Ashokan Farewell

 

My Dearest Martha.

I write from our fall-back position in the former Rose Garden in Albina Park. We had our last hot meal - a warmed-up plate of Pine State cafe' biscuits-and-gravy and some day-old Starbucks dark roast drip coffee - two days ago. Word is that an elite Antifa bicycle-troop strike force used their stealthy nonmotorized stealthiness to ambush our resupply convoy as it left the rest area outside Wilsonville and was trapped in the usual traffic jam at the Boone Bridge.

 

I can't describe the awfull Hellscape that is war-ravaged Portland. There are actual hippies here! Hippies! Long hair! Bellbottoms! Pachouli! Feminists...my Lord, the unshaved armpits that are are terrifying in their contempt for patriarchical standards!

 

We will not abandon the good people of this beleaguered city without doing our utmost to Make Portland Great Again!

 

Yours in Trump:

Caleb

 

It's time for me to write another of those "Acting 1SG Lawes" things again, innit?

Well....fuck.

 

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation annoucements

 Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay just one thing today, so listen up.

Bretheren. Fellow sinners.

I come to you this morning with a tale of the deepest and weightiest eschatology, a parable of the righteous and the unrighteous, and, also, of Private Black, who stands amongst you like the sheep amongst the goats.

Brother Black...may I call you brother, Private Black? Thenk-yew. Brother Black came to me, when I was indwelling in my studies which is to say I was reviewing the S-4 requests your various platoon sergeants have provided to me and, no, AT Platoon, you are not getting a fucking Reaper drone, not just no but fuck no, so don't even try that shit again. 

And thereupon rousing me from my orisons Brother Black informed me that he had received "direct divine instruction" that he need not perform the extra duty imposed upon him by the Company Commander the previous Wednesday due to a certain incident at the Flaming Mug involving a bottle of Wesson Oil and three Cambodian sisters.

Now my brothers...my heart was troubled by this.

I was cast into the keelson-deep despair by the thought of my brother Black finding that his Lord and Savior found fault with his buffing the dayroom floor to a sort of crystalline perfection that I, too, suddenly found myself in the presence of the Almighty.

"I am but a sinner, oh Lord," I said, "but if Thou shalt enlighten me then I shall be exalted by your wisdom."

"A sinner thou art" The Creator replied, "But not as big a fucking liar as young Mister Black here, who just wants to ditch his extra duty so he and his yobo can go to the pushbutton and get drunk and screw."

"Then what shall I do, oh Lord?" I asked, and the Lord replied; "Fucking smite his young ass as hard as it will bear, and spare not the rod or spoil the private."

So, my brothers, you will see young Private Black communing with the spirits of Johnson Paste Wax and the dayroom floor all the rest of this week, and it is with a full and contrite heart I come to you saying; try. 

Just fucking try. 

That shit on me.  

And thou shalt find thyselves face-down on my desk and I will apply the rod of the UCMJ to your young asses, and in full measure shall you learn wisdom from the smiting. For sayeth the FM: the ears of a private are in his ass, and hearing cometh from a good solid kicking.

I have BEEN to the mountaintop, oh my brothers, and you do NOT want to fuck with me and find out what I found there.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Any questions?

I didn't think so.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

 

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay just one thing today, so listen up.

Had a chat with Chief Schrum down at the TMC today. Based on this I understand that there's a hard nut of you GI Joe Real American heroes that have been passing on this Plague vaccination. 

Chief says that y'all got a shit-ton of reasons why y'all ain't gonna get a teeny-weeny little prick and no, Private Black, that is not a personal observation and I see no reason for you to give me that look. You and me, after this formation.

Notregardless, here's the straight dope, gentlemen.

There's a minefield out there.

Now on the one hand, seeing as you know that said minefield is out there but have no way of telling where it is, or how fucked up it is, or whether or when one or more of you might wander into it, you can do it one way. Let's call it...let's see...oh, yeah, let's call it the "Dumb Fucking Way".

You can just bumblefuck around until you get into it.

And once therein you will discover you have fucked around and found out. Some of you will wander out again just fine. 

Some of you won't.

Or.

There's another way. Let's call this one the "Let's Not Just Wander Into The Fucking Minefield" way.

