This morning went by as per usual. PT came and went, then on to showers at the gym. Breakfast was taken at the local dining facility.

Formation was at 0900, where we were given the orders for the day. A safe had to be moved somewhere–someone was working on finding a truck. Supplies needed to be carted to the new brigade building–someone was working on finding the key to the room. And the barracks needed to be swept and mopped–supplies to be procured from locked supply room once key was tracked down.

Meaning the lot of us took our usual spots along the grass and curbs, waiting in the calming, autumn weather for someone to do something. I went inside the unit building to find the computer tech sergeant to heckle through some password/access issue that had sprung up.

The sun was up, above the adjacent building and pouring into the glass doors of the building’s front. The computer sergeant was pulling staff duty, manning a desk at the entrance to the place, ready to head off any issues, fights, fires or other situation that might arise through the day.

It’s a military thing to have a building staffed, much like a office receptionist might situate him or herself at the gaping maw of “the public,” save for the fact that our military counterparts are usually on hand for damage-control purposes–finding people and/or security measures and the like.

I was standing there, in line with several majors who took it upon themselves to assume positions in front of me. Not a problem, I had nothing but time until keys and trucks were found, and I’m sure the majors were needed in some PowerPoint capacity somewhere else. I just stood and watched the morning grow.

In the field next to the adjacent building were familiar stacks of duffel bags. Sort of like the ones made–yup, there were buses too, and families. A little father west was a formation of desert-uniformed troops, weapons slung, receiving instructions as families looked on.

Time to go for some group of Joes. Poor bastards. I’m sure someone looked at our formation a year ago and thought the same things–some of them probably recently returned–hell, some of them maybe out there now. We have a way of coming and going in cycles. One shift on, the other off–like some factory positions–or like the emperor penguins, taking turns on the outside of the circle, enduring the cold, keeping others warm.

It’s hard to enjoy the warmth and safety when you know there are others getting ready to face the cold reality of hate and conflict. Then again, I suppose it’s more of a crime not to enjoy it. If we spend all of our time in the states feeling guilty that others aren’t here, then what’s the point of defending anything? What’s the point of ever leaving the war-zone?

I have friends all the time who say things like, “Well, I feel guilty that I was just back here hanging out and drinking beer.” Maybe not those exact words, but genuine concern that their “ordinary” lives were somehow not as important or even detracting from the overall struggle.

I try to always tell them that I’m glad they were here–that I hope they had the easiest year of their lives. Not to gain any sort of martyrdom points, but to try to express genuine thankfulness that somewhere, someone was enjoying something in a place made safer by the efforts of others.

It’s like taking a fresh-baked pie and letting it spoil because someone couldn’t come to dinner. Ack! There went the pie! Eat it, enjoy it.

So as those cats were piling on the buses and the families were all saying goodbye, I said a little prayer for them and went back to my day in the states, worrying about little else than safes and supplies.

It’s how I would want it, were I just leaving for Iraq, and I think it’s how they would feel to, given the chance to say so.

###

Now I’m not one to pass judgment on a whole group of people, especially when I know next to little about them. So it was with this mindset that I set out for an afternoon at our local Buffalo Wild Wings with two Hooters girls and some guys I met at the mall, of all places.

It was an eclectic mix: a couple of young Army officers, a just-got-out former troop, a clothing-store clerk, myself and a couple of curvaceous trophy girls from our local breast exposition.

On me right quick. A lot of cats think I’m damn hilarious, which is very flattering. Guys, especially ones I had chuckling through the deployment, always are saying things like, “Dude! You’ve GOT to come out with us now that we’re back!” thinking that my wit and charm (begrudgingly admitted, har har) is like a microwave dinner–frozen in wait until popped in an oven, frazzed out for two minutes and bam! instant comic relief. Thus the reason for my invite.

What these poor saps don’t realize is that subtle accents and observed comments are best served in a venue that doesn’t list deafening sports or music ambiance as features.

That’s why I usually avoid the club scene. Having to screech into my neighbors ear about how the napkins stick to my glass isn’t that fun, in my opinion, and having to repeat-screech anything longer than three words kind of dampens the normal material.

All that to say that I’m usually quiet at these spots. But the ladies were in their element, used to talking in that sort of vibe, sort of like how dentists know what the heck you’re saying as they put several metal probes throughout your mouth.

