The SandGram

The seven Second Lieutenants sat around a small campfire in the dense forest north of Quantico Virginia. They were out in the “Field” – AGAIN, learning the basic’s of leading Marines in Combat. Half of them were going to flight school and were classified as “FIGMAC’S” (F*%$ it, I got my Air Contract), so this stuff was fun for them and they took things a bit looser than the average “Grunt” Lieutenant. You can always tell the aviator wannabes because at night while walking in the forest, they wore clear safety glasses to prevent their eyes from that errant branch poking you in the Mach one, Mod A eyeball, thus causing you to lose your air contract and becoming a ground pounder!!

Their SPC (Squad Platoon Commander) was the stereo typical Marine Grunt Officer, the type guy who had no personality and only cared about how fast you could run. Truthfully there are 10% like that and the rest are good to go (Captain B!!). This particular Officer was training for the Marine Corps Marathon and used the platoon as his own personal running club. When the other platoons were done for the day, first platoon of Hotel Company would go for a six to eight mile run. This caused much hate and discontent as your buddies were all back drinking a cold beer at the “Hawk”, our little Lieutenant bar in the BOQ (bachelor officers quarters). His name was Captain Jeff MacCrane, but they all called him Captain Migraine, it should have been Hemorrhoid, but no one had the balls to let that one out in Public.

The guys were listening to another story from a funny Ex-Cuban Lt. named Castro, but no relation to the turd down south. Castro was a true “Wetback” when the boat they came over on in mid-seventies, capsized causing his family to swim to shore in South Beach Miami. The laughter attracted the attention of Captain Migraine who decided to hang out with the boys.

“Evening Gents” his monotone voice silencing the crowd. “How are things going?” Everyone just nodded their heads up and down and mumbled “Good Sir.” The silence continued with the only noise coming from the crackle of the burning wood until Lieutenant Butts, the outspoken farm kid from Knoxville Tennessee, asked in his loud southern drawl “Sirrrr, I believe I speak for the rest of the fellas when I say that I like running as much as the next guy, but when we get back to the rear, is there any chance we could do some other form of P.T.???” (Physical training) Migraine sort of reared back and you would have thought he caught Butts putting his hand up his sister’s dress. “What Lt? you don’t like to run?” Butts who hated to run said “Why no Sirrrrr, I LOVE to run, I just thought maybe we could have a little variety, that’s all.” Migraine nodded his head deep in thought and said “I’ll think about it.” Then walked off.

Castro stood up and motioned to his lower half, “Mannnnnn, Butts, you got some big cojones, but I like that!!! I’d love to do something else, hell man, I had to go buy new running shoes” Everyone patted Butts on the back and the word spread throughout the rest of the platoon elevating Butts to “The Man” status for trying to shake up the daily running routine.

Two days later, back in the rear at 1530 (3:30pm), the call was made for the platoon to fall out in PT gear and to bring a soccer ball. The morale of the guys went through the roof!! They ran down to the lower playing field engaged in a game of Combat Soccer, a very brutal sport that resembled “Smear the Queer”, “Soccer” and “Football.” Basically no rules. Migraine stood on the sideline with his arms crossed and played referee, not daring to join the fray for fear of getting his legs broken by some of these 200-230 pound LT.’s thirsting for blood. The whistle blew at 1630 (4:30pm) ending the game and forming the platoon back up. They were all breathing heavy, sweat dripping down their grimy faces but all smiles because Butts had managed to suggest the alternate form of PT. They heard Migraine called out “Platoon, Move Out!!” they all started a slow gait back to the main road, but instead of turning right back to the barracks, they turned left on the main road. Everyone looked at each other with puzzled faces. Someone shouted from the middle of the platoon “Sir, where are we going???”

Migraine looked over his right shoulder and said “Well, you guys got to play your Combat football, now we’ll finish it up with a slow six mile run.”
You gotta love the Corps!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

This entry was posted on August 13, 2006 at 6:31 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.