you ever seen anyone at a store selecting a plunger to purchase without a hurried and desperate look on their face? Neither have I. Needless to say, we didn't have a flyswatter. Fortunately it was ‘full circle trash day.’ That’s what I call that day of the week when the garbage collectors pick up your trash (consisting mostly of junk mail) in the morning, and then the mail carrier seemingly puts it all right back into your mailbox that afternoon. What a system! I grabbed a sales ad from the Walmart, rolled it up, and prepared to do a detailed zone reconnaissance of every room in the house. As I was 'fittin' to ride on them bitches,’ Betty asked about dinner. Shit...dinner. I quickly set the oven to preheat and got the meatballs out of the refrigerator. I humbly thanked God that I had made them earlier in the day as there was no way I was going to have time now. I then managed to get the majority of the noodles from the box into the now boiling water. Some landed on the stove, others on the floor. Now, anyone that knows me knows that I hate a messy kitchen but this was no time to appease my OCD as there was treachery afoot. I crunched a few noodles under my foot as I departed the kitchen en route to the spare bedroom...ready to kill.

Al Flyda operatives buzzed and attacked me the whole way down the long hallway, my sales ad no match for their blinding speed and agility. I kept low and just went for it; flowing into the room and dominating the corners like a highly-trained Army Ranger. As I suspected, they were absolutely everywhere. As I began what can only be described as an unathletic, arm-flailing assault, a good portion of them began to flee back out the open bedroom door. It was a classic tactical blunder; I left them a way out and a means by which to consolidate and reorganize. Recognizing my error, I quickly closed the door to seal off the remaining operatives and continued my one-man sales ad onslaught. In the spirit of John McClane, I tried to come up with cool one-liners as I destroyed their souls but only managed one: “Lettuce for $.49, MotherScratchers!” Clearly not my best work but I was caught up in the carnage. Relatively quickly, I turned the tide in the spare bedroom and the floor was soon littered with the bodies of the vanquished. I stood there momentarily, arms raised, and preparing to shout “This. Is. Chandler!” like some Spartan warrior. However, Betty beat me to the punch suggesting loudly...and impatiently, that I should put the meatballs into the now preheated oven and also stir the noodles. I made sure to close the door to the spare bedroom thus securing my newly conquered ‘white space’ from infiltration and made my way back to the kitchen via the hallway of death. I took out a few on my way but I knew I still hadn't even made a dent. As I entered the kitchen, I glanced into the living room and for the first time realized that there were civilians on the battlefield, i.e. Betty and Zuri.

This new realization took things up a notch as I now had to be not only conscious of their safety, but I also had to make sure Al Flyda didn’t somehow garner their support. They were both hungry and clearly on the fence and I had to do my best to separate them from the enemy and win them over to my side. Otherwise, any hope for long term strategic success would be all but lost. Betty was clearly annoyed by them as demonstrated by all the fruitless swatting she was doing so I felt somewhat alright about her. Zuri, on the other hand, seemed quite indifferent about my cause and Al Flyda’s; she was clearly going to take some convincing. I moved over to Betty, bent down and gave her a kiss; professing my love for her and showing genuine support for her interests by asking which Kardashian was currently on the screen. I then pet Zuri, rubbed her belly, and asked if she wanted a meatball. She did. I went back to the kitchen, retrieved two meatballs from the casserole dish, and brought them back to the living room. Zuri inhaled it and then burped...signifying approval. I gave the other to Betty just for good measure. With the population now clearly on my side (See my book: Counterinsurgency with a Chance of Meatballs), I put the casserole dish into the oven, stirred the noodles, and then headed back out into the contested areas.

I cleared each room and common area in the house methodically just as I had the spare bedroom and within 15 minutes, I had dislodged Al Flyda from what I would later proclaim to be ‘Sampsellistan.’ Additionally, my sales ad was effing disgusting. More importantly, I had protected the population by showing them that I truly cared about their well-being; having put myself between them and the enemy despite the obvious personal risks. I also proved to them, through steadfast determination and overwhelming violence of action, that I would not quit until Al Flyda was no longer a threat.

As we sat down to our dinner (that was served right on time, by the way), I thanked Betty and Zuri for their support. I also promised Betty that I would employ the vacuum cleaner after dinner in order to conduct the mopping up portion of my campaign. Betty looked up at me, eyes beautiful and blue, clearly filled with love and admiration for her man of action and said, “So...no sauce then?”

You scrape at the thin layer of icy-slush clinging to the side of your mug with your index finger as you work to free a piece of spicy peanut stuck to the back of your tooth with your tongue. On the TV overhead Baez grounds into an inning-ending double play sending the table of over-dressed brokers behind you into a chorus of boos sprinkled with a few ‘slightly’ racist remarks.  Luckily ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ is blasting from the jukebox for the third time this hour and Steve Perry is doing a knockout job drowning out the most malicious of names before they can reach anyone who might take offense.

‘Oh man, that grenade rolled across the floor and literally came to rest up against my boot’ you overhear the guy a few seats down from you say to the pasty dude sitting next to you.

‘Holy sh--, what did you do??’ asks the off duty computer repair tech.

‘I put a couple of rounds through the door where that POS tossed it from, Man. Way I figured, I had two choices: dive and take cover, or accept that I was about to get tore up, return fire, and send him to his virgins.’

‘Dang man, that’s crazy’

‘Yeah, turned out it was a dud though, never went off, I just counted it as another one of my nine-lives getting used up. Shoot, by that deployment I think I had been through at least seven’.

With that, the Dude and Geek Squad both let out a huge laugh as you roll your eyes and take another swig from your frosty mug.