“So you like Hooters?” one of our boys asked during a break in the 12 football games beamed throughout the super-televisioned bar.

“Yeah, it’s SOOOO much fun!” said one of the more “buxom” blonds, M. “We totally like live there. We’re there all the time,” she motioned to her friend. “Like last week, I worked 100 hours.”

“No, that’s 100 hours for two weeks,” explained M2 (also an M, but for the sake of the story, we’ll go with M2). “Someone had to explain it to me too.”

“Oh. All I know is that it said 100 hours on my pay tab.”

“Yeah, but it’s 100 hours every two weeks.”

“Oh. So that’s like, what? 50 hours a week?” *Laughs* “I worked 50 hours last week.”

Things went like that for a while, the guys drifting back and forth from game to game, the girls going on about their 60-something regular who tips each of them $100 per visit, five days a week.

“He says we’re totally like his granddaughters. He just has SOOOO much money,” M2 told me, amazed. “He’ll always buy us stuff. He’ll be like, “I know M will like that!” and he’ll just get it.”

“And you don’t think that’s a little wierd?” piped in the just-out former troop.

That set off a whole defensive thing with the girls. Our concensus was that 60-year-old men buying young waitresses thousands of dollars of stuff in addition to tipping thousands of dollars a month was a little strange. They didn’t like that at all.

“We just enjoy his company,” M said, a little tiffed, and went into a pout and pushed her head-sized breasts out in a sort of one-two “this will end the discussion because I’m cute” move. Yibbida yibbida.

Lets see. What else? We had a frank discussion on what Jessica Simpson song was the best to dance to while at work. We talked about how one of the young officer guys had great teeth. And we got to hear about how the M’s were going to stop eating this week to lose five pounds by Saturday, when they were going to be ring girls at an ESPN-broadcast boxing event.

Side comments included the fact that guys are always saying they should be in Playboy–and there’s nothing wrong with that, they say, it’s just a way to get your face “out there.” It’s the same reason they do the ring-girl gig–a chance to get out there.

Is that fame? I suppose so, for a lot of people. It’s always a wonder how girls line up to do the Internet porn thing. Not even the big stars in the “professional” circuit, but the thousands of girls that come and go in those emails that everybody seems to eventually get. Is it that “somebody” saw you “somewhere” that’s the goal?

The M’s are just living their lives, they say. “If you’re young and have a good body, you might as well flaunt it. You just need to get out there and have fun.”

Well there it is, my afternoon with the ladies.

It won’t be a habit, I’m sure. Rolling with that caliber of woman is a little on the expensive side, so I’ll let the drooling officer-types that were there fight it out. Also, you tend to get “You don’t look so tough, I’ma gonna kick your ass” looks from every guy in the place. I’d rather not revert into primate mode and have to defend my alpha-male status to keep my prizes. I’ll just stick to my normal routes.

###

Getting promoted in the Army is very difficult–not because things are necessarily competitive, but because anything remotely beneficial to a soldier’s career or well being must be tenaciously fought for through gatekeepers and mountains of paperwork.

“Gatekeepers” are especially problematic. They are the persons in administrative positions who determine if your requests, forms and/or approvals are processed. An unfortunate sizable portion of these people are infamous for their self-serving, lazy attitudes. Griping at them doesn’t help, since they are the ones who you must ultimately work through. They know it, you know it. You take the sh*t they give you and smile politely. Picture having to work through the DMV for anything from requesting an earned day off to fixing a finance error and you get a better picture of what it’s like.

In September of 2004 I became a sergeant, after weeks and weeks of appointments, trips to this office or that, interfacing with civilian-run organizations and military sections. I had to update the listings of my records: my awards, certificates, PT scores, rifle qualifications, and college education. This required several trips to processing centers, multiple appointments spread over several floors of employees, offices and sections.

Of course certain items were mis-entered, which I found out after allowing the allotted time to pass while the requests for record updates were sent to Indianapolis and the 5,000 other fully-staffed government agencies that “process” these sorts of things. Correcting the errors meant more trips and more forms and more appointments.

All of this to prepare a “promotion packet” that is put together by the military administrative personnel of the unit. The packet also undergoes it’s own series of scrutinies and “corrections,” sending it to and from several offices before finally being blessed as pure and righteous enough to be presented to a promotion board.

