Roadtoad
Bufo Caminus Inedibilis
In recent weeks, I've been hearing about the draft being reinstated. Part of the problem, it seems, is that we can't keep troops in uniform, because of falling morale.
Permit me to tell you of my eldest son's experience. This might clear up some of the confusion some feel. While I realize this is anecdotal, keep in mind, I spent time in service, my Dad was a 20 year vet, and most of my friends are also vets themselves. From what I've gathered, this is more the norm than you want to know.
Understand, my oldest boy is an Army Ranger. The Rangers are not just a bunch of grunts; they're among the absolute best the United States Army can field in a time of war. These are supposed to be the best trained, the best equipped, the best intellects in uniform that we have. Just to become a Ranger takes roughly two years of training, and even then, the attrition rate is appalling. In some cases, guys who go through the training are physically broken. But, the bottom line is that once they're in the field, these are the guys you do NOT want to f*** with. Ever. No macho melodrama, just the facts, Ma'am.
I was not a happy camper when my son called me some five years ago to tell me he was going into the Army, and I was even less thrilled to learn he would be a Ranger. At the time, you may recall, Bill Clinton had slashed the military's budget to the absolute bone, and had already pulled out the saw to cut even deeper. (More on this later.) But, the decision was not mine, it was my son's. A few weeks after he finished High School, he headed off to Fort Benning, Georgia for Basic Training.
My son did well through Basic, and he went on to Infantry School, learning the basics of Combat Arms. During this time, my father died, (November, 2000), and my son came home to attend the memorial service we had for him in Pacifica, CA. (My wife and sons were barred from attending the funeral in Orange County, as my mother decided we were all such an embarassment to her. I've discussed this elsewhere, and I won't belabor it.) He'd lost some weight, but he was still pushing on to join the Rangers. He went on to Airborne School, earned his jump wings, and prepared to go to his regular unit.
He was ultimately sent to an MI unit in Fort Bragg, NC, as part of the Ranger Battalion for that unit, and here was where things became, at best, strange.
First, my son was harassed constantly, with NCOs belittling him and dumping on him at all hours of the day. He would be sent off to perform some menial task, which, naturally, would not be done to satisfaction, and he'd be forced to do it again. We're not talking about polishing the floors, or cleaning the latrines: we're talking about going from one end of the unit's compound to pick up one piece of paper from one NCO, take it to the requesting NCO, then go back across the compound to request the proper piece of paper from the other NCO. (By the way: the paper was usually blank.)
He'd frequently get "smoked," where a senior member of the unit would force him to do push ups, usually until the senior member got tired. The whole idea was to break my son physically, mainly because he lacked a Ranger tab on his shoulder. The goal was to remind him that he was among the lowest of the low. And while my son did have some NCOs who were working with him, trying to help him learn what he needed to, most of the NCOs in this unit were little more than bullies and neanderthals, what one clinical psychologist called "masculopathic."
Still, my son continued, demonstrating that he was not going to be broken by this behavior. Once, he was on a Physical Training session, running over five miles with his unit, and a senior NCO told him that if my son didn't stop and get something liquid in his gut, he'd get smoked. My son was so dehydrated, it actually began to frighten the senior NCO. And this was not an isolated instance; my son literally had to be ordered at times to stand down, to NOT keep up with the unit's leadership, because he was pushing himself literally to the physical breaking point.
He was supposed to have been give lazik surgery for his nearsightedness and astigmatism. Unfortunately, he kept getting bumped back on the list by lieutenants trying to look good for their promotion boards. Officers have precedence over regular grunts. Even if the procedure is for someone who needs it.
At this time, his unit was still working under Clinton's budget axe. Live fire exercises, which were required to keep everyone up to speed on equipment and skills, consisted of the troops going out and pointing their weapons, and yelling, "BANG! BANG!" When the WTC came down, even if they had been called to action, my son's unit could not have gone: they had no bullets. Ammunition was still in the pipeline, but they still hadn't received it.