‘So, were you in Iraq or Afghanistan?’ Geek Squad asks, leaning in with the intrigue of a four year-old at a puppet show.

‘Both, I spent like seven years total over there, in the sh--, getting’ shot at every dang day’ Captain America replies, taking care to keep staring ahead for dramatic effect. ‘Combat became a way of life for me, you know?’

‘I can imagine… what were you? Special Forces or something?’

‘Nah, not technically. I was support, but over there everybody is basically infantry, kicking in doors and sh—‘.

Trying not to spit your drink back into your mug, you hold it to your mouth to conceal the huge grin that has spread across your face. Realizing that you can’t take anymore and are about to call ‘B.S.’ to this dude’s face, you push your stool back and make a run for the bathroom.

As you stand there in the bathroom downloading your first few rounds and reading about some girl named Carey who is apparently really fun, you remember back to all those guys in your different units who were just like this jabrone, and there were a lot of them.

Shaking it off, you hit the sink, check your teeth for any more rogue hunks of peanut in the mirror and make your way back out to your seat. As you walk past Captain America you notice he is wearing a schmedium tee that reads something to the effect of ‘Dysfunctional Veteran: Don’t Feed after Midnight’ on the back. ‘Of course he is’ you think as you sit back down, just as Baez redeems himself by driving one into the gap in center.

The brokers bro-scream their approval behind you as you ask the bartender to bring you a side-car of something harder to pass the time until your buddies decide to show up. As soon as she turns to walk away Geek Squad, harnessing his liquid courage, slaps you on the shoulder and asks you in a slurry-voice ‘are you hearing this sh--?? This guy was in a helicopter that got shot down! ….twice!’

‘Amazing’ you deadpan, not even breaking stride as you toss another handful of nuts in your mouth, conducting a quick recon for an alternative stool.

Turning back to Captain America, Geek Squad tells him to tell you the story about how he was ambushed in the mountains in Afghanistan and his squad was pinned down, but he was able to call in a Spectre gunship to wipe out the Taliban just as he and his boys were starting to run low on ammo.

‘I dunno, I don’t like talking about that stuff’ Captain America tells Geek after noticing the buddy bracelet on your wrist. ‘Hey buddy, you serve?’ America asks you instead.

‘Yeah’ you reply.

‘No sh--?’ he says as Geek Squad leans back, quickly realizing he is out of his element.

‘Where at? Iraq? Afghanistan? How many deployments?’

‘I was around’ you reply, taking a sip of the Kentucky’s finest the bartender just set in front of you.

‘OIF? OEF? Army? Marines?’ America asks you again, growing a little concerned you might have heard more than one of his stories.

‘I fought in stuff’ you tell him as you polish off your shot, grab one last handful of nuts, heading over to meet your buddies that just walked in the door.

‘

President Harry Truman said that and I’m inclined to agree with him. I feel as Veterans we have a greater interest in the past than most others. From the moment we arrive to our first duty station, one of the things we are given is a booklet (or several booklets) that details our unit’s history. We’re told to read it and know it just as well as we know how to field strip a rifle. Unit history gives us a detailed look into the past and a relatively micro one at that. For example, my first unit was A-Troop 1st Squadron, 4th US Cavalry of the 1st Infantry Division. The 1st Infantry Division is the oldest, actively-serving, and most storied Division in the United States Army. Literally forged on the battlefields of western Europe during WWI, the “Big Red One” has served our nation, without pause since 1917. 1-4 Cav has done the same albeit since 1855. Just those facts alone instill a pride in anyone who wears that Shoulder Patch or pins on that Distinctive Unit Insignia. Those things are a bridge to the past and you are now someone whose purpose is to honor that lineage by adding to it; to keep it alive and relevant. That brings me to the point of this article… Keeping Military Slang of the Past Alive and Relevant in Contemporary Society

We all know that slang is an intricate and often relished part of military life. It’s a language all its own and generally known only to a select group of people. Slang is also quite timeless. In 490 BC, a Greek runner named Pheidippides was in Marathon and witnessed the victorious defeat of the Persians. However, his elation at having just seen the invaders thrown back into the sea must have been short-lived as he saw his commander approaching him. Pheidippides knew that someone was going to have to inform Athens of the victory. He also knew that meant running the 26.2 miles from Marathon (Look at that...more history!) to Athens to accomplish that mission. He also knew that he ran fast and had therefore likely drawn the short stick. I’m fairly certain that having deduced all of that, he muttered *BOHICA, or a derivative of, as soon as his commander made eye contact.

*BOHICA: "Bend Over, Here It Comes Again." First recorded usage was during the Vietnam War.

It is my hope that upon viewing the following list of military slang that spans from the Revolutionary War to WWII, we can bring some of these back into common usage both in the military and in the civilian world. It’s not at all impossible; look at how common the phrase “That’s on point” is on both sides of the fence. I will include examples of sentences to help you out.

The Revolutionary War

Yankee Peas - A British Army term meaning buckshot. American Militia would often load their muskets with a few buckshot in addition to the standard musket ball in order to inflict more casualties at close range.

Ex: “I used Yankee Peas in my shotgun to defend my home against an intruder and now I have to go to Home Depot and buy new drywall.”

Grab - To loot a civilian house while the homeowner is present.

Ex: “Your Honor, ‘home invasion’ is such an ugly term. I would argue that my client was merely performing a ‘grab’ as a project for his history class.”

Lob - To loot a civilian house when the homeowner is not present.

Ex: “C’mon, Your Honor...at least it wasn't a ‘grab.’”

The Civil War

Bread Basket - Stomach.

Ex: “That Jalapeno Cheese Spread is a bit rough on the bread basket today.”

