When the Smoke Clears

The first thing I wondered was how I was going to provide safe medical care to a hundred training soldiers while combatting my own upper respiratory infection. For the most part I kept my distance, constantly rinsed with hand sanitizer until my fingers cracked and chafed, and kept my neck gaiter pulled up when I had to be in close contact with someone.

I think the fresh air did me some good. It was too late for them to get other medics and their commanders and planners prefered dealing with me anyway, so I toughed it out, and it was very much worth it, every bit of it; even the frustration calls from work wondering where I was and why I couldn’t just stop by to check on something and why my office machine and email said I was out. “Because I’m not there?”

Over the weekend I met and talked with a number of new soldiers I hadn’t really known before. Every single one of them, even the one who clearly had no business being out, didn’t fit in, couldn’t perform the skills, etc. was interesting and I made some new friends, but I’ll write about those another time.

Sure, I had my usual calls of “would you check my feet? I think I’m getting a blister. Maybe I shouldn’t be ruck-marching?” Nice try. I’d carefully examine feet, yep, red spot there, little moleskin and change socks and this time pull them all the way up and you’re good to go.

Besides, their commanders and sergeants had given me the word: Distinguish between pain and disability. If continuing meant they would probably hurt for more than 5 days afterwards, then consider pulling them out. Otherwise, let them toughen up.

In things medical I was the final arbitration for the soldiers. For a number I said, “It’s gonna hurt. Deal with the pain now and get callused up or deal with it again when you are out in the field for 4 weeks over the summer and CAN’T stop. And start adding your ruck to some of your PT. Your feet might be used the new boots, but they aren’t used to the new boots with an extra 50 lbs. of weight.”

Next to me was my favorite First Sergeant in the Army. A crusty, coarse Alabama man I’ve mentioned before. A Sapper, for those of you who know what that means, with combat experience in multiple venues. He stuck with me almost the entire weekend. “Hey, buddy, come on… let’s go do a field check…” he’d call out to me, which was his excuse for us to get away from the headquarters area so he could smoke.

I don’t begrudge him one bit. He’s out running around making extremely cutting remarks and corrections right alongside these kids, while still giving himself his Interferon shots of chemotherapy for his lymphatic cancer. At this point, if he feels he wants a cigarette, fine.

Earlier in the week we were on post at the Clothing and Sales. I saw him twitching. In spite of his apparent lack of certain formalities, I caught what was bothering him… whole units of soldiers assigned to the post with multiple mismatched uniform pieces, digital camo uniforms with woodland camo jackets and black neck gaiters or woodland camo BDUs with desert boots rather than black. The sergeant does demand certain things are done right.

He’d also push my buttons on occasion just for the fun of it. “Hey, buddy, Captain done sent me back to get you up and moving. I didn’t realize you was already in the field. He figured you’d prolly still be in your sleeping bag.”

“He said that?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘He’s a civilian, you cain’t force him to do nothing’.”

I tried to look angry but smiled as I started to rail on him and calling over the radio for the captain. “Still in the sack? STILL IN THE SACK? By 0430 I had ALREADY taken down my tent, packed away ALL my gear, loaded it up for the transition to the next range, done my personal hygiene AND conducted a sick call and treated 9 soldiers before you were halfway done with your first Mountain Dew and the Captain was trying to figure out how to get his coffee hotter after you both crawled out from sleeping in the VANS, and I was already back out there before first formation!”

“Well he said it. Besides, there’s a better way to tie your bootlaces off.”

“Well how am I supposed to learn that if you two are too busy guarding the rear while I do the real soldiering work around here? and don’t give me that ‘I got cancer’ crap, there, buddy. Besides, none of y’all will sleep near me.” (Apparently they seem to have given in to the rumor that I somehow might possibly snore slightly louder than a few other people. Rumors only. You can’t REALLY hear me over the generator.)

Later on a fairly fresh lieutenant showed up to our headquarters on the training range in his vehicle. The sergeant marched right over to him. Even the majors and captains started walking away sensing what was coming.