So now, the push was on. My son was sent to LRSLC, (pronounced "Lurzlic") the Ranger's leadership course. He was being leapfrogged to get him ready for service in either Afghanistan or the Gulf. He finished near the top of his class, and went on eventually to Ranger School. It took him longer to get through, but he actually made it, being recycled twice, once because he was injured and sent to the hospital, once because in a peer review, he found himself blackballed, unfairly according to his teammates during the training. In the end, though, my son persevered, and made it through.
When he got back to his unit, he was pulled aside, and told, "Remember, now you gotta smoke the newbies, too."
This was where things began to turn against my son.
My son knew that what he was being asked to do was against military regulations. (He once told me that he'd laugh in the faces of his instructors if he were "blood pinned" when he earned his jump wings, but he'd never blood pin anyone else, which told me that blood pinning is still going on, even thought the Pentagon has insisted the practice has been halted forever.) He told his superiors that, and then refused to smoke anyone simply because they weren't wearing Ranger tabs. If my son were going to smoke someone, they had to genuinely piss the boy off.
That didn't go over too good.
Things took another weird turn with a night training jump. Fully armed, and carrying all his gear, my son jumped from a C-17, something he did not like doing, partly because the jump would be made from a plane moving very high up, and very fast. This particular jump was a precursor to his being sent to HALO School, (High Altitude, Low Opening), which would make him a rare commodity even among the Rangers. (This was suggested because Delta Force had already sent someone to talk to him about making a switch should he decide to re-enlist.)
He left the plane, but some idiot Motherf****r got underneath his canopy, (meaning my son was being "skysharked") and within moments, both my son and the other soldier were in a freefall.
My son had tried to get away from the imbecile, but he kept getting under my son's chute, and now, my son's feet had collapsed the other man's canopy. Ultimately, my son got the other man clear, but wound up falling an additional 45 feet to the ground. He broke his right ankle.
At that point, the dope came up to my son, and it turned out to be a Captain. "Are you okay, Soldier?"
"No, Sir, I think I've broken my ankle," my son answered.
The captain walked off.
Over an hour later, another soldier from my son's unit came looking for him. "Where were you? Why didn't you show up for the rendevouz?"
"My ankle's broken. Didn't the Captain tell you?"
"What captain?"
My son called me from the hospital. I wasn't able to convince anyone I needed to get to Fort Bragg to be with my son as they pinned his ankle together. But, it was clear that he was not going to HALO School anytime soon. As it was, he could not even get in to physical therapy to work on getting some mobility in his ankle.
Let me mention something else about his gear: As a Ranger, he had to buy a lot of it himself. Since much of it was extremely expensive, particularly the "Blackhawk" Bags for his communications gear and some of the weaponry he was called upon to carry, my wife and I sent him about $600 to cover some of the costs involved. EVERY RANGER IN THAT UNIT KNEW THAT HE WAS RESPONSIBLE TO PURCHASE THAT GEAR!!!
Eventually, my son's unit was given orders to go into Iraq. Keep in mind, my boy could not even walk, but he was told he was going. He began to pack his bags, and was all but packed when a barracksmate of his asked if he could have my son's Blackhawk Bags. No, my son explained, he needed them, because he was Radio/Telephone Op, and he had all that gear to carry. (I still don't know how in the Hell they expected my son to fight pissed off Iraqis when he couldn't even walk.)
The other guy walked out, and in came a staff sergeant who launched into a fifteen minute tirade against my son which was heard throughout the barracks, calling my son a "buddyf***er," a dirtbag, and a few terms I had never even heard of before. When it became apparent that it would go into sixteen, my son upended his bags and passed them over to the NCO, who very quietly thanked him, and walked off with bags that my wife and I had paid for. (As of this writing, one of the bags is missing, as is some of the other gear my son bought, and the rest of it is not in good repair.)
My son was sent to Kuwait. He drove trucks around the motor pool, and stood a lot of guard. It was an Army surgeon who took one look at my son's swollen ankle and and sent him home. That got him labeled a shirker.
