thedrifter
12-19-05, 01:32 PM
NO SENSE OF HUMOR
By Vicki Crawford
DECEMBER 19, 2005 (Posted at: 12:26 p.m.)
It's a no-brainer; getting shot at can pretty much ruin a good day. No doubt that every Tom, Dick, and Harriet out in a combat theater thinks about getting shot off and on throughout the day, whether it's a conscious worrying or the specter of it sitting in the subconscious. For officers, it's a bigger concern. Nothing boosts the morale of the enemy than having shot an officer, the higher the ranking the more brownie points. One would think that this would encourage better leadership, but that isn't always the case.
One thing that the enlisted are taught is to never ever under any circumstance salute an officer in combat. The very act of rendering a salute signals to any possible sniper in the vicinity of the presence of an officer. Saluting one in the field is the same as painting a target on him or her. But you got to wonder about some of those snipers out there. Apparently some have a weird sense of humor. Or maybe there is some tactical advantage where the enemy is concerned. Instead of culling out the bad ones and improving the breed, the sorry ones are left to further demoralize the troops.
Some of the officers in my unit felt differently about customs and regulations during the war. After a few days in-country, some were very vocal in their complaints that the enlisted were not rendering the proper respect due to them. This prompted our command to issue the order to salute the officers in the field. A couple days later they reversed that order. Then that order got reversed. It got a little crazy for some of the enlisted personnel. Sometimes communications got a little garbled and you were not sure whether you were suppose to salute or not salute. Some of us took to saluting those officers we felt were in some serious need of hospital convalescent leave. This prompted the curiosity of my captain who asked one day why I wasn't saluting him and certain other officers. I told him if those others were stupid enough to demand that I render them a salute I'd be more than happy to oblige them. As for my captain and others, I wanted to keep them around for awhile.
I didn't quite make it through the war without getting shot at. It happened twice and it was embarrassing. Ironically both times occurred after the ground offensive was over. The first was when a sniper took a potshot at the convoy I was riding with. The round only clipped the trailer. The driver asked me if I was carrying, and I was at the time. That made his day. He told me that I was the only Marine in the convoy with rounds, and it put his mind at ease that at least one somebody could do something if things got a little serious. Great; like I really wanted to play hero. I envisioned Crawford taking on a horde of rabid Iraqis alone while everyone else took cover, cheering me on. Then I envisioned my rifle jamming about halfway through the first magazine. The fantasy took a nosedive after that with me resorting to hurling harsh language at them. Not good.
The second time involved a disgruntled Asian truck driver. After washdown and the embarkation of our gear back to the States, I violated the sacred creed of never volunteering and requested a driving job with the motor pool. This got me a week of driving a dump truck loaded with used parts and broken equipment to a remote location not too far from the airport outside the city of Al Jubayl. I liked the job just fine. The looks of shock and awe by some of the locals in a country where women aren't permitted to drive were priceless. The fun came to a screeching halt the day I had to dump a load of junked generators.
The dump site was almost empty for a change save for a beaten up semi-trailer unit driven by a short man of Asian heritage. Although he didn't speak English he made it clear that he was interested in some of the garbage I was hauling. I tried indicating to him to stay away from the vehicle, but on one occasion he attempted to open the driver's door, and another he tried to grab my arm. Then for some reason he started to climb into the dump bed, ignoring all my attempts to get him to stay clear of the truck. What the heck. I engaged the PTO and dumped my load with him in it. He wasn't a happy camper.
Then the little guy did something totally unexpected. He pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and shot at me. Missed and hit the truck, but it irked me. I grabbed my rifle to return the favor only to realize that I had turned in all my rounds the day before. Great; empty rifle scenerio number two hundred and thirty-seven. What else is new? I floored the accelerator. He took another shot and missed. Then I spent the better part of an hour chasing him around the dump before he finally got the idea that he was better on the turns on foot than I was in the truck. Those little legs of his could sure move. But it got boring, and I returned to camp.
The command didn't take too kindly to the threat of an armed Marine against another. During the earlier part of the war, we had a big problem with thefts. Things had a nasty habit of growing legs and walking off sometimes in broad daylight. And the policy of staying with a broken down vehicle wasn't implimented out of concern for the stranded Marine(s), it was to lessen the chance of the vehicle disappearing forever into the sands of Arabia. Our shop had a big problem. Mechanics would work on a truck during the day, and some of the parts would disappear during the night. I had made several requests for security for the trucks, but was denied each and every time. So I took matters into my own hands.
I started patrolling the maintenance area on my own at nights. It was truly amazing what crawled out from under the rocks after the sun went down. I chased off several Marines, some caught in the act of removing some part off a truck. The thefts stopped and word got around about the crazy blonde down at Motor T walking the ready line at nights. Then one night I caught one of our own drivers trying to pinch a mirror off an LVS. He didn't think I was serious until I chambered a round. Then he threw the mirror at me and ran off, leaving something of a wet spot where he stood.
He finked on me. I got called into the company the next morning for a reprimand, a verbal slap on the wrist. Bad, bad Crawford; no more pointing of rifle at fellow Marines. I was told that I could continue my security measures of the maintenance area, but without use of the rifle. So I started walking my post with my wrist rocket which was a lot more fun, and the dog that had adopted me during my stay. Then somebody got a little bent out of shape after he got hit in the rear with a pebble, and again I was reprimanded. No more shooting of thieves with the wrist rocket.
The dog was very possessive of me, my property, and what she figured was my territory. One night she took the initiative and chased off someone who was climbing into one of the parked vehicles. Again I got called in for another reprimand during which I told them that I had nothing to do with the incident. They were more than welcomed to talk to the dog about it, but she had it in her mind that she was definitely staying. I didn't get bothered after that. Nor did anyone unauthorized come into my maintenance area again after that.