Pepperbox - Pistol.

Ex: “Anyone seen my pepperbox? All I can find is the lanyard.”

Grab a Root - To have dinner.

Ex: “Hey, girl...you busy Friday? Wanna grab a root?”

       Girl: “No.”

Nokum Stiff - Liquor. This requires no example as it’s just fun to say.

Wallpapered - Drunk.

Ex: “That Nokum Stiff done got him wallpapered.”

Quick-Step - Diarrhea.

Ex: “Seriously, boys...that cheese spread is not sitting right at all. I think I’m about to have a quick-step situation over here.”

World War I

Pogey Bait - Candy or snacks of any kind carried by American and Canadian Soldiers. This one is still in common usage among today's troops and I found it interesting to learn how far back it went.

Iron Rations - This expression was actually used as early as the 1860s to describe a Soldier’s emergency food rations. However, during WWI it came to be used as a nickname for shrapnel or artillery fire.

Ex: “Smitty took some Iron Rations right into his bread basket.”

Flap - To be worried.

Ex: “I’m really in a flap over this quick-step situation.”

Spike-Boozled - To completely destroy something.

Ex: “Seriously, fellas...I might spike-boozle the latrine if and when I make it.”

Dekko - To take a look at something.

Ex: “You want to go have a dekko at the latrine damage?”

World War II

Army Banjo - Shovel.

Ex: “Until the dream of the self-filling sandbags is realized, you’re going to need that Army Banjo.”

Awkward Squad - Men who require extra instruction in tactics and skills.

Ex: “The Awkward Squad is repeating the Land Navigation course...again.”

Bath Tub - Motorcycle Sidecar.

Ex: “Hop in the Bath Tub, dude...we gotta go find that damn Awkward Squad...again.”

Battle Breakfast - Navy term referring to the heavy breakfast of steak and eggs commonly given to Marines and Soldiers on the morning of an amphibious landing operation.

Ex: “Hey, look...Battle Breakfast! We’re as good as dead.”

Bayonet Course - Hospital treatment for venereal diseases. “Bayonet” refers to the male sex organ.

Ex: “After a long night of passionate love-making to a self-proclaimed virgin, Tim found himself with a ‘burning’ desire to run the Bayonet Course.”

Blanket Drill - Nap.

Ex: “I don’t know how I got it, Doc...I swear I woke up from a Blanket Drill and it was just BURNING.”

Bottled Sunshine - Beer. This one just makes perfect sense to me.

Chatterbox - Machine Gun.

Ex: “Get that damn Chatterbox away from the Awkward Squad...again.”

Chicken Berry - Egg.

Ex: “Why are these Chicken Berries green?”

Collision Mats - Pancakes or waffles.

Ex: “Heading over to IHOP for some Collision Mats; who’s with me?”

Garbage Catcher - Mess tray with depressions into which food is served.

Ex: “Grab a Garbage Catcher and get some Chicken Berries and Collision Mats.”

Jeepable - Impassable except by a Jeep.

Ex: “The road is bone-jarring but at least it’s Jeepable.”

Nut Buster - Mechanic.

Ex: “Do you remember all the heroic Nut Busters from 'Star Wars'? Me neither.”

Pep Tire - Doughnut.

Ex: "These Pep Tires are rotting my bread basket.”

Ribbon Happy - Dazzled by one’s own decorations.

Ex. “That Ribbon Happy Major is going to get us all killed.”

Royal Order of Whale Bangers - An ‘exclusive’ club open only to those Airmen who have mistakenly dropped depth charges onto whales believing them to be enemy submarines. Honestly, I see no way to carry this over into contemporary society and only included it because I thought it was hilarious.

Sin Buster - Chaplain.

Ex: “As soon as you’re done at the Bayonet Course, you should go see the Sin Buster and get right with Jesus.”

That pretty well exhausts my list. There are literally hundreds more like these but I did my best to select the ones I felt could be brought back into usage as well as those I thought were funny. In addition, I didn’t want to make it too long as the only thing more prevalent in Veterans than an appreciation of history is our short attention sp

[What are some of your favorite military slang terms?]

As the presenter clicks through the neverending slides your eyelids grow heavy, your head rolls backward, and your chair tips- you have died of Powerpoint.

BABIL PROVINCE IRAQ. 2008. 0253 HRS.

I stuffed an extra couple of Ripits in my left cargo pocket and cinched the drawstring closed. In my right pocket were a blueberry muffin, a honey bun, and a bag of trail mix some Baptists in Kenosha had mailed us the week before. Slinging my dusty m-4 over my shoulder I put my ACH on, grabbed my half-crushed pack of Pines and lighter off the desk and made my way through the plywood door that functioned as the entrance to our ECP. Once outside, the door slammed shut behind me under the weight of several stagnant water bottles suspended from 550 cord that had been rigged up with a series of eye hooks to ensure it closed.

The early morning air was heavy- still super-heated from the previous day, the unmistakable smell of the massive burn pit nearly 1000 meters away tickling my nose as I headed across the sand and gravel. There was no need to put my NVGs down, the illume was great and I could see my destination, the North ECP Tower, clear as day about 30 meters ahead. Somewhere off in the distance a couple of feral dogs were barking, most likely at each other but other than that it was totally tranquil, the sound of insects and the crunching of rocks under my boots the only things disturbing the quiet.

Looking up as I neared the tower I could see the barrel of the 240 protruding from the wind-torn cammo netting that lined the window, as well as SPC Austin who was leaning out to greet me, middle-finger fully extended.

‘Sup, fucker?’ he yelled down as I neared the small metal door at the base of the 20-ft tower.