My son spent four months overseas. He was therefore denied any medals or awards for his time in service, nor had he earned any combat stripes. He was sent to work in an office at the MI unit where he'd previously been assigned, typing reports, and helping the unit get ready for a major inspection.
The colonel who commanded the unit did not thank my son for his work. I did find it odd, however, that the captain who caused my son's injuries was hanging around that unit, and at one point, he even got into a converstation with the Colonel, with my son standing there with them, making jokes about how he nearly killed my kid. Fuuuunnn-eeeeee.
My son had his promotion points, so he put in for promotion to Sergeant. Odd; they lost his packet. He resubmitted. They lost it again.
At this point, I began to beg my son to go to the Inspector General. He told me that he wanted to go through his chain of command first. I told him I wanted to write to my U.S. Senators, my Congressman, anyone. What had happened to him was wrong. I even began to draft the letter I'd send. My son told me to keep quiet. (Yeah, right.)
By this time, the NCO who'd stolen my son's gear was sent home with some weird infection no one had ever seen. (Yeah, there's no biological weapons in Iraq.) My son picked the joker up from Pope AFB, taking him back to the barracks. He tried to confront the loser about stealing the gear, but the SSG kept saying, "No, you gave it up willingly. You offered it to your buddies."
His unit now sent him off to learn to be an armorer, since he couldn't jump anymore. One of his first tasks in his new position was to try and correct years of neglected records, incorrect and in some cases even fraudulent records. In some instances, they even tried to force my son to sign off on forged and perjured documents, in an attempt to get something on him. Thankfully, he didn't, and by then, he was documenting everything that was going on.
By now, my son's ankle was getting even worse. What PT he was getting was limited, and more or less ineffective. He made his first contact with the IG's office at Fort Bragg, and they began to investigate. Not long afterwards, word came back that the Army's Criminal Investigations Division was looking into things. Someone was going to jail.
My son began to get ready for the Medical Board. He submitted a packet requesting an Honorable Medical Discharge from the Army.
No surprise: they lost it.
My son resubmitted. And when he did, he told the woman at Fort Bragg who handled this stuff: "By the way, if there's any problem, I have copies of everything. Just let me know."
That did not make them happy. They were even less happy when the IG contacted them and let them know they wanted to make sure my son's packet wasn't "lost" again.
I was still getting ready to send off a letter, when we had another conversation about what was going on in his unit. At that point, he told me that someone had told him, "You have to do what you have to do. But going to the IG could be a problem. In a unit like this, things happen. Guys can get hurt."
Maybe I should have sent it. But knowing what I know about these people, I also knew that could be a one way trip for my son.
In the meantime, a lot more has happened.
My son evacuated an apartment building where he saw a fire had been started. No commendations from his unit, but there's some folks still alive. He's also managed to get the mess in the Arms Room at his unit cleaned up. He's also having to deal with new NCOICs in the Arms Room. Seems my son knows more about what's going on in there than they do.
The unit's first sergeant has been fired. It seems that while they were in Iraq, the 1st Sergeant had command of a squad which was working with Iraqi policemen. When the Iraqis and Rangers came under fire from insurgents, the 1st Sergent pulled the Rangers back and let the Police take the fire. The Iraqis wanted to kill the 1st Sergeant. They sent his @$$ home.
In fact, most of the chain of command has been replaced. They're under fire from higher ups, and not just because of what my son's been through. Others have been treated just as badly. They're hemorrhaging; guys don't want to re-enlist. As it is, my son is preparing to join the Seattle Police Department, once he's had a chance to get his ankle seen to.
I'm watching all this, and I realize that Abu Ghraib was really no surprise to me. If we treat our own troops this way, how could it be?
My second son has asthma. He cannot be drafted. But my younger two are perfectly healthy.
Tim, amigo, Combat Wombat extraordinaire, if this draft is reinstated, can I send my boys to your doorstep? There's no way in hell I'd EVER let the military take my younger two. Hey, if Jimmy Carter can pardon draft dodgers, by God, I'm willing to help my boys dodge away.