You can accept the issue of things that will give you a better chance in case you find yourselfs in the minefield. Things like this little paper mask thing that makes you look all sexy like the girls in the Candy Striper movie that I found S&T Platoon watching on the dayroom TV again having already reminded you that said TV is in a location accessible to family members including minor dependents and their mommies and no, Specialist Gutierrez, "that's how you make children" is not sufficient justification for the three days of phone calls I got after that particular incident thankyewverymuch.

You can get the vaccination which is kind of like those big ol' EOD suits that keep you from being blown into small independent republics if the mine does go off.

These fucking things are there not just to help you but to help the people around you who can't use them, like little kiddos and your aged granny who's on chemo for the third time because she's hooked on Swisher Sweets.

And here's the thing.

Knowing all this, if you refuse to take advantage of all these useful items and get stuck in the minefield, hopefully it will not surprise you if those of the rest of us who have are a trifle unsympathetic to your ass. 

"Freedom", gentlemen, is not "license". "Freedom" is a combination of rights and responsibilities that we as citizens agree to in order to form a more perfect fucking union.

You do not have the freedom to go prancing out into the minefield and bring back a mine to the mess hall which reminds me to discuss that stuff you had the utter gall enough to describe as "vegetarian lasagne", Mess Section, at some point between now and dinner chow.

So quit dicking around, people. Get the goddamn shot.

Because ain't nobody here going into the minefield after you if you don't.

Any questions?

I didn't think so.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

Final formation today will include this month's awards and decorations, and the Old Man will have more to say about that during the a-formentioned occasion. 

Let me just note my congratulations to those of you heroes who will be honored. Thank you for your fucking service, as the good people of the nation would probably say in lieu of buying you an actual drink, the cheap bastards.

I do want to call attention to Specialist Tenney, however, for what may be the most unique award of the coveted 82nd Airborne Distinguished Trooper Award I have ever in my entire career been privy to.

Specifically, it is for the "period between 14 and 15 November". I want you to note that.

Because during that period Specialist Tenney was doing the extra duty he was assigned subsequent to the little incident outside the shopette down in the Divarty AO which we will not revisit other than recommend you please do not take Specialist Tenney as your model the next time you are in Divarty AO and are seized by the mad compulsion for a two-liter of Mountain Dew Code Red and a party-size bag of jalapeno-flavored pork rinds, do I have that part correct, Specialist Tenney? 

Thank-kew.

During this period my understanding is that Specialist Tenney was detailed to perform area beautification outside the senior enlisted quarters at Randolph Point.

Specifically, outside the Brigade Sergeant Major's residence.

The recommendation for award came through Brigade, but I note that the handwriting of the signature on the form appears suspiciously similar to that of Missus Brigade Sergeant Major that appears on the lovely holiday card which we received in lieu of a holiday party we cannot hold in person during what I understand are still these "trying times" if the Yadkin Pawn commercial I viewed last night was correct.

Let me make this simple, people.

Whilst I appreciate your willingness to help those in our Army family in need, and I also find it admirable that you are willing to go that extra mile above and beyond the boundaries of your military duties, I strongly recommend that you do not, I say again not, push those boundaries in such a way as to excite the domestic suspicions of certain senior individuals who might possibly be in a position to exert undue pressure on other senior members of your NCO chain.

Put plainly, people, the Brigade Sergeant Major has never been accused of being the most accurate round in the shot group, but if you take advantage of your proximity to his Domestic Six to trim certain bushes in his fucking yard it is possible - perhaps not likely but possible - that he will take notice and respond in ways that you are likely to regret, and that I am likely to be forced to deal with, and neither you nor I will enjoy that.

In other words, keep it in your pants, people. Specialist Tenney, you may take this as both a belated warning and a kind of wary and rueful sort of congratulation, you magnificent bastard.

Second.

The Space Force operational area at North Post is no longer off-limits after resolution of that contretemps regarding the actions of certain individuals in the 504th. 

As I know that both your military bearing and individual capabilities are superior to the entire collective ASVAB scores of the fucking 504th I have no fears that you will be involved in any similar issues, but I remind you once again, however, that if and when you are a guest of the Space Force people you now represent not just this unit and the Airborne but the entire United States Army before a sister service, and are expected to behave as such.

Which brings me to the following item I received from Command Master Senior Space Sergeant Rogers, the Space Force CSM. To wit:

The proper term of address for a Space Force person is Guar...