‘Not shit, lower the line’ I replied as I crouched down to get inside.

Inside the dingy concrete cylinder that functioned as the base of the tower I waited as Austin lifted the diamond-plate panel on the floor and began to lower a rope with a d-ring attached to the end down to me. I clipped my weapon, my helmet, and my assault pack to the d-ring and Austin began to hoist it up as I grabbed onto the corroded metal ladder to begin my climb.

By the fourth rung a drop of liquid hit the small of my neck and ran down my back. ‘That better not be a tipped over piss bottle’ I said as I neared the top. Austin laughed.

I popped up inside the tower like a prairie dog from the hole in the floor and Austin extended his hand to pull me the rest of the way up inside. He’d already un-clipped my gear and set it over along the wall by his stuff which was packed up and ready to go.

‘Who’s pulling guard down there?’ he asked.

‘Suarez is up, SSG Mixson is racked the fuck out on the cot, snoring his ass off’ I replied.

‘Shocking’ Austin said as he began to clip his gear to the line.

‘Want me to leave my Maxim?’ he asked as he waved the rolled up, well-used issue he’d found on the floor of one of the shitters weeks ago in my face, ‘Elisha Cuthbert, dude….hottttt’

‘Pass’. She was definitely hot, but Austin had a reputation for going above and beyond when it came to ‘killing time’, and I didn’t see any hand sanitizer laying around.

‘Whatever man, just make sure you use the corner’ he said, referencing the platoon-designated area everyone was briefed would be for ‘time passing’ while on guard.

Not wanting to think about how overworked the corner was after spending the last three hours alone with Austin and Elisha, I cracked a Ripit and stared out into the Iraqi night. Three hours moved pretty damn slow in this place.

‘Alright dude, I’m outta here’ said Austin as he sat down and dangled his feet towards the ladder, ‘lower my shit down’.

As I moved to pick up his gear, something fell out of his assault pack and hit the floor. Reaching for the rogue item in the darkness I grabbed hold of what I immediately recognized as hair clippers.

‘You working on that fade in the dark?’ I asked as I placed them in the front pouch and zipped it closed.

‘What?’ he said from 3 rungs down.

‘The clippers, cutting your hair in the dark?’

‘Oh’ he said in a sadistic sort of way ‘something like that…gotta pass the time somehow, you know?’

‘Right’ I said as I clipped his gear on and began to lower the line down above him.

At the base of the ladder Austin gathered up his stuff, yelled up ‘I’m out!’ and then moved through the exit and out into the open night below.

‘Have fun, dude!’ he yelled as he made his way back to the main ECP building.

Returning my gaze out onto the lights of the villages on the horizon as they wavered and danced in the heat I took another swig of my Ripit and officially began my three-hour shift, starting with checking things out. There was enough moonlight to see everything near the front of the tower: 240 looked good, ammo was where it needed to be, radio was on. That was it. I had managed to pass an entire 43 seconds.

Grabbing the hand-mike for the radio I keyed it, waited for the beep, and called in my first radio check: ‘North ECP, this is North Tower, radio check, over’. A second or two passed before the speaker cackled to life: ‘North Tower, North ECP, roger.’

I was now a full ninety-seconds into my shift, and bored out of my mind.

I picked up the CLU laying at my feet and fired it up, hoping a scan of the horizon with the thermal site would give me something interesting to look at. It eventually clicked on and I held it up to my eyes sweeping the horizon from my left to right limits. Just a couple of donkeys out in a field with their feet tied together so they wouldn’t run away.

 Assholes I thought, feeling bad for basically any animal that had to live in this shithole.

I powered the CLU down and returned it to its spot on the ground well-clear of the corner (which, since the space was round, wasn’t technically a corner at all, more like an area) and returned to staring out into the night.

After pulling tower guard during our base defense rotations every few weeks or so on and off over the last 6 months I had pretty much settled on a pattern of how I made it through. Way I figured, the best way to work on getting my raw push-up and sit-up scores up was to knock out as many reps as I could while still of course keeping an eye over the area. I tried to do at least 200 of each push-ups and sit-ups in as few sets as possible each day that we were on 12-hour shifts.  Feeling confident that there wasn’t a VBIED barreling down MSR Tampa at a high rate of speed at this particular moment, I dropped down into the front-leaning rest, in full kit, and started knocking out my first set.

The thing about doing any sort of activity in Iraq at even three o’clock in the morning is that you start sweating profusely pretty darned fast, and as I knocked out the first couple of sets I started raining beads of sweat down off my face onto the dark floor below. I remained in the front leaning rest between sets for as long as I could, but the sand, dirt, or whatever on the floor was all over my hands so I had to keep reaching them back to wipe them off on my pants. It was an annoyance but I kept moving onto my next set until my arms started shaking so bad I could no longer support myself and I had to go to my knees.

Sitting back on my heels for a moment to take a break I wiped my forehead with my left hand and immediately felt something sticking to my face (If you’ve ever walked into a spider web you know the feeling, like tiny little fibers sticking all over). Panicking a bit I began rubbing my face with both hands which not only didn’t seem to be helping, it made things much, much worse. Standing up, I fumbled for my assault pack to try to find something to wipe my face with, eventually locating my bag of baby wipes. I furiously wiped my face, blowing out from my lower-lip up towards my nose to try and help get rid of the fibers.

After getting my hands wiped down I grabbed my headlamp and turned on the red light, shining it on my hands…they were covered in hair?