Permit me to tell you of my eldest son's experience. This might clear up some of the confusion some feel. While I realize this is anecdotal, keep in mind, I spent time in service, my Dad was a 20 year vet, and most of my friends are also vets themselves. From what I've gathered, this is more the norm than you want to know.
Understand, my oldest boy is an Army Ranger. The Rangers are not just a bunch of grunts; they're among the absolute best the United States Army can field in a time of war. These are supposed to be the best trained, the best equipped, the best intellects in uniform that we have. Just to become a Ranger takes roughly two years of training, and even then, the attrition rate is appalling. In some cases, guys who go through the training are physically broken. But, the bottom line is that once they're in the field, these are the guys you do NOT want to f*** with. Ever. No macho melodrama, just the facts, Ma'am.
I was not a happy camper when my son called me some five years ago to tell me he was going into the Army, and I was even less thrilled to learn he would be a Ranger. At the time, you may recall, Bill Clinton had slashed the military's budget to the absolute bone, and had already pulled out the saw to cut even deeper. (More on this later.) But, the decision was not mine, it was my son's. A few weeks after he finished High School, he headed off to Fort Benning, Georgia for Basic Training.
My son did well through Basic, and he went on to Infantry School, learning the basics of Combat Arms. During this time, my father died, (November, 2000), and my son came home to attend the memorial service we had for him in Pacifica, CA. (My wife and sons were barred from attending the funeral in Orange County, as my mother decided we were all such an embarassment to her. I've discussed this elsewhere, and I won't belabor it.) He'd lost some weight, but he was still pushing on to join the Rangers. He went on to Airborne School, earned his jump wings, and prepared to go to his regular unit.
He was ultimately sent to an MI unit in Fort Bragg, NC, as part of the Ranger Battalion for that unit, and here was where things became, at best, strange.
First, my son was harassed constantly, with NCOs belittling him and dumping on him at all hours of the day. He would be sent off to perform some menial task, which, naturally, would not be done to satisfaction, and he'd be forced to do it again. We're not talking about polishing the floors, or cleaning the latrines: we're talking about going from one end of the unit's compound to pick up one piece of paper from one NCO, take it to the requesting NCO, then go back across the compound to request the proper piece of paper from the other NCO. (By the way: the paper was usually blank.)
He'd frequently get "smoked," where a senior member of the unit would force him to do push ups, usually until the senior member got tired. The whole idea was to break my son physically, mainly because he lacked a Ranger tab on his shoulder. The goal was to remind him that he was among the lowest of the low. And while my son did have some NCOs who were working with him, trying to help him learn what he needed to, most of the NCOs in this unit were little more than bullies and neanderthals, what one clinical psychologist called "masculopathic."
Still, my son continued, demonstrating that he was not going to be broken by this behavior. Once, he was on a Physical Training session, running over five miles with his unit, and a senior NCO told him that if my son didn't stop and get something liquid in his gut, he'd get smoked. My son was so dehydrated, it actually began to frighten the senior NCO. And this was not an isolated instance; my son literally had to be ordered at times to stand down, to NOT keep up with the unit's leadership, because he was pushing himself literally to the physical breaking point.
He was supposed to have been give lazik surgery for his nearsightedness and astigmatism. Unfortunately, he kept getting bumped back on the list by lieutenants trying to look good for their promotion boards. Officers have precedence over regular grunts. Even if the procedure is for someone who needs it.
At this time, his unit was still working under Clinton's budget axe. Live fire exercises, which were required to keep everyone up to speed on equipment and skills, consisted of the troops going out and pointing their weapons, and yelling, "BANG! BANG!" When the WTC came down, even if they had been called to action, my son's unit could not have gone: they had no bullets. Ammunition was still in the pipeline, but they still hadn't received it.