“Lieutenant… right over here a second. Now look at that car tag, what does that say?”

The LT was stunned for a moment at the tone but then answered as asked: “US Government.”

“And that one?”

“US Government”

“Aaaaand THAT one?”

“US Government, Sergeant.”

“And what does YOURS say?”

“Missouri.”

“Now you see where I’m headed, so how’s about you get your damned car out of here. You know for a FACT your POV (privately-owned vehicle) is not allowed out on this range so if you want to be out here just to say hi to some friend, how’s about you head on back to Range Control, park there and hike it back out here. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” and immediately the LT left.

Of course, when someone really is in trouble or can’t learn a skill, he knows exactly when to lay off the sarcasm or edge and take them aside for a talk, and within an hour or so, they can complete the skill.

That’s the power of a quality NCO.

I did experience more of that power, though, later on. After a couple of days a number of the soldiers had been training extra hard and gone well beyond their perceived limits and were excelling at leading each other in addition to mastering their own tasks. By request of the Major and Captain, I took one back to the main part of post to a barbecue vendor booth to buy up some food for the evening. (another reason for sending me was that I was more familiar with the base than anyone with the unit.) At the window we gave our order, which was pretty large, and a line started forming behind us.

Then I sensed it, almost like how the woods suddenly go silent when a predator is about. The soldiers around me grew tense. The one with me was especially tense.

A heavy laugh came from behind with a booming, authoritative voice. “That’s a big order for two, there.” I turned. Two textbook, prime examples of Drill Instructors stood behind us, ramrod straight, everything in their appearance perfect, dark black skin contrasting with the bright day, “smokey” hats perfectly centered on their heads. The soldier with me gave a barely perceptible nod. I smiled, “Yes, Sergeant, you got that right. I’ve got a few out on one of the ranges that have been working extra hard well beyond any expectations we had. I’m going to make sure they eat well tonight after everything is done and final inspection.” Sure, my manner was relaxed, but I felt my own tension rising under their scrutinizing eyes.

Suddenly the second one turned away and started yelling across the parking lot. “Hey… SOLDIER! Army of One is OVER! You’d best be running off to get your buddy not just trying to sneak by me, otherwise I’m going to come right over there and stick to you as your buddy for the rest of this fine day and see if you can remember never to leave your battle buddy!” His head snapped back at me. I wondered about my own uniform, devoid of any identification or “hooah” patches other than my name. A quick mental check: shaved this morning, hair clipped 3 days ago, boots a little dusty on top… damn… but clearly recent and a bright shine elsewhere, fresh uniform this morning still starched and rigid. My friends, especially the First Sergeant, said my uniform meant that I was either the BIGGEST screw up, 30-something private in the Army, or someone no one wanted to tempt fate and mess with. He said my bearing and presence would make almost everyone assume the latter.

“So they’re doing right by you?” the first one asked.

“They’re doing right for no other reason than that’s what they really want to do for themselves.”

“Then you let them know, and they’ll keep right on working for you that way. Hot dang, that’s good to hear. They are gonna eat gooooood.”

“Don’t I know it. I started eating Chef Red’s stuff long before he was ever here on base,” and a brief conversation ensued about some of the town barbecue from 10 years ago and places we had both been.

We paid and gathered our boxes. “Thanks, sergeant. Frankly, I’m honored to be able to work with them.”

Off to the side the second D.I. applied a little more corrective therapy to some officer cadets leaving the PX looking far from soldierly.

The first D.I. looked me in the eyes again. Inside, okay, I was a bit intimidated which almost never happens. I understand the feeling they inspire, I admit it. But I think I hid the fear pretty well. He said, “Wish you could send me some of your soldiers. I’d like a few I didn’t have to work on all the time.”

“I can understand that, sergeant, but let me keep them for a while longer. You have a good day and a great weekend off if you get one.”

He paused, a little smile on his face. I don’t know if he had fully figured me out, but I suspect he had at that point, just a poser civilian medic. “Thank you. Appreciate it. Hope to see you again some time soon, sir.”

I nodded in assent and headed back to our van with the goodies.

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