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“Bullsh!t! Put Yer Bullsh!t Stories Right Heah . . . . “

by Hondo••90

Some folks seem to want an open thread today so they can swap “No Sh!t” (wink, wink) stories.  Well, here ya go.

Pile it as high and deep as yer lil’ hearts’ desire.  (smile)

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90 thoughts on ““Bullsh!t! Put Yer Bullsh!t Stories Right Heah . . . . “”

  1. This is a no shitter. It really happened. After a 3 month stay in the Persian Gulf that left the Iranian Navy with a floatilla of painting skiffs and 7 life jackets, it was off to Thialand. Thailand is a nice place and after a long time at sea Sailors want to do 2 things: drink and screw anything that had hair and a heartbeat. So that is what we did. We found the only Irish bar on the beach. It was owned by an authentic Irishman from my father’s hometown Dublin, so that was good enough for me. So we started to drink, spend money and perform all sorts of disgraceful yet pleasing things with our bodies to the bodies of we all believed were innocent little brown ladies. Now mind you, after 6 or 9 Jameson’s and 9 or 12 pints of warm Harp things can get a bit haze gray in the eyes. But hell that did not stop any of us … “We are US NAVY SAILORS and we are here to drink everything and seed your little brown woman population.” But there was one little problem. All of those sweet little brown women were not all woman, in fact some were criminal chicks with dicks out to perpetrate a gastly fraud against the US NAVY. Luckily I did not fall for such trickery, for I was smarter than most and too damn drunk to get a yard arm going (if you know what I am talking about). But one poor sorry sole crossed the line of no return, we watched it happen and did nothing to stop it and it pains me to this day for what was just a innocent chance meeting with a beautiful native little brown fu@king machine turned into the funniest first gay encounter, bar fight, riot, and response by local police with sticks. Jimmy Lee Farmer was his name and he was so drunk he did not care until he realized what had REALLY happended. He went ballistic and started breaking everything in sight, glasses, bottles, chairs, the bamboo holding up the roof (ok I lied, it was not a bar, it was and Irish Tiki Hut), light fixtures … If it could be broken this hillbillie red neck newly gay guy broke it. The bar owner was annoyed, but we spent so much money there I am certain he was moving to the PI the next day. OK … so the roof caved in and everyone was pissed because the flow of alcohol and bodily fluids was interrupted. Three deck apes from 1st Div started throwing bottles at the German and French tourists who stopped to photograph the mayhem. The police with there sticks and started wacking the sweet Jesus out of us and we all took off for the beach in hopes to catch the last banana boat back to the ship that was anchored off the beach. Most retreated successfully to the boat. However, with the sun about to come up and the three remaining on the beach still needed to return to the ship. Three dumbasses stood on the beach fully aware that in one hour sun up will signify UA. So we ditched the beer and swam to the ship sh!tfaced, after witnessing the birth of a gay Sailor and the destruction of the bamboo hut of debauchery. I climbed the ladder dripping wet and requested, “permission to come aboard?”. The OOD looked at me in horror and asked if I was alone. The others dumbasses arrived and I indicated that the party of 3 was accounted for. We were ordered below and never heard a word about the creative boarding. Jimmy was not as lucky, he was forever refrred to as Miss Jamie Lee Farmer.

    Forgive typos. All done on BlackBerry.

    And if you hate me now because of this story … Ask me about the “Compound” in Istambul, Turkey and the old hooker who’s wooden leg went missing.

  2. Master Chief, I do believe that is the storyboard for a movie that is a cross between “The Last Detail” and “The Hangover!” LOL, I needed that 😉

  4. Although there was the one time in PI I make the HUGE mistake of taking my camera with.

    No, no evidence exists. Never happened. Not even the eyewitnesses can collaborate what happened when someone got the camera away from me and started taking pictures of “samples” being dispensed.

  6. This one time, on Checkpoint Charlie at Balad Airbase, we had a guy drive up really slow over the speed bumps and stop at the designated line. He produced the correct ID and allowed us to search his vehicle with no resistance or objections at all. after he completed the personnel search, and the final vehicle search, he drove to the Hajji-Mart to sell his bootleg crap and fake watches. End of day, he returned to Vehicle Search, and rolled out about $400 richer.

    True story!

    Hey, not all of us had weird, wild, and wacky times in the shit 🙂

  7. @44
    they are now pushing the 800 number

    You mean 1-800-F_UCKYO?