G...

Guard...

Yes, Sergeant Harder, I know this is not a laughing matter! Just give me a fucking moment here.

Guardian!

Aha.

Moving on, people, look. CMSSS Rogers writes to advise me that in the future, parties of off-duty individuals from this Division will be welcome in their unit area providing certain groundrules are followed.

Driving in loudly playing something I am informed is called "Peter Quill's Awesome Mixtape" on POV speakers is getting old and is highly discouraged.

No, there are no fucking talking raccoons in the Space Force area, and walking around holding out beef jerky at knee level saying "here raccoon, raccoon, raccoon" trying to lure them out is simulatneously futile, irritating, and disrespectful, and,

The next individual who replies to any form of address from a G...Gu...Guardian!(fuck!)...with "I am Groot." will be referred to his chain of command for disciplinary action. This includes responding to salutes, which, I remind you, is highly unprofessional.

Play nice with the spacemen, people. I am counting on you to remember who you represent.

Are we clear?

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

 Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

I am going to say this One. More. Time. and then I am going to simply lay back and await the next time one of you fucking heroes comes into my company area with "Stop the Steal" swag or I catch talking about martial law and then I am going to do to you what the wolf did to the farmer's wife when he caught her airing her unmentionables in the breeze and I promise you that you will not like it.

Look, people.

We had an election. If your people lost, I'm sorry. Too bad, so sad.

That's what fucking happens in a fucking democratic republic!

If y'all think back to when you were teeny tiny little baby soldiers, all cute and fluffy with all that facial hair like a fucking Nineteen Eighties porn star, and you raised your hand and swore to defend something against all enemies, foreign and domestic?

Remember that shit?

That thing you swore to defend was a Constitution, and it pretty much says straight out that We the People get to vote.

What it didn't say is that the people you like have to win that vote.

If it did, we would be Commieyunist Russia or Red China, and I know as the outstanding U.S. Army airborne soldiers you are that you would not want to fucking be that.

So.

Stand down, heroes. You'll get your chance in another four years, Gawdhelpus, and until then I expect you to shut up and soldier, and yes, I know that you've been hearing that shit from general officers, too, and that reminds me, what did I tell you about what happens when you cross general officers with gorillas, Sergeant Echevarria?

You get retarded gorillas, that is correct!

General officers, both as individuals and colectively, know about as much about electoral politics as a fucking cow knows about the fucking Council of Trent and no, Specialist Black, I will not explain that for you. That is what The Google is for as opposed to using it to search the phrase "Mila Kunis nude".

So do not come to me quoting general officers on electoral politics unless you wish me to consider you poorly educated and as gullible as a baby duckling. I would be morally and emotionally devastated if that were to happen.

I trust I need go on no further about this damn electoral nonsense.

Second.

I understand that there are certain elements in this formation who have had issues with the latrine facilities.

People, listen up.

We are still working under the "sequester" and yes, Specialist Black, I recommend you look that up on The Google, too.

We are issued a fixed number of rolls of DA-issue toilet paper per quarter. No more, no less.

This is based, and I have pursued this in-quiry all the way up to Division G-4, mind you, on a scientifical algorithm specially crafted at great time and expense by a civilian contractor of the Department of the Army that has calculated to the microgram how much used food you people are expected to deposit in the latrine holes per quarter.

Therefore, if you have exhausted the company's issue of toilet paper before the end of that quarter, then clearly the problem is that either, one, you have not been correctly trained in the use of DA-issue toilet paper, or, two, you are full of shit, since the nice gentleman at G-4 explained to me in excruciating fucking detail that the algorithm cannot possibly be wrong.

Therefore, I can provide this company with a block of instruction on the correct use of the DA-issue toilet paper, if you believe that will solve the problem.

Or this company will have to solve this problem for themselves.

You will note that I am not - repeat NOT - suggesting that individuals in this company might just happen find themselves in the Alpha Company area while in the possession of a capacious item of apparel such as a duffel coat capable of secreting several full rolls of toilet paper in such a way as to elide the notice of the Alpha Company CQ while exiting the billet and company area. 

That would be an underhanded suggestion and would certainly not please a certain First Sergeant whose infantry company has a reputation for being...remind me of the term, Staff Sergeant Harder?

Yes, I believe the term is "irritatingly swollen-headed little cockbites".

