Lest We Forget (7 page)

  We only had a couple of nights off the entire month and the first one that we got I wanted very badly to post up at a dive bar and see if I could break my previous PBR record of 24 in a single evening.  Jake, one of my
homies in the Special Forces pipeline, had a different plan though.  He was friendly with a very attractive girl whose name I never bothered to learn.  Now Jake put himself in a tough spot because he had the keys to the van that six of us shared but he had told ol’ girl that they would be going out on a date.  I don’t believe that he explained to her that a squad of very sophomoric special operations guys would be joining them. 

             
I don’t remember the name of the nice restaurant that I was dragged into but I do recall not being willing to spend six bucks for a beer.  I also remember trying to set the tablecloth on fire in protest.  Now you might think that is terrible behavior but I was led to this place under the guise that we would be slumming it.  Upon leaving the restaurant I noticed a dive bar across the street with a glorious Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign illuminated like a beacon that guides a lost sailor home.  Lucky for me I was not the only one in the group that was in need of some good old fashion bar stool therapy.  We had all been elbows deep in blood and guts and could use a flick of the pressure release valve.   

I almost threw the barstool when the bartender told me that they didn’t stock PBR.  The sign was clearly advertising a certain product.  I asked the bearded gent what the shittiest beer he had was.  He produced from behind the bar a can of
Schlitz malt liquor and a small paper bag.  With the grace and fluidity of a symphony conductor he placed the can in the small paper bag and handed it to me.  I could feel the tears welling up as my lip quivered slightly.  I was so happy. So very, very happy.  Ten years later, that very same paper bag is still folded neatly in my wallet to this day.  Every time that I have had a Schlitz since that day I have pulled out that bag and used it like the ghetto koozie that it is. 

             
After consuming enough malt liquor to float a ship it was time to “break the seal.” During the course of SOMC I learned that the need to pee more frequently is a hormone reaction.  Alcohol inhibits the production and secretion of antidiuretic hormone (ADH) , which causes more frequent urination.  To this day I have no clue what motivated my next action.  I grabbed a fist full of brown paper towels in the men’s room and removed the splashguard from the urinal that I was about to take a piss in.  I said this previously but do not even try to comprehend the cognitive process of a 21-year-old Ranger private with nearly two dozen drinks on board.  I placed the wad of towels containing the rubber treasure deep into my cargo pocket and returned to my barstool.  

Earlier in the week I had met a girl who had given me her number.  She had the bad timing of calling me at this very moment.  She said that she was going to be at a bar with a couple of friends and that we should all meet up.  Needless to say this was not a hard sell for the group I was with. 

When we arrived we grabbed another drink and met the girls at their table.  I’m sure at this point I was swaying in my seat.  Just as I have no idea why I decided to grab that nasty splashguard out of the urinal, I have no clue why I thought it would be a good idea to retrieve the wad of brown paper towels from my pocket at this moment.  I handed them to the girl that invited us and said, “here…. I got you something.”  Brian was out with us that night and took an interest in the exchange, watching intently as she unwrapped the mystery gift.  I could tell that she was not expecting a gift so she was rather excited by the surprise.  When all of the paper had been removed she held the diamond shaped red piece of rubber in her bare hands with a perplexed look.  Brian’s eyes got huge as he realized what it was. It was that look that you would expect a bystander to give if you just kicked a baby for no reason.  He tried to control his laughter but the fact that she still had no clue what she was holding was too much for him.  He erupted in laughter, tears filling his eyes.  Now she was really confused.  I leaned over to her and said, “Any asshole could bring you flower, how’s that for original?”

“Jesus Christ, Jenkins!” replied another buddy once he realized what was going on.  He told her what she was holding was what kept piss from splashing back on your hands at the urinal.  To everyone's surprise she started laughing.  She looked at me and said, “That’s funny, disgusting but funny.”

Interestingly one of the girls that met up with us that night and one of my buddies ended up getting married a couple of years later.  It is also my understanding that she kept my special gift for several years. 

             
A year and a half later I would have the privilege of attending another similar rotation in Atlanta, Georgia at Grady Hospital.  There is no other training in the world that can compare to it.  It is the most comprehensive, progressive program for medics on earth.  Following this training I felt prepared to handle any injury that I saw on the field of battle.  Which was a good thing because within two weeks of graduating SOMC I would be deployed to Afghanistan to act as a platoon medic for Charlie Company, 3rd Ranger Battalion. 

Drinking from a firehouse!  These were the books assigned to us on the first day of SOMC.

Extreme log PT at the schoolhouse.  6
-mile stroll through Ft. Bragg with over 100lbs to carry, before class starts.

Staying proficient at Ranger skills.  We jumped several times while at SOMC.

SOMC graduation.  Chris and I being cheery as fuck!

SOMC Graduation.  Sitting with some of my Navy friends.  That’s Lewis
Lewis behind me.

…..

Chapter 6 -
Time Consumer

I had been a soldier in the United States Army for the past 18 months.  Most guys that I went to basic training with had already deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan.  I had spent the last year and a half in various schools preparing to be a member of special operations.  Every hurdle that was bounded gave me an increasing level of confidence in my ability to operate among the world’s best soldiers.  All of that confidence was stripped away when I took my fist step off of the back of that Air Force cargo plane onto the runway on Bagram Airfield.  The mountains that surrounded the airfield did well to show me how insignificant I was.  I had done some hiking growing up in Arizona but my perspective on what a mountain was changed instantly as my size 10.5 combat boot hit the tarmac. As my eyes opened wide in awe, I could feel the brisk sting of the cold dry air and took in a lung full of air like I’ve never smelled before.  It was different, almost ancient.  In all my travels since that day I have never smelled that same smell again except for the two other times I would step off of a plane in Afghanistan.

    I suddenly realized that in all that we were taught we never really learned exactly what we would be doing.  I almost expected to start
taking rocket fire the moment that I stepped off the plane. I knew about the Ranger mission from stories and movies but I really didn’t understand what my role was supposed to be yet.  Furthermore I didn’t know a single person who I would be working with.  My entire Battalion had deployed a month earlier and I had never met any of them.  I was the FNG (Fucking New Guy).  None of my accomplishments up to this point meant a damn thing.  No one knew me.  I would have to prove myself once again. 

On my very first day in country I met up with who I thought would be my platoon.  We had to do some fast rope training.  The act of it was simple enough, grab the rope that was dangling from the back of the helicopter and slide down it like a fire pole.  This was actually the first time I had ever actually been in a helicopter
, which didn’t help with the anxiety.  On one of the last evolutions one of the squad leaders sprained his ankle pretty badly.  I had not expected this to be my first patient as a Ranger medic.  I had prepared for gunshot wounds and bones sticking out and giant stunt cocks.  The majority of the training at the schoolhouse was targeted at the worst possible scenario.  He honestly would have been better off had he been shot.  I froze up a little.  He didn’t need me to check his airway or start an IV.  There was no major life threats or hemorrhaging to control.  My aidbag wasn’t packed to treat this injury.  I had some pain meds but I didn’t have the right size needles to do a simple intramuscular injection.  This was more like a sick call injury; this wasn’t what I was supposed to see in combat.  The Staff Sergeant screamed in pain as I plunged an 18-gauge needle into his shoulder.