    As for a story…

    I always get the shakes before a drop. I’ve had the injections, of course, and hypnotic preparation, and it stands to reason that I can’t really be afraid. The ship’s psychiatrist has checked my brain waves and asked me silly questions while I was asleep and he tells me that it isn’t fear, it isn’t anything important – it’s just like the trembling of an eager race hourse in the starting gate.

    Yeah, well, so, what do you want? I was in an REMF MOS during peacetime. The closest thing I have to a story is when I took the full hour I was allowed on a “stat” pregnancy test because the ER wanted to make this Captain wait as punishment for going to the ER to find out if she was pregnant because she felt as an officer she shouldn’t have to be bothered with sick call like everyone else.

  8. NH you get the free blow job for guessing the beach!

    You can redeem the BJ at Marylynne’s in Subic.

  9. “Wait! Wait, where are you going?”
    “Goodbye, Jack.” Easton disappeared around the corner.
    Boronski was no more than five steps behind her but when he reached the corner, the two women had vanished into the thick damp night air of Saigon. How the hell did she know his name?
    He spent several minutes searching the alley, then gave up and went back into Tommy’s Place. Anderson and Bangert were waiting for him. Anderson had his arm around a tiny doe-eyed Vietnamese girl of possibly fifteen years of age.
    Bangert nodded at him. “Want to tell me what the hell is going on, Jack?”
    “Damned if I know,” said Boronski. He stared at the longneck bottles on the bar.
    “That McCaskey sure as hell looked like you,” said Anderson. “I thought he was your father for a minute.”
    “No,” said Boronski, puzzled. “He looked more like my mother. Had her eyes, the way they looked before I shipped out over here. My old man’s been dead for six years.”
    “Huh. Weird,” said Anderson. “Sure looked like you.”
    “Sounded like you, too, Jack,” said Bangert. He was young and blond and freshfaced, a boy from farm country with the faintest twang of Appalachia in his voice.
    Another girl in a pale-green embroidered silk ao-dai came to join them. She had round eyes and large breasts, unlike the other boomboom girls, the result of paying for cosmetic surgery to be more attractive to American GIs in the hope of increasing her business.
    “You want good time, Marine?” she asked Boronski.
    “Naw, I don’t think so,” said Boronski.
    “Oh, come on, Jack, a girl’s gotta make a living,” said Anderson.
    “Better have one last fuck before you go up north, Jack,” said Bangert. “You never know when you’ll get another one.”
    “You do him okay, honey?” Anderson asked the girl.
    She smiled lightly, showing white even teeth. “Sure, Marine, he number one with Phuong,” she said. “I love you, no shit, buy me drink, I give you numbah one blowjob. Come on. Phuong show Marine Boronski real good time.” She pulled on Boronski’s hand. Reluctantly, he followed her back to her room, entering through the door marked by strings of beads and colored macaronis.
    It was a depressingly small room, dark and poorly furnished, but neat and clean in spite of that. There was a basket covered with a cloth in one corner, a wicker chair with peeling white paint, and a small but neatly made-up bed with a large wicker trunk at the foot. The yellow paint on the walls was splattered here and there with more paint where 60 years of layers were flaking off the plaster. The French silk curtains were so old and scorched by the sunshine of southeast Asia that they had become gray-green webs of indeterminate threadbare material. There were no little luxuries such as a mirror, a table and lamp by the bed, or a dressing table. The girl pulled off her ao-dai in one swift movement, then pulled the pins out of her hair which fell to her knees and floated around her like a raven-black silk cloak. Boronski began to feel the effects of all the alcohol he’d been drinking; the poor little room swam around him in a noisome haze. He made no resistance as Phuong began to undress him, giggling about his being a “buku drunk Marine”.
    The room spun once too hard and he sat down heavily on the edge of the miserable bed with his pants down to his knees. “How much?” he asked Phuong, his eyes unable to stay on her face.
    “What you want? Numbah one job? Numbah two job?” She giggled again. She was trying to pull his shoes off.
    “Oh, hell, number one, of course.”
    “Four thousand P,” she said, without hesitation. He hiccupped right in her face.
    “You’d better be good,” he said, counting out several orange and pink bills engraved with tigers and dragons. There was a loud noise in the hall. Bangert burst into the room.
    “Shit, Jack! Get your pants on! The fuckin’ MPs are coming!” and Bangert was out the door before Boronski could react. Phuong pulled him up to his feet and pulled his pants up around his waist.
    “In here,” she said, patting the wicker trunk.
    “Huh?” Boronski stared at it. She wanted him to hide in there?
    “In here, Marine, they not find you in here.” She popped the lid open and showed him the inside. There was some laundry in the bottom. Otherwise, it was empty. “In here,” she said again. He climbed inside and she slapped the lid down and sat on it, just as the MPs burst into the room.
    “No, no Marine in here,” said Phuong. Boronski could see two large and ugly USMC sergeants at the door through the wicker weaving of the laundry basket, framed by Phuong’s graceful legs.
    “Well, now there is, honey,” said the larger of the two large and ugly MPs. “How about a number one short time for the old gunny?”
    “Okay, sure,” she said. And Boronski crouched in the wicker trunk for an hour, getting cramps in his legs and arms and trying not to laugh out loud at the ludicrous scene while the old gunny grunted and snorted and rolled on the bed with Phuong. Then he was gone, and Phuong let Boronski out of the trunk.
    “You OK, Marine? You want short time, too?” She smiled at him.
    “No,” he said. The liquor was beginning to wear off. The idea of following where another man had already gone had no charm for him. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks, anyway.”
    “Oh, come on, Marine, Phuong give good service for pay.” She looked anxious. She probably thought that she’d have to give back those four thousand precious piastres, considerably more than thirty American dollars. She pulled at the waistband on his pants, and then a mewing sound from the basket in the corner distracted her.
    Boronski’s curiosity got the better of him. He swayed over to the basket and uncovered it. A brown, round-faced infant squinted up at him and bleated. Phuong pushed in between Boronski and her baby, clutching it close against her, fear for the child plain her dark eyes. Boronski took in the naked woman, her skin wet with mother’s milk, her silky black head of hair and her heaving breasts, holding her unhappy, hungry baby. Pulling out more of those pink and orange bills engraved with tigers and dragons, he handed them to the startled whore.
    “Here.” He closed her fist around the bills. “Take care of your kid.” He belched and coughed, then tucked his unbuttoned shirt into his pants and lurched out into the hallway while behind him the stunned woman began to nurse her baby.
    He found his way back to the bar. Bangert was there ahead of him, sitting on his bar stool.
    “So, Jack, how’d it go?” Bangert asked. “Get any satisfaction?”
    Boronski shook his head, then was sorry he’d done so because the room spun around him and he knew that he was in for a sorry time in the morning.
    “She had a kid,” he said. “But that wasn’t all.”
    “A kid, huh? Must have been all of sixteen.”
    “I had to hide in the laundry basket when the MPs came in.”
    “You had to what?” Bangert stared at him.
    “Hide in the laundry hamper. If I ever see that gunnery sergeant again, he’s a dead man.”