Until then I will continue to consult with Brigade about this issue.

Are we clear?

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here, but we got a busy day so imma be quick.

Night bakers.

Can anyone here. Anyone? Tell me what the ever-loving-come-to-Jesus fuck inspired you people to set out what I am led to understand was a "deep fried Mars bar turnover" in the pastry tray yesterday morning?

Was it because you knew the battalion commander would be eating breakfast in our D-fac? And that he would be hosting the Brigade Sergeant Major, who is well known to covet pastries like a huge camouflage-wearing pizza rat covets pepperoni slices?

Because whatever the reason, I have been hearing from that pastry-fattened individual every hour on the hour since then about our dining facility, a circumstance which I am highly displeased with.

Goddammit, people. Donuts, maple bars, and apple-fucking-fritters were good enough for the Children of Israel as well as our hardy pioneer forebears and, as such, they are fucking good enough for our fucking mess hall. Whilst I appreciate your artistic flair and need for new challenges during what the Yadkin Road Ford dealership commercial last evening assured me were "trying times"...KISS, people. KISS. Keep it fucking simple. This is not fucking Kilmarnock and y'all are not standing with Mel Gibson facing down the fucking Sassenachs.

Donuts. And maple bars.

Fried Mars bars. Jesus wept.

Okay, only one other thing.

I am hearing talk about our being deployed to Charlotte or Raleigh to act in support of the civil power given the unrest there.

I am here to remind you that we are United States Army Airborne soldiers. We follow the lawful orders of our civilian leadership. If our national command authority through our corps and division and brigade and battalion orders us to load the riot gear into the 80-pax and hey-diddle-diddle up I-95 to stand around looking all billy badass, we will salute and move out smartly.

However.

Note that I cannot emphasize strongly enough the word lawful.

The Constitution that, if you people recall we all swore to support and defend against all enemies foreign and domestic, guarantees The People the right to peaceably assemble. It guarantees them the right to petition our government for the redress of grievances, and as such to speak freely, including the speech of act and deed. And in another foundational document our forefathers accused his royal highness King George of sending the goddamn redcoats to oppress them and deny them those very rights and that was cause for breaking the contract between citizen and sovereign government.

I am here to tell you people: We. Are. Not. Fucking. Redcoats.

You will need to rely on the Old Man. He is a stand up guy as well as a hell of a soldier and officer. He will not allow us to be used to beat the living shit out of peaceful Americans in the sort of shameful fucking ways that certain of our colleagues were used in the District of Columbia Monday night.

You will need to trust me to follow, and issue, only lawful orders.

I realize that requires a lot of trust. I hope that as your acting First Sergeant I have earned that trust. And I trust that you can and will behave in ways that will continue to earn mine.

But at the final remove you can trust me on this:

We.

Will not be the cause.

For breaking the contract between citizen and sovereign government.

On that you have my solemn fucking word.

That is...no, wait. One last item.

Remember; we are still in the fucking Plague Year. Keep your masks on and do not bunch up! If you do as surely as your doom followeth hard after you Mister Grenade will be there to remind you what a miserable buddy-fucker he is. Judas was a buddy-fucker, people, and look what happened to him.

Now that is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

AT Platoon.

I understand that, as those fucking pizza commercials keep reminding us, we are in "trying times", by which I mean both this fucking plague AND the fact that in this training cycle y'all have been down to the anti-armor range twice a day every day for three goddamn weeks. But if I get one. More. Phone. Call. from Brigade whining "Why are your AT vehicles parked in the B-Lane?" I will make it my personal business to go down to Willy's Speedi-Tow, requisition one of their goddamn trucks, and personally snatch your asses up and drag you back down to the motor pool.

You know the rules. I know the rules. And, unfortunately, so do those fucking Karens up at Brigade. So load and unload most quick smart and then park in the goddamn motor pool and walk back to the company area. Sergeant Morrow, you and me, after this formation. Am I clear? Thank-yew.

Now.

I am led to understand that there are certain individuals in this formation who are sick and tired of all this Plague Year shit. Who want to unmask, who want to slink back to the fucking Lizard Lounge so their Jody asses can get busy with rando grass widows, not that I'm being judge-mental or anything. I am led to understand that this commotion is all about "freedom", and that "your fear doesn't trump my freedom" and, yes, I see what the fuck you did there.