I flicked up the red cap with my thumb to use the white light and shined it down on the spot where I had been on the floor. It was completely covered in thin, brown hairs that had been swished about, mixed with sweat, and rolled up into little piles where my hands and knees had just been. What the fuck! I yelled out to nobody as I dove back into the baby wipes to continue trying to clean myself up. Dammit Austin! Clean that shit up you nasty fuck! I continued to yell at the corner.

Once I had removed as much of the hair as I could off of myself I grabbed the hand-mike and called down to the ECP: ‘North ECP, North Tower, over’…….nobody answered.

‘North ECP, this is North Tower, OVER’…still nothing.

Just as I was about to try for the third time, the radio sprung to life: ‘Tower, ECP, what’s up?’

Recognizing that the voice on the other end was that of one Specialist Jesse Austin, I keyed the mike: ‘Hey, next time you shave your head up in the tower, do us all a favor and clean that shit up! Over.’

There was a pause before the radio beeped again.

Down in the ECP I could hear somebody else in the backgrounding laughing as Austin replied: ‘Uh, I didn’t shave my head, over.’

‘Bullsh-‘ I started to reply before it dawned on me that he had put emphasis on the word ‘head’.

Feeling the remnants of last night’s Beef Stew MRE begin to awaken from their slumber in pits of my stomach to rise once again, I shined my white light back down on the floor for another look. And there it was. Austin wasn’t lying, he didn’t shave his head. Not unless his suddenly wavy and incredibly wispy hair had been growing way out of reg’s for quite some time now.

‘You nasty bastard.’ I said calmly into the mike as I entered some form of shock at the realization to what had just happened.

‘Hey, curtains match the drapes now, boy! If you know what I mean!’ he replied, laughing hysterically into the mike.

I hate this place I thought as I set the hand-mike down on top of the radio, I really really do….

Nuristan Province rests in the Hindu Kush mountains of Northeastern Afghanistan along the Pakistan Border. It borders with Badakshan Province to the north and sits a relatively short distance below the narrow strip of land that juts into Pakistan known as the Wakhan (Your Mom’s) Corridor. Kunar Province sits to its immediate south. Translated as “Land of Light,” Nuristan is inhabited by, wait for it...Nuristanis. They speak their own language (literally took us months to get a translator despite being the second maneuver unit to occupy the battle space) and do not observe many of the more well-known Islamic traditions such as women covering their faces or not entering one another’s homes without express permission. This is due largely to the fact that until about 100 years ago, Nuristanis practiced their own polytheistic religion until they were conquered by force and “encouraged” to convert to Islam. It was in this restive province with the Cavalrymen of the 1st Squadron (Airborne), 91st Cavalry Regiment, 173d Airborne Brigade Combat Team that this story took place.

It was sometime in midsummer 2007. I had recently been promoted to Sergeant First Class and therefore took my place amongst the poor, vanquished, and underappreciated staff monkeys in my Squadron’s Tactical Operations Center (TOC). My position was that of Battle Captain which encompassed a myriad of responsibilities; none more important than delivering assets to troops in contact or the request and coordination of MEDEVAC support for our wounded. For anyone that has never seen the inside of a Squadron or Battalion level TOC, picture those rooms with all the high tech equipment those government spooks are always occupying whenever they attempt to track down and kill Jason Bourne. Yes, picture exactly that but take away all of that high tech stuff and add lots of scotch tape and a coffee maker. Also, in the case of our TOC, add one high-speed hamster cage (thank you, Amazon).

The hamster cage was the dwelling of a feral mouse someone had caught on our FOB and immediately put into an empty fish aquarium. They then proceeded to catch things like scorpions and camel spiders which they would drop into the aquarium and place bets on how long the mouse would live. Looking back, I wish those “Coexist” stickers were trendy as that would have not only been funny, but would also have ironically demonstrated the pipe dream that is coexistence amongst creatures that just want to kill you. The mouse surprisingly beat all odds and killed everything that dared invade his homestead. In laymen’s terms, he was a bad motherfucker. He was shortly thereafter brought to the TOC and given to us as a pet. We promptly named him “Moose” to pay homage to all of his feats of strength and valor. We immediately ordered a very nice cage with a wheel and tunnels and all that shit. We even ordered him one of those balls so he could run around the TOC at will. On the plywood wall directly above and behind the cage, one of our more talented Paratroopers painted “Moose’s House of Pain” in blue with red “blood” dripping from the letters. The photos below are of the plywood wall along with his original aquarium; followed by one of Moose enjoying the spoils of war...

In August of 2008, after 15 months in that place, a few hours before we boarded helicopters out of there, we set Moose free and promptly destroyed his cage so that it could not fall into the hands of the enemy.

We set him free for two reasons:

1. He had earned his freedom and it was the right thing to do.
2. The unit that replaced us was full of pussies that complained about us breaking the rules with regard to having pets. They were not worthy of being in his presence and I’m confident that eventually he would have killed all of them.

Moose was a shining example of the badassery displayed by both the critter and animal populations of Afghanistan. Sometimes late at night, I picture him attacking the jugular of a lone Taliban fighter under a full moon in the cold, dead mountains of the Hindu Kush. But I digress…

“No fucking way...is that a fucking Panda?! What the fuck?!”

is loosely what I remember everyone in the TOC exclaiming as we peered into the rover feed being broadcast to us from an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle circling our Area of Operations. The UAV was in our battle space due to a platoon of our troops coming into small arms contact with a small element of insurgents. We requested Close Air Support so Brigade unhesitatingly sent us a UAV. Not only a UAV, but the Army’s “Warrior Alpha” model. To anyone not familiar, the Warrior Alpha looks exactly like the Air Force Predator. There’s really only two differences:

1. It’s completely unarmed making it useless in all but the most blissful of situations.
2. Despite it being an Army platform, it doesn’t display the Military Grid Reference System (MGRS) which is what the Army uses for land navigation. Nah...it displays Latitude/Longitude like it just got catapulted off a fucking aircraft carrier.