    That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

  13. #33 3/17 air cav –

    Ft. Hood, Summer, 1972: Just outside of Ft. Hood, in a remote area, there used to be a drive-in restaurant with a huge parking lot where helicopter crews would routinely fly in for a burger, fries, and to put some moves on the waitresses.

    One day, evidently to impress his girlfriend, a Huey pilot climbed in his bird, pulls max power, and stands the thing on its nose for a dramatic exit. Unfortunately, the aircraft didn’t pull quite enough altitude, and clipped a power line on its way out, which killed electrical service to both the restaurant and a bunch of the surrounding ranches.

    What was strange was that it didn’t wreck the aircraft; about the only minimal-cost damage was a couple of scorch marks on the front skid supports underneath the cockpit. That and the laundry bill for the co-pilot’s underpants.

  15. So, I was forced to give an orientation ride in a Blackhawk to a passel of ROTC cadets. The crewchiefs did the orientation and flight safety brief while my left-seater and I collaborated. When we went to start the Aux Power Unit ( the little 90-horse engine we use to power up systems for preflight checks, then start the main engines), we pretended like it wouldn’t start and told the cadets we’d need to push-start the bird. Had 7 cadets outside the aircraft pushing it down the taxiway; bumped the brakes and hit the APU switch to start it. It fired up; they were jumping up and down high-fiving each other. We finished the runup while they strapped in.