Let me remind you people.

We are STILL in the fucking Plague Year.

I trust that you, being the out-stand-ing airborne soldiers that I know you are, are familiar with the means and methods for the battalion in defense outlined in chapter three of Army Techniques Publication Three-dash-twenty-one.

That being said, how would you assess the behavior of, say, Private Black, here, if he proudly announced that he had no intention of digging a fighting position, that he would not submit his freedom from overhead cover to your fear of getting blown to small bloody independent republics by enemy artillery fire, and that he, in fact, intended to exercise his right to walk around the main line of defense wearing a pink tulle' tutu drawing fire whilst y'all cowered fearfully in your holes?

Anyone?

Thank you, Specialist Echevarria!

Yes. You would call him, and correct me if I am misquoting you here, Specialist, a "brain-dead fucker of whom the best portion of which ran down his mother's leg". Yes, indeed.

There are things you are supposed to be afraid of, people. Things that the fear is telling you not to fuck with, because they will fuck you up. Enemy artillery. Non-alcoholic beer. Payday loans.

The Plague will fuck you up like a one-five-five HE round. You are not brave and free if you walk around while the rounds are impacting your position, people. You are being fucking stupid and endangering your fellow troopers and compromising your airborne mission.

I trust this will be the last I hear of this nonsense. Keep your fucking masks on, people. Keep your distance. That's good practice for GIs anyway; remember - every time you bunch up you invite Mister Grenade to your party, and Mister Grenade is not really your friend.

Finally. Medical platoon.

You will be doing yourselves, this organization, and the nation a massive solid if you will kindly transfer those two empty shipping crates from your loading dock where they have been standing proud since, like, the last fucking fiscal year, to their forever home in the dumpster.

I spoke to Private Black about this the last time I ran into him on the loading dock and, frankly, I am not sure that I completely buy his explanation that they are part of what I believe he described as a "living art project" of Sergeant Carter's. Feel free to correct me after this formation if I am being overly skeptical, Sergeant.

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

Lemme get this out of the way most quick smart.

Night bakers. I'm positively fucking thrilled that you love your jobs so much that you want to sing on the way to work. I will simply advise you that if you choose to sing "Bath Salt" again outside the Battalion Sarn't Major's office window when said Battalion Sarn't Major's wife is dropping said Battalion Sarn't Major off at work I will personally go Willy Wonka candy semen on your asses, hit a killswitch and put an end to your personal problems. I trust I am making myself clear.

Second.

Regarding this battalion's upcoming deployment to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

Despite what you current events junkies may have heard on the electronical teevee or over the intertoobz, no matter what Ahab the A-rab is paying for our asses none of that money is going to come your way, Specialist Black, so dancing on the table in the dayroom shouting "Shake mommy's little moneymaker for twenties in my undies!" is not going to make you a profit but will, controversely, result in you spending some unpaid quality time with my friend Mister Rotary Floor Buffer. Are we clear on this, hee-ro?

Outstanding.

And, no, because the desert-roamers are paying for our asses does not make us Free Companions, or The Black Company, or the Fucking White Company, or Fucking Baron von Fucking Riedesel's First Fucking Battalion of Hessian Fucking Jagers. I have personally confiscated those copies of "The Dogs of War" and "The Wild Geese" from the dayroom television because they are a bad influence on you high-velocity projectile interceptors, and I will personally advise you that if I find anyone. ANY. One. In possession of a dried ear, a bolo knife, or a "vive le sacre' mercenaire" tattoo on their ass they will be doing the most heinous form of extra duty for me that I can devise from now until I fucking retire. This in not the Foreign Legion, people. We are soldiers of the United States and will act like it, regardless of the shenanigans of those voted into office in our chain of command.

Now. Last item.

I observe that the new U.S. Space Force facility at North Post is operational. I trust that you are treating our new sister service-members with the respect and dignity that you would treat any other zoomie, squid, or jarhead.

That means, Sergeant Garcia, that repeatedly shouting "To Infinity and Beyond!" when the space cadets are doing what passes for marching in formation past our battalion area is not entirely respectful. And, though I say this more in sorrow than anger, Specialist Black, asking them if their camouflage uniforms are for fighting Wookies on the moons of Endor is entirely non-sat. That is because the hairy aliens on Endor are fucking Ewoks, not Wookies, and only a complete pop culture moron would not know that, and I dread to think that the space rangers think of you and, hence, us, as pop culture morons.