So now, the push was on. My son was sent to LRSLC, (pronounced "Lurzlic") the Ranger's leadership course. He was being leapfrogged to get him ready for service in either Afghanistan or the Gulf. He finished near the top of his class, and went on eventually to Ranger School. It took him longer to get through, but he actually made it, being recycled twice, once because he was injured and sent to the hospital, once because in a peer review, he found himself blackballed, unfairly according to his teammates during the training. In the end, though, my son persevered, and made it through.
When he got back to his unit, he was pulled aside, and told, "Remember, now you gotta smoke the newbies, too."
This was where things began to turn against my son.
My son knew that what he was being asked to do was against military regulations. (He once told me that he'd laugh in the faces of his instructors if he were "blood pinned" when he earned his jump wings, but he'd never blood pin anyone else, which told me that blood pinning is still going on, even thought the Pentagon has insisted the practice has been halted forever.) He told his superiors that, and then refused to smoke anyone simply because they weren't wearing Ranger tabs. If my son were going to smoke someone, they had to genuinely piss the boy off.
That didn't go over too good.
Things took another weird turn with a night training jump. Fully armed, and carrying all his gear, my son jumped from a C-17, something he did not like doing, partly because the jump would be made from a plane moving very high up, and very fast. This particular jump was a precursor to his being sent to HALO School, (High Altitude, Low Opening), which would make him a rare commodity even among the Rangers. (This was suggested because Delta Force had already sent someone to talk to him about making a switch should he decide to re-enlist.)
He left the plane, but some idiot Motherf****r got underneath his canopy, (meaning my son was being "skysharked") and within moments, both my son and the other soldier were in a freefall.
My son had tried to get away from the imbecile, but he kept getting under my son's chute, and now, my son's feet had collapsed the other man's canopy. Ultimately, my son got the other man clear, but wound up falling an additional 45 feet to the ground. He broke his right ankle.
At that point, the dope came up to my son, and it turned out to be a Captain. "Are you okay, Soldier?"
"No, Sir, I think I've broken my ankle," my son answered.
The captain walked off.
Over an hour later, another soldier from my son's unit came looking for him. "Where were you? Why didn't you show up for the rendevouz?"
"My ankle's broken. Didn't the Captain tell you?"
"What captain?"
My son called me from the hospital. I wasn't able to convince anyone I needed to get to Fort Bragg to be with my son as they pinned his ankle together. But, it was clear that he was not going to HALO School anytime soon. As it was, he could not even get in to physical therapy to work on getting some mobility in his ankle.
Let me mention something else about his gear: As a Ranger, he had to buy a lot of it himself. Since much of it was extremely expensive, particularly the "Blackhawk" Bags for his communications gear and some of the weaponry he was called upon to carry, my wife and I sent him about $600 to cover some of the costs involved. EVERY RANGER IN THAT UNIT KNEW THAT HE WAS RESPONSIBLE TO PURCHASE THAT GEAR!!!
Eventually, my son's unit was given orders to go into Iraq. Keep in mind, my boy could not even walk, but he was told he was going. He began to pack his bags, and was all but packed when a barracksmate of his asked if he could have my son's Blackhawk Bags. No, my son explained, he needed them, because he was Radio/Telephone Op, and he had all that gear to carry. (I still don't know how in the Hell they expected my son to fight pissed off Iraqis when he couldn't even walk.)
The other guy walked out, and in came a staff sergeant who launched into a fifteen minute tirade against my son which was heard throughout the barracks, calling my son a "buddyf***er," a dirtbag, and a few terms I had never even heard of before. When it became apparent that it would go into sixteen, my son upended his bags and passed them over to the NCO, who very quietly thanked him, and walked off with bags that my wife and I had paid for. (As of this writing, one of the bags is missing, as is some of the other gear my son bought, and the rest of it is not in good repair.)
My son was sent to Kuwait. He drove trucks around the motor pool, and stood a lot of guard. It was an Army surgeon who took one look at my son's swollen ankle and and sent him home. That got him labeled a shirker.