A promotion board is a panel of several sergeants major or first sergeants who screen potential promotion applicants with a high-pressure interview involving strict military protocol and pressed, sparkling uniforms. Weeks of study are required to answer questions completely unrelated to a soldier’s everyday job.

The topics include questions about weapons capabilities, map reading, Army programs such as sexual assault policy or the weight-control program, first aid and uniforms. Not that this knowledge isn’t good to know, but I’ve never understood how knowing that the Army Family Action Plan’s symbol is the equilateral triangle will help me be a better journalist, especially when there are never any job-specific questions at these things.

If I’m trying to be promoted as a journalist, how about some questions about photography, or grammar, or pagination? You would think that would be a better indication of whether I’m ready to be promoted. But there I go, rear-seat driving.

Upon a successful board appearance, where the panel members can vote “yes” or “no” on whether they recommend the promotion, the final series of signatures and approvals are processed, the soldier waits two months for the 5,000 government agencies to work their magic, and, finally, the troop is promoted.

Well, after two years, it’s time for me to begin my quest again. I’ll be documenting what I’m sure will be a fun and memorable time.

###

Being in charge of a formation or group of personnel is quite a thing.

When a person is in command of a formation, they stand just a few paces in front of the mass, commands committed to memory, ready to steer the living beast to or from an event. While in charge, he has every opportunity to show his knowledge of drill (or lack thereof) and get the chance to be berated and criticized by every swingin’ Richard in the ranks.

“Why don’t we do this inside?” “They’re just gonna have to do this again after the cards are passed out.” “I’m signing this sheet too?” “God, why are we running so fast?” “My feet hurt, why don’t they slow down?”

And in a lot of cases, the troops are right–things are often done in silly ways. Pointed-out opinions are a lot of times correct.

But the ones doing the griping often have never been in charge, and have no idea how your mind turns to mush when things pop up or you’re expected to make snap decisions on little to no information.

Coming back from Iraq I was the NCO in charge of the baggage detail–a fun little romp involving the repeated lifting of many hundreds of overstuffed duffel bags. It was hot, it was heavy, but it had to be done.

Getting off the bus, they’d yell for the baggage detail to form up while every one else went to chill in the air conditioning. We’d gather outside before being ushered to our labor zone by one of the attending civilian quarter-millionaires.

You know that game “memory” where you are asked to look at a series of objects for two or three seconds, they’re covered and mixed around, and then the sheet is whisked away and you have to reassemble everything?

That’s how being in charge feels like when faced with a new task. You remember how things should or could go and–whoosh! There goes the curtain, now…how best to assemble my troops in a system of efficiency and effectiveness to both maximize output and assuage any gripes and complaints before they manifest?

Older cats have more experience, of course, but even that only gets you so far. Our first sergeant does things at times that make me frumple my brow. Joes like me take to it as best we can, but it will always lead to some of the “suggestions” being thrown out by the troops.

Now, old-school Army would have the ol’ sarge scream, shout and kick the sh*t out of the complainers; but we can’t do that in the sensitive, feeling Army. So, I’m left with second-guessers and rear-seat drivers.

And not to say that I’m the calm, cool and collected SOB either. There’s a lot of times I have no idea what’s going on.

“We’re NOT moving these off the palettes? Green bags on the–where?! Ok guys, stop. Move these back on to there, take these others and lash them to the back.”

“Aw, com’on!” “I’m thirsty!” “Sergeant, you got all these people here that aren’t doing anything.” “We need more people on the top.”

And the all-knowing, almighty specialists begin their mantra. Would-be NCOs–some too young for stripes, but many too lazy to care. It’s far easier to sit back and bitch rather than follow instructions and bear with things.

Command at any level is tricky, but E5s are a special bunch. We’re the ones who typically interact with the soldiers directly. Commands trickle down the chain finally to the E5s who whip the troops into a reluctant blob and accomplish the work.

I ain’t the best at it, but I try. “There’s nothing like command,” I hear the colonels and majors say, smiling. Yeah, from the lofty perches, I’m sure it is a glorious thing. Down with the Joes, it’s day by day, one complex puzzle after the next, and there’s no shortage of gripes and complaints.

Still, it’s where you can make the most difference. I’ll leave all the movie and book deals to the officers and glory hounds. I’m a sergeant. I keep it real.

###