Leave the starship troopers alone, people. They got enough problems as it is.

And medical platoon.

After this formation we will fall in to the motor pool where we will closely examine the 7-Eleven you seem to have set up in the Headquarters 52 GAMA Goat. The last time I saw that many Cheetos bags in one place it took three hours to excavate the sleeping doper underneath. I note in passing that Specialist Denney is absent from this formation, and I trust that we will not be in a similar situation after you have brought that vehicle to an acceptable level of cleanliness.

Are we clear?

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

Y'all continue to ignore the Brigade Sarn't Major's directive on not wearing y'all's PT shorts whilst exercising, not in formation. Now far be it from me to suggest that our Brigade Sarn't Major is a nitpicky ding-dong with Wheatina inside his fucking brain housing group who should really have better things to do than obsess about what y'all are wrapping around your asses when you go for a jog down Ardennes Street. That would be unprofessional and disrespectful to our chain of command.

So I will simply remind you that, while possibly being the sort of thing that only a nitpicky ding-dong with Wheatina inside his fucking brain housing group who should really have better things to do than obsess about what y'all are wrapping around your asses when you go for a jog down Ardennes Street would do, that directive has the force of law in this here outfit.

I personally could not give a rat's ass if y'all sashay down the street in a pink tulle' tutu. But, after this formation, you will put the PT shorts up and wear them only when in morning PT formation so you will not incur the wrath of said Brigade Sarn't Major onto this company and the First Sergeant thereof, that being me, who is infernally tired of the goddamn Brigade Sarn't Major and who, if lectured one more time on this issue by that infernal product of an incestuous union will take it out of your ass, seriatim. Is that understood?

I thought so.

Now. Second.

I have received word from Battalion that this Division is going to be tasked to provide a brigade to march in some sort of parade in Washington D.C. Now y'all know my feelings about parades; the pleasure is fucking transient, the position is goddamn ridiculous, and the expense is completely and utterly ridiculous.

However, due to certain feelings of masculine inadequacy of certain persons in certain elected positions this parade will happen and it is entirely likely that this brigade will be tasked, given that Second Brigade in march order looks like nothing so much as a traveling leper colony, and the less said about what will happen if First Brigade is allowed out amongst unprepared civilians the better, although my hyfuckingpothesis is that there will not be an un-emptied bottle of spirits or an unmolested domestic animal within ten kilometers of their line of march.

Now. I still remember the last time we did this, and I will not have a repetition of some of the things you people thought up last Fourth of July.

No, AT Platoon, your vehicles are not public conveyances and you are not authorized to give "free joyrides" in them.

No, Medics, you are not, I say again, not qualified to perform pelvic exams.

No, Commo, you are not "DJ Slicky" and you cannot play Lady Gaga's "Sexxx Dreams" on the brigade command push. Or the battalion command push, either. And don't even think about my company net.

Yes, y'all will be issued MRE meals on the day of the parade and, no, you cannot trade them to civilians for Bonus Jacks, Whoppers, or any other sort of civilian chow. Y'all will keep your assigned weapon with you at all times, and that includes not encouraging civilian women to "touch your gun", Specialist Black. I got my eye on you, heee-ro.

And before you ask, no. I have no fucking idea what the fuck this is for. It ain't no victory parade that I can think of, 'cause we ain't beat nobody's ass lately. If it's a "thank you for your service" thing we can get enough of that at the goddamn airport. If the idea is to scare our enemies then they should really make the Navy do it, because I dunno about anyone else but the Navy scares the hell out of me, floating around the ocean somewhere with nuclear torpedoes an' shit.

But here's the bottom line, people; we are GIs, and we got our orders, so our mission is to salute and move out smartly. Including down fucking Pennsylvania Avenue for a big ol' goat rodeo, if that's what the country wants, God in his wisdom knoweth why. Are we clear on that?

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun! At ease. Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

I've been hearing a bunch of you he-roes prancing around the dayroom talking smack about how y'all are "the best 1 percent this country produces".

I hear tell that y'all got that shit from some jarhead, and a jarhead general at that.