My son spent four months overseas. He was therefore denied any medals or awards for his time in service, nor had he earned any combat stripes. He was sent to work in an office at the MI unit where he'd previously been assigned, typing reports, and helping the unit get ready for a major inspection.
The colonel who commanded the unit did not thank my son for his work. I did find it odd, however, that the captain who caused my son's injuries was hanging around that unit, and at one point, he even got into a converstation with the Colonel, with my son standing there with them, making jokes about how he nearly killed my kid. Fuuuunnn-eeeeee.
My son had his promotion points, so he put in for promotion to Sergeant. Odd; they lost his packet. He resubmitted. They lost it again.
At this point, I began to beg my son to go to the Inspector General. He told me that he wanted to go through his chain of command first. I told him I wanted to write to my U.S. Senators, my Congressman, anyone. What had happened to him was wrong. I even began to draft the letter I'd send. My son told me to keep quiet. (Yeah, right.)
By this time, the NCO who'd stolen my son's gear was sent home with some weird infection no one had ever seen. (Yeah, there's no biological weapons in Iraq.) My son picked the joker up from Pope AFB, taking him back to the barracks. He tried to confront the loser about stealing the gear, but the SSG kept saying, "No, you gave it up willingly. You offered it to your buddies."
His unit now sent him off to learn to be an armorer, since he couldn't jump anymore. One of his first tasks in his new position was to try and correct years of neglected records, incorrect and in some cases even fraudulent records. In some instances, they even tried to force my son to sign off on forged and perjured documents, in an attempt to get something on him. Thankfully, he didn't, and by then, he was documenting everything that was going on.
By now, my son's ankle was getting even worse. What PT he was getting was limited, and more or less ineffective. He made his first contact with the IG's office at Fort Bragg, and they began to investigate. Not long afterwards, word came back that the Army's Criminal Investigations Division was looking into things. Someone was going to jail.
My son began to get ready for the Medical Board. He submitted a packet requesting an Honorable Medical Discharge from the Army.
No surprise: they lost it.
My son resubmitted. And when he did, he told the woman at Fort Bragg who handled this stuff: "By the way, if there's any problem, I have copies of everything. Just let me know."
That did not make them happy. They were even less happy when the IG contacted them and let them know they wanted to make sure my son's packet wasn't "lost" again.
I was still getting ready to send off a letter, when we had another conversation about what was going on in his unit. At that point, he told me that someone had told him, "You have to do what you have to do. But going to the IG could be a problem. In a unit like this, things happen. Guys can get hurt."
Maybe I should have sent it. But knowing what I know about these people, I also knew that could be a one way trip for my son.
In the meantime, a lot more has happened.
My son evacuated an apartment building where he saw a fire had been started. No commendations from his unit, but there's some folks still alive. He's also managed to get the mess in the Arms Room at his unit cleaned up. He's also having to deal with new NCOICs in the Arms Room. Seems my son knows more about what's going on in there than they do.
The unit's first sergeant has been fired. It seems that while they were in Iraq, the 1st Sergeant had command of a squad which was working with Iraqi policemen. When the Iraqis and Rangers came under fire from insurgents, the 1st Sergent pulled the Rangers back and let the Police take the fire. The Iraqis wanted to kill the 1st Sergeant. They sent his @$$ home.
In fact, most of the chain of command has been replaced. They're under fire from higher ups, and not just because of what my son's been through. Others have been treated just as badly. They're hemorrhaging; guys don't want to re-enlist. As it is, my son is preparing to join the Seattle Police Department, once he's had a chance to get his ankle seen to.
I'm watching all this, and I realize that Abu Ghraib was really no surprise to me. If we treat our own troops this way, how could it be?
My second son has asthma. He cannot be drafted. But my younger two are perfectly healthy.
Tim, amigo, Combat Wombat extraordinaire, if this draft is reinstated, can I send my boys to your doorstep? There's no way in hell I'd EVER let the military take my younger two. Hey, if Jimmy Carter can pardon draft dodgers, by God, I'm willing to help my boys dodge away.