So not only is it incapable of killing the enemy, you can’t even tell where the fuck the enemy is located. Thanks a pantload, Rumsfeld. All you can do is watch them engage your fellow meat eaters all the while wishing you could do something aside from throwing another bag of popcorn in the microwave. It’s damn near impossible to open one of those with your fingers crossed, too. Don’t believe me; give it a try...I’ll wait.

We made repeated requests up the chain for Apache Helicopter Gunship support but at the time, they were all based out of Bagram and grounded due to weather. However, this skeptic suspects that it was double coupon day at Burger King which means wall to wall “quiff” in there.  No fucking way an aviator is going to miss that opportunity. But while it may have pissed me off at that moment, damn do I respect the hell out of them for taking a break from the war effort to enjoy the company of some young, hot, 9.

Note: a “Hot 9” in Afghanistan is about a Stateside 2.5 - 3. Tops.

We continued to watch this small group of fighters rain down plunging fire on our troops and we literally couldn’t do a thing about it. Fucking Burger King, man. The only good thing was that there didn’t appear to be any enemy elements attempting to maneuver on their flanks. Within the next few minutes, Brigade called me and said they’d coordinated for “Dude” to come up and lend us a hand. Dude was the callsign used by the Squadron of F-15 fighter/bombers stationed in Afghanistan. They’d be coming all the way up from Kandahar due to the “weather issue” in Bagram so it would take them an extra 10-15 minutes to arrive on station. Apparently, double coupon day at Kandahar is on Wednesdays.

About 10 minutes later, Dude 2-1 and Dude 2-2 checked in with our Air Force Joint Terminal Attack Controller. A J-TAC is an Air Force NCO assigned to ground elements and his job is to conduct air/ground integration with fixed-wing aircraft in order to select the best possible way to fill people’s living rooms with shrapnel that says “Lockheed-Martin.” Despite the fact that they’re in the Air Force, they are awesome dudes and great to have in your corner when the chips are down. You want to know how cool they are? They wear Army uniforms and no one gives a fuck. They know that Air Force uniform looks totally gay so they just wear whatever the hell they want. I love those dudes. So the J-TAC read them on and they headed north to unleash some pain. They planned to drop one GBU-31 J-DAM (Guided Bomb Unit-31 Joint Direct Attack Munition) and follow it up with one MK-82 Airburst. A J-DAM is literally an old “dumb” bomb retro-fitted with a guidance system (reduce, recycle, reuse) and the 31 version contains 1,000 pounds of High Explosives. The MK-82 is also guided and contains 500 pounds of HE. However, it uses a proximity fuze which allows it to detonate while it’s still in the air. Total show-stopper.  Needless to say, those insurgents were about to get their teeth turned into Chicklets.

Weapon......Away?

 As Dude made his way north, we began to use that worthless UAV to conduct a Collateral Damage Estimate. A CDE must be conducted prior to an aircraft being cleared “hot” onto a target. Basically, you make sure there are no civilians or occupied structures within the radius of the blast. If there are, you have to decide if “the juice is worth the squeeze” should you clear the aircraft to drop ordinance. The presence of a lone civilian will prevent a call of “weapon away” (and rightfully so in my humble opinion) but you can play a little fast and loose with structures. The UAV was observing the area with FLIR which detects heat signatures. In addition, the FLIR was set to White Hot meaning that any heat signature would show as white with a contrasting black background. Can you guess what Black Hot does? As the operator conducted an ever-widening “racetrack” around the target area, we saw it.

It was about 50-75 meters away from the little group of douchebags who were arrayed to the left and right of a PKM machine gunner; well within the blast radius. It was just an indistinguishable white blob as far as we could tell but it was moving. It also appeared to be quite large. The feed wasn’t the best and as the operator (who by the way was in a trailer in Vegas, getting combat pay and no doubt later complaining about PTSD) tried to adjust the contrast, Dude 2-1 checked in and confirmed that he had positively identified our troops as well as the enemy fighters and that he was computing a solution. I don’t know what “computing a solution” entails but it sounds way cooler than “This is Dude 2-1...friendly and enemy positions confirmed...doing math. Over.” Meanwhile, we were all peering and squinting at the monitor trying to identify that giant moving blob. Someone suggested (seriously) that we should look at the monitor through binoculars theorizing that we’d get more “magnification” that way. This was quickly dismissed by both blank stares and less than encouraging words. Suddenly, the blob got taller as Dude 2-1 radioed “Weapon Ready,” meaning that the pilots were ready to administer some hot, smoking, freedom. This thing was now twice the size it was before and it was repeatedly moving up and down like a big white blob doing squats. The J-TAC advised Dude 2-1 that we were still conducting CDE and unable to identify this white blob we were seeing. He advised that he would try to find it and identify it as well. He never found it which was a bit disconcerting since he was a “pickle switch” away from dropping 1,500 pounds of explosives in proximity of friendly troops. Obviously we didn’t want to drop ordinance on any of our guys; except for maybe Tim...that guy was a dick. The UAV operator (did I mention he was in Vegas?) relayed that he was going to switch to Daysight which might help us identify it. Daysight is like looking through binoculars that have been taking steroids and won’t shut the fuck up about Crossfit. If daysight was a guy, he’d be named Brett and smell of Axe body spray.