    Turns out, one of them was the progeny of a senior officer at the 101st. Daddy failed to see the humor, and we were told not to ever do that shit again. Good news was, never got tasked to give those rides again.

  17. After I graduated from boot camp in ’61, I went to the San Diego airport for a flight home. I decided to visit the head just before flight time. There were a bunch of sailors and several Marines attending to various needs in the room. I stood up to a urinal, and as I buttoned up the thirteen buttons on my trousers, one of the Marines made a comment about that it must be a lot of trouble to button all those buttons. The sailor next to me, a salty old Gunners Mate, said “Yea, it’s a lot easier for you Jarheads, all you have to do to piss is take off your hat.”

    Was the biggest fight I ever saw in 20 years in the Canoe Club.

  18. #62 Azygos. Apparently he got tired of people bitching about the anti-spam software he had to institute and just quit. Don’t know why he didn’t just tell the bitchers to go somewhere else, the software wasn’t that hard to use.

    Damn shame, it was a good site.

  20. There I was and this is no shit. There was OPFOR to my left and Aggressors to my right and wouldn’t you but my dammned blank adaptor broke. What did I do you ask? I called in an artillery simulator strike in on my own position…..no shit.

  21. Another funny one I remember is that back when the 173rd Airborne was still at LZ English near Bong Son, the commanding general lived in a trailer, and outside the trailer he kept a pet duck in a tidy little pen complete with a pond to paddle around in. For better or worse, this tended to piss a few people off because although it was common for units to have mascots, they tended to be cool things like an eagle for the 101st, or a tiger for the 4th Division, or whatever.

    So, partly as a matter of boredom, and partly as payback, there developed a strange game among the LZ’s mortar crews. What it involved was that it was common at night for mortars to provide illumination rounds when called on by folks on the wire.

    Some genius, in a flash of inspiration, discovered that if you set up the tube just right, lofted the round just so, and had a good guage of the wind, you could get a parachute flare to land in the duck pen– with the double benefit of both annoying the general, and freaking out his goofy duck.

  22. If’n y’all will go to my own personal web site, “OUR ETERNAL STRUGGLE” (just click on my name – it’s an automatic link), and scroll down to the bottom of the page, there’s an official United States Army slide show.

    There, you’ll see a photograph of a helicopter pilot being awarded the Soldier’s Medal.

    For those of you who don’t know about the significance of that award, it is so rarely presented, that I would equate it to the Medal of Honor or the Distinguished Service Cross, as it requires valor at the risk of personal safety in a situation other than combat in a war.

    http://www.tioh.hqda.pentagon.mil/Awards/soldiers_medal.aspx

  24. Lies start with “This is a true story.” True stories start with “TINS” (This Is No Shit).

    I was a corporal working at Base Ops Admin at MCAS Santa Ana in 1974 (later MCAS Tustin…did they move the base after I was transferred? Never figured that out). One morning I answered the phone with the usual unit/rank/name greeting that ended with “May I help you sir?” at the end (no females ever called us that I remember). I heard a deep, vaguely familiar-sounding voice ask with a drawl, “Maaaaayyy I speeeak to yer Operaaaaations Officer, puullllease.”

    “Yes sir, may I say who’s calling?”

    “This is John Wayne calling.”

    You can imagine my reaction, which included the words/phrases, “oh, bullshit”, “who the f— is this really”, and other profanity laced retorts. The caller was exceptionally polite in the face of all my skepticism. He finally convinced me to let him talk to the Base OpsO.

    I put him on hold, stuck my head around the door to the Major’s office and said, “Sir, phone call, line 4.” He was sitting at his desk.

    “Who is it?”

    “Sir, it’s John Wayne.”

    Dead silence for a moment. Then he rolled his eyes up at me, and said something to the effect that he wasn’t in a mood to be f’ed with. I finally somehow convinced him to take the call.

    Of course, I listened around the corner, and although I don’t remember the specific sentences he uttered, they trended in tone from utter skepticism at first to bewilderment to complete acceptance. With a flourish of sentences that included “Yes sir, we can do that.” “When is it coming out?” “Yes sir, be happy to”, and other conciliatory kow-towing phrases, he ended the call, dialed the Base Ops Duty Officer and told him to close various CAL sites (Confined Area Landing sites, areas in the Saddleback Mountains east of the air station that were cleared of trees so helos from the various tenant units could practice landing and taking off in tight areas).