Ellie
By Vicki Crawford
DECEMBER 19, 2005 (Posted at: 12:26 p.m.)
It's a no-brainer; getting shot at can pretty much ruin a good day. No doubt that every Tom, Dick, and Harriet out in a combat theater thinks about getting shot off and on throughout the day, whether it's a conscious worrying or the specter of it sitting in the subconscious. For officers, it's a bigger concern. Nothing boosts the morale of the enemy than having shot an officer, the higher the ranking the more brownie points. One would think that this would encourage better leadership, but that isn't always the case.
One thing that the enlisted are taught is to never ever under any circumstance salute an officer in combat. The very act of rendering a salute signals to any possible sniper in the vicinity of the presence of an officer. Saluting one in the field is the same as painting a target on him or her. But you got to wonder about some of those snipers out there. Apparently some have a weird sense of humor. Or maybe there is some tactical advantage where the enemy is concerned. Instead of culling out the bad ones and improving the breed, the sorry ones are left to further demoralize the troops.
Some of the officers in my unit felt differently about customs and regulations during the war. After a few days in-country, some were very vocal in their complaints that the enlisted were not rendering the proper respect due to them. This prompted our command to issue the order to salute the officers in the field. A couple days later they reversed that order. Then that order got reversed. It got a little crazy for some of the enlisted personnel. Sometimes communications got a little garbled and you were not sure whether you were suppose to salute or not salute. Some of us took to saluting those officers we felt were in some serious need of hospital convalescent leave. This prompted the curiosity of my captain who asked one day why I wasn't saluting him and certain other officers. I told him if those others were stupid enough to demand that I render them a salute I'd be more than happy to oblige them. As for my captain and others, I wanted to keep them around for awhile.
I didn't quite make it through the war without getting shot at. It happened twice and it was embarrassing. Ironically both times occurred after the ground offensive was over. The first was when a sniper took a potshot at the convoy I was riding with. The round only clipped the trailer. The driver asked me if I was carrying, and I was at the time. That made his day. He told me that I was the only Marine in the convoy with rounds, and it put his mind at ease that at least one somebody could do something if things got a little serious. Great; like I really wanted to play hero. I envisioned Crawford taking on a horde of rabid Iraqis alone while everyone else took cover, cheering me on. Then I envisioned my rifle jamming about halfway through the first magazine. The fantasy took a nosedive after that with me resorting to hurling harsh language at them. Not good.
The second time involved a disgruntled Asian truck driver. After washdown and the embarkation of our gear back to the States, I violated the sacred creed of never volunteering and requested a driving job with the motor pool. This got me a week of driving a dump truck loaded with used parts and broken equipment to a remote location not too far from the airport outside the city of Al Jubayl. I liked the job just fine. The looks of shock and awe by some of the locals in a country where women aren't permitted to drive were priceless. The fun came to a screeching halt the day I had to dump a load of junked generators.
The dump site was almost empty for a change save for a beaten up semi-trailer unit driven by a short man of Asian heritage. Although he didn't speak English he made it clear that he was interested in some of the garbage I was hauling. I tried indicating to him to stay away from the vehicle, but on one occasion he attempted to open the driver's door, and another he tried to grab my arm. Then for some reason he started to climb into the dump bed, ignoring all my attempts to get him to stay clear of the truck. What the heck. I engaged the PTO and dumped my load with him in it. He wasn't a happy camper.
Then the little guy did something totally unexpected. He pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and shot at me. Missed and hit the truck, but it irked me. I grabbed my rifle to return the favor only to realize that I had turned in all my rounds the day before. Great; empty rifle scenerio number two hundred and thirty-seven. What else is new? I floored the accelerator. He took another shot and missed. Then I spent the better part of an hour chasing him around the dump before he finally got the idea that he was better on the turns on foot than I was in the truck. Those little legs of his could sure move. But it got boring, and I returned to camp.
The command didn't take too kindly to the threat of an armed Marine against another. During the earlier part of the war, we had a big problem with thefts. Things had a nasty habit of growing legs and walking off sometimes in broad daylight. And the policy of staying with a broken down vehicle wasn't implimented out of concern for the stranded Marine(s), it was to lessen the chance of the vehicle disappearing forever into the sands of Arabia. Our shop had a big problem. Mechanics would work on a truck during the day, and some of the parts would disappear during the night. I had made several requests for security for the trucks, but was denied each and every time. So I took matters into my own hands.
I started patrolling the maintenance area on my own at nights. It was truly amazing what crawled out from under the rocks after the sun went down. I chased off several Marines, some caught in the act of removing some part off a truck. The thefts stopped and word got around about the crazy blonde down at Motor T walking the ready line at nights. Then one night I caught one of our own drivers trying to pinch a mirror off an LVS. He didn't think I was serious until I chambered a round. Then he threw the mirror at me and ran off, leaving something of a wet spot where he stood.
He finked on me. I got called into the company the next morning for a reprimand, a verbal slap on the wrist. Bad, bad Crawford; no more pointing of rifle at fellow Marines. I was told that I could continue my security measures of the maintenance area, but without use of the rifle. So I started walking my post with my wrist rocket which was a lot more fun, and the dog that had adopted me during my stay. Then somebody got a little bent out of shape after he got hit in the rear with a pebble, and again I was reprimanded. No more shooting of thieves with the wrist rocket.
The dog was very possessive of me, my property, and what she figured was my territory. One night she took the initiative and chased off someone who was climbing into one of the parked vehicles. Again I got called in for another reprimand during which I told them that I had nothing to do with the incident. They were more than welcomed to talk to the dog about it, but she had it in her mind that she was definitely staying. I didn't get bothered after that. Nor did anyone unauthorized come into my maintenance area again after that.
Ellie