Now y'all know how I feel about jarheads. So hearing y'all woofing because one said something about how “We don’t look down upon those of you who that haven’t served. In fact, in a way we’re a little bit sorry because you’ll have never have experienced the wonderful joy you get in your heart when you do the kinds of things our servicemen and women do.” just means that the overpromoted shavetail doesn't know about the kinds of things our servicemen did down at the Flaming Mug last week and, yes, I'm looking at you, AT Platoon. I've got my eye on you, slickyboys.

So before you get all "Ooo-rah! We bad, we bad!" take a look to your left and right flanks. You know as well as I do what that guy next to you is capable of. We all went to high school with that guy. The dude that locked himself in the last stall in the boys' bathroom in the B-wing and had to get pulled out by the school cops?

That's him.

The joker that useta take polaroid dick pics and put them in the romance novels in the library?

That's him.

And don't get me started on surfing the fucking storm drains on their sleeping mats, am I right, Blackie?

The "best 1 percent" my rosy red ass.

The civilians are too fucking busy shoving their tongues up your collective fourth-point-of-contact to remember this, but y'all, at least, should know that y'all are the same jocks, nerds, stoners, wierdos, brainiacs, goofballs, and just regular American dipwads they went to high school with only now y'all wear the same colored clothes. Raisin' your right hand didn't suddenly make any of y'all smarter, braver, more honest, or less likely to fuck up a wet dream and yes, I mean you, night bakers. I saw your fuckin' mess hall this morning and we gonna have a little come-to-Jesus chat right after this formation.

Y'all are good troops, and that's what you're supposed to be. But don't let that make you think that you're some sort of national gold standard. That's how good troops end up getting waxed in combat.

Y'all get free food and clothes, y'all get to get all-expenses-paid vacations to the shitty parts of the world to fuck up things there. Don't let that make you kid yourselves about what a bunch of special fuckin' snowflakes you are just because some goddamn gyrene general who probably hasn't actually seen one of y'all in his natural environment since he was a itty-bitty lieutenant. Those fuckin' star-warriors run around in a little general-officer bubble and they have no more idea of what y'all are really doing out here than a cow knows about the fuckin' Council of Trent.

So. Get over yourselves, people. Like I tol' ya last week; thinking you're all better than civilians is a straight-up dick move, and I won't tolerate that shit in my company, regardless of what the Old Man tells you about how awesome you are.

OK.

Second.

Rumor has it that the Brigade Sergeant Major is gonna be in the company AO this Friday. Y'all know that dick as well as I do, so I highly recommend that you ensure that those "extra" toolkits find their way to SSG Reye's garage, Commo, and Medics? The quarter-ton y'all keep "forgetting" to turn in? That sumbitch needs to go live in the woods starting Thursday night.

Oh, and I will be doing a walkthrough tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours and if I find more pogie bait in your walllockers I will go medieval on your ass. Are we clear on that?

I thought so.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.

Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements.

Attention! At ease. Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

All this horseshit about how kneeling during the playing of "To Anacreon in Heaven" is somehow spitting on the graves of soldiers?

Get over it. There hasn't been a single fucking American soldier who served, fought, was wounded, or died for "freedom" since 1953 (and that was the freedom of the people of the Republic of Korea, people, know your fucking history).

There are a handful of living veterans of Korea and WW2 who might qualify and you're welcome to ask them THEIR opinions, but all the rest of us fought for "national interests"; we helped secure a tank of gas, or navigation through the Panama Canal, or for diddly-shit Great Power games in the Middle East.

The U.S. of 2017 uses armed force like any Great Power, people.

This isn't 1776.

Grow the fuck up.

Second. I've seen fellow GIs get all whip out their DD214 on people who haven't served to beat them over the head with the "right" to be all pissy about people protesting the fact that coppers are WAY more likely to kill your ass if you're not White Like Me.

That's a dick move, brothers.

Those despised "civilians"? They're OUR FUCKING BOSSES.

If they want to protest, or shout at us, or dance naked in the streets...our job, our ONLY fucking job, is to salute and move out smartly. THEY are the true "guardians of liberty", not us. We're here to keep the outside out. THEY are there to make the "inside" truly free, truly just, true to the promise of "liberty and justice for all"...or not. It's up to them, and not us to lecture or hector them about what they do or how they do it.

S&T Platoon. Imma see your ass in the motor pool after this formation and we're gonna talk about your fucking Conex.

That is all.

Platoon sergeants, take charge.