    I finally worked up the nerve to stick my head around the door again, figuring that the tone of his voice at the end of the call meant that I wouldn’t have my head bitten off at the shoulders. He looked at me with complete and utter wonderment. “That really WAS John Wayne! Get me a noise complaint form.” And he wrote the call up as a noise complaint, with the complaintant being “John Wayne – The Duke”.

    Turns out that JW and company (actors, horses, producers, directors, key grips, best boys, makeup people, caterers, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera) were filming an ‘oater’ well east of the air station, and a few CH-46s and 53s had been motoring through the sky where they would appear as unknowing “stars” in the movie. Of course, it wouldn’t do to have a Marine whopty-copter appearing in a John Wayne western, no matter how much he liked us Marines! JW had the class (and sense of humor) to call us directly, instead of having one of the movie minions do it.

    Damn, but I wish I’d kept that noise complaint (or a copy of it). It’s probably buried deep in some storage box, or it’s in a landfill.

  25. Here w go, NO SHIT, there I was, a wet-behind-the ears PFC fresh from Boot Camp & AIT all the way over there at Camp Castle, Korea, waiting for my ride North to my new Duty Station. Two “Buddies” of mine fro the same BC & AIT were waiting with me, and i advised we hang out behimd some parked HMWV’s. Soon, some know-it-all butterbar dug us out and chewed our asses, because at least two trucks with Ooficers in them passed by, and we weren’t waiting out there to salute them as they passed. Having grown up in an Army town as well as attending a Military Academy High School as well as some College ROTC to boot, I calmly advised my buddies to let that go. A few weeks later, I found out that was the famous 2LT Walker, a brilliant know-it-all that was Gods’ greatest gift to the US Army (Well HE sure thought he was!. Upon graduation from college, commissioning, and EOBC, he took command of an Army Engineer Heavy Equipment Platoon, (Bulldozers, road graders, etc.) and he told his NCOs that they had NOTHING to worry about, because HE was a smart guy and he was Battalion XO of his ROTC Cadet Battalion! A soon-to-ETS E5 took him out and promised toteach him stuff about the equipment that would make other LT’s look like shit, and our Boy Wonder accepted the offer. Said E5 gave him a ball peen hammer and some carbon paper and taught him how to check for soft spots in a bulldozer blade (A stunt usually reserved for Privates). This brilliant 2LT “Went to town” on that task, and the intrepid E5 brought him out three more sheets of carbon paper! After he had gotten finished with about two thirds of the blade, the CO and 1SG spotted him doing it while doing a walk through of the Motor Pool, the brilliant one stood up and proudly told them that he HAD found some soft spots in that blade!! The CO was dumbfounded as hell and just stood there while the 1SG had a “SIR, keep that fucked up LT away from my enlisted personnel so he doesn’t get anyone killed!” Said brilliant LT’s career lasted about five more months, then he resigned his Commission (After a few more brainiac episodes, one which got him relieved by the 2ID ACG) because, as he said it, “The Army wasn’t up to his specs”!

  26. With fellow teammates in bars, honky-tonks, clubs, private parties, etc. getting drunk all over the world and having the various bands play happy birthday to our pal- “Poncho Liner.” Classic!

  27. This is a muliple no shitter, it really happened for I was there.

    Shortly after assisting in the evac of Beruit in 1982 we made weigh for Cannes. It was a tough cruise, no significant liberty since leaving homeport. We had completed 3 months in the Gulf listening to Iran and Irag gas and shell themselves to death. And then a high speed transit to Beruit – this was the real deal, we did a good job and Cannes during the film festival was our reward. So one our first day in Cannes me and a group of engineers decided to get some drinks and food so we found a cool place overlooking the town. As we enjoyed our libations and crappy food, I noticed Ann Margret and Jerry Lewis were sitting two tables away. Back in the day we traded ZIPPO lighter and I had one at the ready. I stood up walked over to Jerry’s table and said, “Mr. Lewis we are from the USS Valdex (as I pointed to it anchored in the bay) and here is a token.” He said thank you and Ann grabbed it out of his hand for a look, smiled at me (heart pounded) and she asked where we were sitting. I pointed and they both sprung up from there seats and joined us and Jerry picked up our tab. They were both very nice asked all the questions one might expect from someone who was sincere, “where are from, what is your job, what is it like to live on a ship, what is the food like?”. Ann was hot and very chatty, Jerry was serious and amazed he got to hang out with some Navy BT’s and MM’s.

