Posted on 03/25/2017 11:55:54 AM PDT by MNDude
So I sounded off Good Afternoon, Ma'am!
Their Di, greenbelt, stopped me, got in my face best she could, and proceeded to chew me up and down.
YES MA'AM!
YES MA'AM!
YES MA'AM!
NO MA'AM!
AYE, MA'AM!
GOOD AFTERNOON, MA'AM!
It took everything I had to keep from busting out laughing. It was obvious she was just showing off in front of her platoon.
Of course you blamed it on us 13 Echos :-)
I received a message that the Colonel in charge of Range Control (shooting ranges) wanted to see me ASAP and that he was mad.
I went to his office and he “locked my heels” (made me stand at attention with my mouth shut) while he screamed at me.
He screamed for probably five minutes about how my unit had trashed Range 16.
When he stopped to take a breath, I said, “Sir, we were on Range 17.”
He got a funny look on his face and stared at me for a minute.
Then he growled, “Well, you probably did something else to deserve an ass chewing today. Now get out of here.”
I saluted and left.
Good thread...bfl
Hey, the Echos tended to complain about how loud we were.
Also said we drove down property value whenever we arrived too.
;-)
LOL! Great story.
One day, when we were doing exchange transfusions on a very sick infant, the only person I had helping me was a very fine young GI, just out of high school, who, after having been drafted, had been trained, by the Army, as a blood bank technician in a crash course. He was black and said he had been raised in "the black ghetto of Buffalo."
He was a very nice, lovely young man, whom I liked very much--hard working, considerate, well mannered--tried hard to do what was right.
We worked all day, just keeping up with the exchanges, and on into the evening. We didn't have time to stop and eat or rest or anything.
Toward midnight, still working hard, we were both hungry and tired, and I said to him that if he would go down to the corner restaurant before midnight when it closed, and get some sandwiches for the two of us, I would pay for them.
He went.
He came back--empty handed.
I said: "Were they closed?"
He said: "No. They wouldn't serve me because I'm black."
You could probably feel the ERUPTION all they way across the Atlantic! I WAS FURIOUS!
First thing next morning, I went to the Adjutant's Office and had that restaurant declared off-limits to all U.S. military personnel.
In the Army - Germany, in the early 70’s. Miesau, small place, only 600 of us. Anyway, at the theater one night to watch a movie that I can’t remember, but they always started with a patriotic film and the national anthem - we all had to stand at attention.
Clip starts, everyone stands, but no sound.. none.. Then someone down front started playing the national anthem on a kazoo. Did it pretty well, too. Everyone continued to stand at attention.
Clip ended, and the kazoo player got rousing applause.
July 1969 - boot camp - rifle range.
zero dark-thirty.
Drill Instructor (I’m still afraid to cal them D.I.s) gets us all out of the rack and, in our skivvies and flip-flops, we fall into formation outside.
We are ordered to wave to Neil Armstrong & Buzz Aldren on the moon.
Back in 1968 at PI our DIs had two of the smallest recruits, known as “house mice”, who cleaned the room the DI’s used in our squad bay. Pvt. Montalvo (Light skinned Hispanic) was the “Little White Mouse” and Pvt. Benjamin (Black recruit) was the “Little Brown Mouse”.
One day the DI on duty sent Pvt Benjamin up to Platoon 301 on the deck above us. After a while, two very big recruits came in the back hatch carrying a footlocker, set it down and ran out.
Our DI ordered “School Circle!”, we we all ran to the end of that squad bay.
“Ready, Seats!”.
“Guide, get over here!”
“Unlatch the footlocker”
The lid flew open, Pvt Benjamin (all 5’4” of him) popped to attention, covered head to toe with foot powder.
“Sir, the Little Brown Mouse is ordered to report that he is no longer a “Little Brown Mouse”, he is now a “Little White Mouse”.
There is very little (nothing) to laugh about at Parris Island, but that had us howling.
(you had to have been there - especially after weeks & weeks and years and centuries of DIs yelling at you!)
Great story.
I wasn’t a Marine but...
The Marines always refer to ‘The Old Corps’....
Seems a young lad went into Tun Tavern and some people were sitting at a table and asked him if he wanted to join the Marine Corps.
