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 Desert SlurmPosted 06.20.2008 by Logman (47)
I just returned from an Army training exercise in the Mojave Desert. I was away for almost an entire month. As I have mentioned before, my eating habits resemble that of a Yeti. However, while in the field, I tend to eat much less, only consuming the portions served to me. Since this was supposed to be a simulated combat environment (similar to Iraq or Afghanistan), we were fed two hot meals a day (breakfast and dinner) along with an MRE for lunch.
Mixing two low-quality meals with one that is designed to stop up the works is, without a doubt, one of the worst ideas ever put into action on one's digestive system. Many of us were dropping irregularly-scheduled, oddly-textured loads due to this assault on our stomachs. Of course we would share stories amongst each other, and compare notes. One day out at our work site (I am in an Engineer unit, which mainly builds things and blows stuff up, though I mostly hold the position of Machine Gunner), another soldier and myself were posted on a rooftop of the simulated city we were working in, as our unit was building more houses for training purposes. We were armed with our actual weapons, loaded with blanks and some electronic equipment that acts similar to Laser Tag, which is meant to help simulate actual combat. As the day rolled on, we sat on the roof of the four-story building in the hot desert sun for hours, eating our lunch up there and sending a runner to refill our canteens every so often. Just a short while after lunch, we spotted several "enemy" soldiers observing the worksite. We called to the Sergeant of the Guard, who readied all of our overwatch positions while everyone else continued working. Soon, just as I lit a cigarette, the "enemy" attacked, and as we fought back from our positions, my M249 machine gun rattled away as I fired off nearly six hundred rounds of blank ammo. After the "battle", I lit another smoke; and as I smoked it, I realized that the nasty food, the cigarettes, and the constant vibrations from my machine gun during the battle had all come together to form an extreme emergency. If I didn't act quickly, I would surely be shitting my pants in no time! Once again, the Army's placement of the porta-johns was less than ideal -- this time, about three hundred meters away. I quickly began to make my way down the ladder through the hatch on the roof and down three flights of stairs, leaving the building and beginning the trek to the plastic throne. The heat from the afternoon desert sun, combined with the added weight of my helmet, body armor, and machine gun, made the journey difficult. I pressed onward, fearing for my drawers, as I knew there wasn't much time left. I finally made it to the shitters, opening the door on the closest one -- and finding NO paper at all! The other two were void as well. And my MRE, which comes equipped with a small amount of toilet paper, was all the way back on the rooftop! I quickly ducked into the last door, deciding that I would drop anchor first and then figure out what to do without shit tickets. I proceeded to drop a major deuce, which, due to the food, was like toothpaste. After finishing, I decided to come up with a game plan. I debated using my socks, but they were the only clean pair I had, so I tried to come up with something else. I used a couple pages of a newspaper left in the throne, but they weren't enough. Finally, I used my cell phone to call a fellow soldier; luckily he had a pack of baby wipes I could use! As he headed to my area, I noticed that the cleanup crew had not signed the cleaning schedule in some time. I looked down in fear and discovered that the reservoir was filled, and not two inches from touching me! It hadn't been cleaned in days, and with upwards of two hundred soldiers using these three porta-johns daily, it was rather gruesome. I received the wipes, cleaned up, and, as I put my helmet and body armor back on, my issued sunglasses/eye protection fell right into the mess! There they sat, stuck in the mess, as a final "screw you!" in my book. Later that week, the day before we left to come home, there was someone who DIDN'T make it to the porta-johns outside our tents. He decided to ditch his evidence in the porta-john itself, where it was discovered by a fellow soldier, who, by the way, has a rather sick sense of humor. Using a coat hanger, the ruined drawers were recovered and placed on the floor of the prota-john; and then, as a practical joke, he wrote some other soldier's name, rank, and unit on the waistband. Sure enough, as the soldier whose name graced the mess came outside to smoke, others were discovering the mess and, as the smoking area was right there, seeing him immediately after. He was oblivious to the fact, however, and we all laughed like crazy until a high-ranking soldier in out unit, a Master Sergeant, came out of the porta-john and screamed, "Where the f&@$ is Specialist ______! He has some shitty drawers in here that he needs to come collect!" Post new comment
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