    The next day I was off to the beach. I purchased one of those ghey French ball sack bathing suits because everyone else was them and all the women were toppless. I finally met the one, very good looking, percky little breasts and I had no idea what she was saying. But that did not mattered, I was not interested in her command of the French or English language. I was interested in what lied between her legs. So a couple of beers later we werew off to her hotel, she giggled, I thought “let’s get on with it” and we arrived at a fairly fancy place. So we go up to room, I can’t wait, she can’t wait so she stripped out of her clothes and stood there in front of me. The look on my face must have been “shock, horror, and utter disappointment” because she had the nastiest, longest, unkept French bush in living human history. It was disgusting … I grabbed my stuff and left. I hate the French.

  28. HONDO. Great story about PA system.

    In my Navy every announcement made over the #1 Main Communications (aka 1MC) was proceeded by bells and or the Bosun’s Pipe. We enjoyed the canteen truck vendor too. Hot strong coffee, smkokes, ham-egg-cheese on a roll … You get the deal. Well for many years a ship would develop its own Pipe Calls and Announcements. Now I don’t know if they use the pipe anymore as it might offend those with small dicks or thin lips but back to the point … Whenever the canteen truck rolled down the pier abreast to the USS Valdez or any other ship in Newport. The Petty Officer of the Watch (POW) would pipe three short blasts and announce, “onboard VALDEZ, now hear this, the Roach Coach is making its Approach, I say again the Roach Coach is making its Approach.”

    When Valdez was tranfered from Active Navy Fleet to Naval Reserve Force in 1983, us active guys were all transferred. Our Skipper permitted bells for departing active crew memebers. The announcement would be for example (preceded by pipes), “Ding, Ding … Ding, Ding (bells) Gunner’s .ate 3rd Class Johnson, United States Navy Departing.”. So it took no time at all for the fun to start. Immediately, after these announcements, a buddy or for would grab the 1 MC mic from the POW and whisper some addtional fairwells. Here are a few: “gay, loser, herpes, I have sex with you sister when you took me home on leave, check his seabag there is a .45 cal missing, gay, that thing you never used here was called a shower, stop him he owes me 20 for 10 … Those were the days. Valdez was a great crew.

    Additional farewell for me was, “sorry for denting your car!”. Never fornd out who it was.

  29. @74 – Marine7002, that movie was ‘Rooster Cogburn’, which was partially filmed at the Six Points Texas backlot owned by Universal Studios, in Universal City, CA. It was the sequel to ‘True Grit’, released in 1975. Katherine Hepburn was The Dukes’s co-star.

    It was his next to last movie. The last movie he made was ‘The Shootist’.

  30. So there I was, minding my own business, raking some compostable stuff here and there around the yard when shots were fired not 100 yards from the house. Not good, because the only persons authorized to fire anything there were accounted for elsewhere. Seemed like a very nice time to check out the old 9mm to see if those rounds stored in the mag for the last 25 years or so would still be properly ejected. They were.

    Or maybe this is just another sea story. Maybe I don’t really, really hate poachers and trespassers. Maybe it hasn’t gotten very quiet in the ‘hood suddenly and inexplicably.

  32. @78

    When I was in the only person who got an “arriving” or “departing” message was the CO. In fact, they used to muster working parties by passing the call over the 1MC and they would have the WP muster “abreast the Quarterdeck”.

    Apparently somebody on one of the ships we were moored near was offended by “abreast” so they had to change the language of the WP call!

  34. @ 82 … Under most circumstances you are correct. CO and above (or dignitaries) , retirees etc … would be announced. However, our ship was being transfered and out of no fault of our own we were being thrown to the pier … The Skipper authorized the departures.

    Did you say “abreast” …. now a days, I think that is 10 days in the brig becuase someone thinks it means “a breast!”

  35. 1995, on a Med cruise on board the USS Pensacola. We have been sent into the Black Sea to train with the Ukrainians and the Romanians in the first of the Partnership for Peace exercises between the U.S. and the former Soviet Bloc countries.