After explaining everything, he signed up with Enlisted Serial #1 and was handed two chits for beers at the bar.
He was on his second beer when another ‘young recruit’ walked in-Serial USMC #2 and sat next to him.
They got to talking and the BNG said ‘this isn’t bad. we get paid, clothed and they even gave me a chit for a beer.’
#1,,,good BUT Back in the OLD CORPS we got 2 beer chits
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Also
AT MCRD the DI had all the BNGs and was reading the ‘rules of the road’
..Furthermore, there are NO MORE Whites, Blacks, Asians, etc etc etc from now on, EVERYONE IS GREEN.....
NOW.... all you DARK GREEN people get in the back of the bus and all you LIGHT GREEN ones get in the front.....
As to the story about the sandwich and restaurant, apparently in WWII the Axis POWs could eat in the Restaurants like ‘regular customers’ and the Black MPS guarding them were not allowed in the front of the building.
We were quietly directed to surround the vehicle at a reasonable distance, and upon the signal, start discharging our weapons into the air.
The car quickly left the area, making for at least one rapid withdrawal.
The hospital was in a very old building, left over from the Third Reich. The halls were wide. The doors were wooden, with large, old fashioned keys and large keyholes.
The only place suitable for the collection of the specimen was a rest room, a good distance down the hall. Several times a week, almost daily, it was necessary for me to send someone down there for specimen collection.
Every time I went there, toilet paper had been stuffed into the keyhole.
Every time, I maliciously removed it.
Every time I went back, it was stuffed in there again.
I never quite knew whether to chalk this up to bashfulness or paranoia.
So he went back to the supply room *He told me to ask again* Still no more. He tried the mess hall; no hammers there, they told him to try supply again. He went to ask the 1st Sergeant at the orderly room; he wasn't in but his clerk was pretty sure there weren't any hammers in his desk. So he left for the Main Post area, and asked at one of the PX barber shops. Nope. Clothing sales. nope. The Class VI liquor sales outlet. Nope no hammers, but you can GET hammered....
So he caught a shuttle bus for Louisville, looking for a hardware store. He found a Hallmark Card store, but no hammers. He found a drugstore with headache pills for all the hammering that wasn't going on, but nope, no hammers. He found a toy shop toy hammers, but he was pretty sure Sarge wanted the real thing. So he went back to the bus station-no hammers, first thing he asked when he went in- and got himself a ticket for the bus home. Late that night, he arrived in his home town. He called home, his dad came and picked him up at the bus station. Before they got home, he explained to his dad *exactly* what his orders had been...and had his dad open the hood of the car and take off the air cleaner cover. Nope, no hammer in there. Once he got home, he hugged his mom, and had her look in the oven for...a hammer! Nope, no luck there, either. Nor in the bathroom medicine chest, nor in the doghouse in the back yard. the Grandfather clock? Nope. The front porch light? Nope. Maybe in his bed? Nope, but it was the most comfortable he'd slept in the last 6 weeks.
Sunday, he went to church with his folks, and found to no great surprise there was no hammer in the collection plate. Monday he spent with mum and da, and that night went to a movie. He bought a box of popcorn, thinking there might be a prize hammer in the box. The rest of that Summer week he spent with his girlfriend, walking along the river, holding hands and talking, and looking for a hammer sticking out of the riverbank mud. They didn't find one, but vowed not to quit until one showed up.
The next Monday, the Army called. His commanding officer told his mother that the Army had *sort of misplaced him, and had they heard from him?* Why, he's right here, the nice Lieutenant was told- Would like to speak with him? Yes, he sure did!
***No Sir, I haven't been AWOL, I was just doing what the Sergeant told me to do. And I have a list of more than two dozen witnesses who can swear that I've been doing just that, plus the names of the guys who were there when Sarge told me not to come back without one. If you have any questions about that, you can ask my dad; he's the county attorney here.*** Two days later, he was back at Fort Knox. Two weeks later, he was in Armor AIT [Tank crew training] and graduated two months after that. Six months later, he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant, Armor, and about five months after that, he became my tank platoon leader; I was his gunner. He saved my life twice, I saved his 3 or 4 times, it's all even. There's only one other little detail worth knowing, our tank's nickname, which was the source of his radio callsign.