The Daysight feed came up and after a few seconds of contrast and focus adjustments by Vegas Boy, it was as clear as could be. It was a fucking Panda Bear. In fact, it was a Panda Bear standing upright against a tree, moving up and down using it to scratch its back. I know what you’re thinking: “There aren’t Pandas in Afghanistan!” I know you’re thinking that because that day, observing that feed, and despite the fact that we were looking at it, we were all thinking (and many of us even voiced it) the same thing. We then conducted a level of CDE that I never in a million years would have anticipated. We checked Google to see if Pandas were on the endangered species list.

They were.

Needless to say, Dude 2-1 never got to announce “Weapon Away.” Instead, both aircraft conducted a Show of Force over the enemy position. This is an extremely low pass coupled with the dropping of flares on the enemy for intimidation purposes. It is nowhere near as effective as a bomb the size of a Volkswagen but it does make the enemy shit kittens and break contact; which is exactly what they did that day. The Panda on the other hand just continued to scratch his back like he didn’t give a shit about anything in the world. It truly looked like bliss.

People can say whatever they like about the “insensitive, baby-killing” military. But there isn’t a fighting force in the world that takes more care to avoid collateral damage (even if it means quadrupling our own risk) than the Armed Forces of the United States. Sure, the enemy lived to fight another day but so did our guys. In addition, that fearless Panda got his back scratched which I think we can all agree probably felt pretty good.

In closing, Pandas were removed from the endangered list in 2016 so...you’re cleared hot.

You enter a dark hallway that reeks of discount smokes, burnt shrimp flavored Ramen, and broken dreams. In your hand you grasp a crumpled piece of paper inscribed with 'Johnny. 187.' You were told this guy was the absolute best- knowledgeable, gifted, some even referring to him as 'The Oracle'. Stepping over a rogue crusty green sock on the floor, you begin to make your way into the haze, your future hanging in the wings, desperate for a way out. As you walk down the dingy hall a naked guy on a skateboard clutching a fifth suddenly rounds the corner behind you. Startled, you move up against the wall as he zips past. 'Watch it, Bergdahl' he mumbles as he takes a pull off the bottle and disappears into the hazy darkness ahead. This place is shady. You'd been warned as much, but you had to be inside to truly understand what they meant. The light in the candy machine by the leaky drinking fountain flickers, a closer look revealing someone has carved 'Beware the Weenie' in the glass. Somebody screams. You walk past 162 and notice the heavy smell of Febreeze and corner of a towel sticking out from beneath the door. 174 is blaring someone's war-inspired demo tape, and whatever is going on in 178 may, or may not, involve a Parakeet. This place has health and welfare written all over it. Finally, you arrive at room 187 and raise your hand to knock, but before you can the door seems to open on its own. 'I've been expecting you' a deep gravelly voice says from the darkness, 'come in'.

Inside, the small room is lit only by a tiny beam of sunlight penetrating from between the drawn fire-retardant curtains. 'Have a seat' the mysterious figure says as he motions to the lumpy green duffel bag laying in front of his desk. 'My name's Johnny, Johnny Cochran. How can I be of service today?' Seeing no other option, you take an uncomfortable seat on what feels like a pro mask that has been stuffed inside the bag. 'Johnny...Cochran?' you ask, 'seriously?'. 'You want to see my enlistment papers?' he replies. Glancing up at the uniform hanging from the open door of the disheveled wall locker next to you, you notice his nametape reads 'Cochran', and further below it you can make out the edge of some mosquito wings protruding from the folds. 'Nah, that won't be necessary' you tell him, suddenly regretting you came.

'What brings you in today?' he asks as you struggle to get the filter canister out from beneath your crack. 'I messed up' you reply. Smiling, he says 'Take a look around you, we all 'messed up', Son. What exactly did you do?'. 'I reenlisted' you tell him as the smile quickly dissolves from his face. 'Retention got me an hour after my girl called to say she was leaving me for man-bun down at 'Whole Latte Love' back home. I was weak. I wasn't thinking straight! You gotta help me'. Leaning back in his chair, Johnny clasps his hands behind his head, exhales, looks up at the ceiling and asks 'how many'd he get you for?'. 'Three' you reply. Taking a dramatic pause, he lets the situation marinate in his head, finally stating: ‘It’s worse than I thought, but I think I can help you out'. Intrigued, you lean forward on your pro-mask.

'There's a little-known stipulation in Army Regulation 601-280 covering retention regarding the validity of signatures made under duress should the signee be able to prove such conditions were present at the time of his or her signing'. 'I'm listening' you say. Continuing, he states: 'you are in a race against the clock here, that paperwork is already on its way up to personnel for processing, so time is of the essence. What you need to do is call your First Sergeant at home as soon as you leave here and tell him that you made a mistake and would like to cancel your contract'. 'On a Saturday?' you ask. 'Heck yeah on a Saturday! Do you want to do 3 more years? You know they're short personnel down at Polk, right? Have you ever been to Polk? Mosquito is the state bird down there!'. Sitting back on the bag and ignoring the popping sound you hear from whatever just gave way inside you ponder what The Oracle has just told you. 'I hate mosquitos.' you say. Rising to his feet, Johnny reaches out and puts his hand on your shoulder, looks into your eyes with the type of concern reserved for sitcom dads and says gently 'Call Top, he'll understand'. 'You're right!' you exclaim as you jump to your feet, reenergized with the power of a thousand Ripits, 'First Sergeant IS cool! You're a freakin' genius Cochran! How do you know all this stuff anyways? You in legal or something??'. 'Nah, I'm supply' he replies with a toothy grin as he leads you to the door, 'but I am also a graduate the Barracks School of Law, and you are going to be alllllright'.