    We had gone into port in Odessa in the Ukraine and then trucked inland at night to a Ukrainian base where we had conducted about a week of training with the Ukrainian Marine Corps. On the day of our departure, we have a very nice parade, a luncheon and now we are waiting for our departure time to come. My 1stSgt, who never missed an opportunity to drink a beer in the name of fraternal brotherhood amongst allies came and got our Company Gunny, and all of us platoon sergeants and told us to follow him. We ended up at a bar on base drinking home made beer and teaching marching cadence to several Ukrainian NCO’s. After about an hour of this, the base C.O., an old looking Colonel came in the bar and comes over and embraces our 1stSgt. They had bonded over a love of motorcycles and in fact, the 1stSgt had been driving the Colonels bike around for a few days. The Colonel invites us back to his office so we can do some toasting before we depart.

    We end up in his office doing vodka shots, listening to some really first class accordion music and dancing with some Ukrainian women who had appeared out of nowhere. As the party was really getting into gear, a Ukrainian Marine officer appeared with a very worried look on his face and told the Colonel that we had to leave NOW. The Colonel would not have this until he had presented us with gifts. He went into the wall lockers of his troops and got us all rabbit fur hats and the peaked hats that all of the old Soviet forces used to wear. After standing in a drunken formation and receiving our gifts plus manly hugs and cheek kisses, we then staggered off behind the Ukrainian Marine who was leading us to where our convoy had formed.

    In the distance, I see our C.O. coming towards us. I can also swear that I can faintly see smoke rising out of his ears. He is also moving very quickly. This is not good. The C.O. vectors in on the 1stSgt and grabs him and says, “where the fuck have you been?” The 1stSgt replies in a jovial manner, “get your fucking hands off of me skipper”. The C.O. does not see anything jovial about this and tells the 1stSgt to get our drunk asses back to the convoy, we have to leave NOW! It finally dawns on my drunken ass that the 1stSgt had not mentioned to the C.O. that he was going to take all of his Staff NCO’s on a drinking binge. Plus we were all supposed to act as A-drivers for the convoy and it is becoming clear why the C.O. is a little pissed. We stagger back to the convoy.

    Our Sergeants, being good NCO’s,had taken our absence in stride and had organized the Marines and readied them for departure. Since I could not A-drive, I got in the back of one of my platoons trucks. We departed on time and settled in for about a 4 hour ride back to the coast. Just when I started to doze off, my troops broke out bottles of booze that they had purchased for the ride. Just what I needed!! About an hour into the ride, the C.O.’s Humvee pulled over, signaling a piss break. We all un-assed the trucks and took care of business. The 1stSgt got out of the Humvee and started puking with the C.O. standing over him yelling, “it serves you right you little Back Irish son of a bitch”.

    Two nights later, we finally got liberty in Odessa and we tore that town a new asshole. But that is another war story……

  37. The city of Brcko, Bosnia-Hercegovina
    1997 – ish Operation SFOR, IFOR.

    A squad of MP’s are busy on guard duty on a bridge.
    Said MP’s decided to take the Vent pipe out of the porta shitter and turn it into a potato gun.

    Roll of Toilet paper in one end. check
    Duct Tape that end solid. Check
    7 MRE Heaters crushed up put in water bottle. Check
    Small water bottle shoved down on top of it with rocks in it. Check

    Point projectile towards fisherman on his little john boat on the river……Laughter ensued.

    After a few blast of the “gun” finally an over powdered projectile blew out the side of the gun and it was no good for no longer.

  38. I’m making progress on SEAL Team 241 #2. They’re rescuing a mother bear with two cubs from an unscrupulous DNR employee who wants to sell them to the meat trade. Then they go to a special swim training exercise with sharks. 🙂

    Also, for anyone who is interested in putting pen to paper (or words to keyboard), it is National Novel Writing Month, during which the object is to write a 50,000 word (or more) novel by the end of November. http://nanowrimo.org/

    There is no entry fee. I’m not sure what the prize is, other than the satisfaction of doing it. But it’s there, if you want it.

  40. @89, yes, we had a discussion on that. It will be Whippleworth’s (Dullass’s last name) evil cloned twin sister, who also has a mustache.

    I haven’t decided exactly how she’ll expire, but it has something to do with scary black weapons that make rocks explode. You know: that ‘suddenly, there was a red mist in place of Bobbidan Christina Fayhay’. Something like that.

    And because I love pizza, but the grain-based crust is not something I need, I am going to work on a no-grain crust pizza for this story. 🙂

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