See, in our outfit, tanks in A Company had *A* names: Archangel, Alleygator, AnnieMarie. B Company had Badboy, Brutus, Bentbananna, and so on, 17 tanks per company. But we only had 3 tanks in Headquarters company: Hummel [German for butterfly] and Hangman. And, of course, our platoon leader's tank:
[Wait for it!]
HAMMER! He finally found it!
Well, here’s an old thread I’ve saved..
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/news/604819/posts
Worried Soldier’s Mum Emails Colonel In Afghanistan (LOL!)
Had a pretty dull time in myself. Remember my buddies converted a VW into a trike. Drove out of the garage and straight across into their neighbor’s house- it wouldn’t steer (naturally) with the four VW wheels still in place.
Posting for my sweetie who was a missile technician aboard the submarine Francis Scott Key...
We were loading missiles one time and I assigned ‘Toad’ topside. One of the more experienced hands was in charge up there and was wearing the sound-powered phones. During the preparations, the Tender swung the adapter ring over and those of us below decks waited for the ‘Tender Pukes’ to fasten it to the tube. After a while, I got a call from topside saying, “Mac, you’re not going to believe this.”
It seems the Tender’s ‘Lead Man’ had come over and asked my ‘Lead Man’ if we could provide somebody to bolt down the adapter ring. “My guy is a total screw-up,” he said, “I’m afraid he might fall in the tube!”
Our guy said, “I know what you mean. We’ve got one, too.”
“Can’t be as bad as our guy,” the Tender guy says.
So my man says, “You see that ‘wide-bodied’ guy over there with the ‘chicken legs’? We call him ‘Toad’. I’m going to call him, and he’s going to turn around and say, ‘Yah Boss!’ Then he’s going to start walking toward us, and he’ll kick that socket wrench laying there. It’s going to ricochet off that stanchion, slide clear across the deck and fall over the side.”
The Tender guy just stands back and says, “Okay.”
My guy calls, “Hey Toad!”
Just as predicted, Toad says, “Yah Boss!” and starts walking. He kicks the wrench – ‘bonk!’ – it hits the stanchion – ‘clink!’ – then rattles across the deck and goes over the side – ‘plunk’.
The Tender guy just nodded his head and said, “Okay. I’ll have my guy do it.”
Believe it or not, in a strange, twisted, submariner sort of way, we were proud of him!
It was in April 1963 and I had just graduated from Jump School at Fort Benning, GA, and there were three bus loads of us brand new paratroopers heading to Fort Bragg, NC when the buses stopped for lunch at a bus station somewhere in South Carolina. When I got off the bus I noticed there were two lines at two outside windows to order your food, and one line was very long and the other line was rather short, so, of course, I got in the short line.
Suddenly, everyone was yelling at me to get out of that line and get in the other line where I belonged. I asked why I had to change lines and was quickly told that line was for blacks, I was white, and I had to get out of that short line and get in the long line where I belonged.
For a moment I was puzzled and started to ask what was so special about black soldiers that they got to stand in the short line and I couldn’t when I suddenly realized that I was, for the first time in my life, in the deep south and racial segregation was the norm.
I got in the “long” line and have been in it ever since.
I was in during the Clinton PC years. None of my stories could ever top those of my Uncle who was a senior NCO on many nuclear subs. He had many funny ones, but none funnier than the “phantom shitter” stories where an entire cruise would be spent trying to figure out who the seaman was who kept crapping in a neat pile throughout the boat.
I would go stir crazy in a metal tube for months, but he had some very funny stories of life on a sub.
My Dad had a funny story.
He was a new butter-bar in Germany, airborne Ranger, about ten years after the war.
He had cut a fairly straight piece of oak for volksmarches and used it for a swagger stick (of sorts) on company marches, and cut notches in it to commemorate stuff. I have it now.
There were a couple of oldtimer WWII sergeants who thought they would have some fun with him, so they got him alone.
He put up with the abuse for a few seconds, then thumped one on the head with his staff knocking him out and doubled the other one over with a gut-shot.
From then on they were very respectful.
Maybe I didn’t tell it right ... oh well, it was funny when he told it.
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