When I came down on orders to PCS to Schweinfurt, Germany I was pretty stoked. I had never been to Europe before, and all of the guys in my unit that had spent time overseas were quick to tell me how awesome it was. The food. The travel. 'You will love it' they said, and they were right. But there was one thing that they forgot to mention, AFN Europe.

Ah, the Armed Forces Network, the only cable television service available for those unfortunate souls stuck in the barracks overseas. On the one hand it's free, but nothing in life is really ever 'free', so it does come with a cost: AFN commercials. 

If you've never seen an AFN produced commercial I would best describe them as a cross between 70's porn (don't lie, you know you've seen it) and a middle school play. None of them are actually selling any products, they are mostly PSA's for things you should and should not do while stationed overseas, for example:

Do: make sure the dishwasher is full before running it. Do not: leave your spit bottles laying around at a party for someone to accidentally drink (yes, this is an actual AFN spot, they spent real money on it). 

So without wasting anymore time passing judgement on the production quality (or lack thereof) of the fine folks at the Armed Forces Network I'll let you be the judge. Whether you are a first timer or about to go on a nostalgic walk down memory lane I hope you enjoy this selection of my top-5 best AFN commercials....

You open the door and a fly immediately lands on your left cheek. You don't even bother swatting, it's been 9 months now and you could care less. You inhale one last gulp of clean air and step into the 105 degree box.

You set your baby wipes and magazine on the tiny shelf and look down at the muddy sandal prints framing either side of the seat. Squatters. You do your best to sanitize the area, clear the cliffhangers, and settle in for your morning glory. Beads of sweat roll down your face as you thumb through the tattered and abused pages of the platoon Maxim. 'No, no, maybe, no, hellllooooo beautiful' you mumble as you start to make your move.

You are barely 20 seconds into 'reading' when somewhere off in the distance you hear a muffled boom. Perking up, you conduct a short halt, listening carefully, and then it happens. The round impacts just outside the motor pool, not 80 meters from your pleasure palace. Your first instinct is make a dash for the bunker, but you don't. This is your chance. The coveted Combat Jack, it's what separates the men from the boys, and by God, you are getting yours today.

As the shells rain down it's hard to tell what's beating faster, your heart or your fist. Even the flies take cover as you race towards the finish, you've never felt so alive. As quickly as it began, the barrage comes to an end as both you and the insurgents are mission complete.

Proudly, you step out of into the bright sun, puffing your chest as you strut back to the B-Hut, Maxim tucked neatly under your arm. Yes, you are now a card carrying member of Combat Jack's Gentleman's Club. We meet on Tuesdays for punch and pie.... 

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"Mr. E" (mystery), "Meals Rejected by Everyone", "Meals, Rarely Edible", "Meals Rejected by the Enemy", and of course, the world-famous 'Four Fingers of Death"

No matter what you called MREs, we all had our favorites (Chili-Mac) and the ones we wouldn't feed to a mangy Iraqi dog (Veggie Omelette). I decided that it was high-time I dove into the history of the chow we all loved to hate to find out a little more about these fine delicacies.

I hope you enjoy this collection of useless information while waiting for final formation or during an extended trip to the head (that's a 'bathroom' for all of you that have been out a long time....like me)

MREs are designed to withstand parachute drops from 1,250 feet and non-parachute drops of 100 feet. (Especially the least popular ones)

The FRH will heat the entree of an MRE by raising the temperature of the 8-ounce entree by 100 F in 12 minutes.

Your Tabasco sauce may be used as a gargle for sore throats. 

Use a pinch of instant tea from your MRE and apply it to your gums to help eliminate canker sores. (Note: instant tea is ineffective against whatever you caught from Misty at the club last Friday)

During Operation Desert Storm many U.S. Forces ate MREs for 60+ days straight. (That sucks.) 

(via Survival Gear Source)

Pot Luck Pie
1 pouch Beef Stew
½ packet Cheese Spread
4 dashes Hot Sauce (optional)
½ pack Crackers (crumbled)

Heat Beef Stew and Cheese Spread in heater
Combine Stew, Cheese Spread, Hot Sauce and top with crumpled crackers to taste.

Enchilada Soup
1 pouch heated Beef Enchiladas
1 packet Cheese Spread (heated)
4 ounces heated water (1/6 canteen cup)
Hot Sauce to taste

Slice Beef Enchiladas into small pieces
Add cheese spread, water and hot sauce. Mix well while humming the Hat Dance.

Birthday Cake
MRE Pound Cake
1 Package of MRE Crackers
1 Pack of dairy creamer
1 Pack of cocoa mix
1 Pack of MRE Sugar
1 Water and a canteen cup with a spoon to mix
1 Book of matches

In the canteen cup mix cocoa powder, dairy creamer, pack of sugar, and some water. Adjust thickness of the icing by adding more or less of the cocoa mix. Mix them all together.

Add icing to the top of the poundcake and enjoy the hell out of it.

Ranger Pudding
You will need to cut some deals to acquire all of the ingredients needed: 
 peanut butter
crackers
 hot cocoa
 coffee
 sugar

Directions:

With the package unopened, pulverize the crackers.  Peel open the package of crackers about 1/4 to 1/2 inch from edge and tear straight across; this will become the top of the preparation.  Pull open the sides of the crackers package such that with the opening on top you have a makeshift cup.  Now add the peanut butter then a little water.  Stir the crackers in to give it a crunchy pudding consistency.  Add the sugar, hot cocoa, and coffee to give it the taste.  Add more water if needed, my personal preference was to fill it about 3/4 of the way up with water after adding the entire peanut butter package.  

For more delicious MRE recipes please visit: http://www.survivalgearsource.com/mre_recipes.html