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| By LTC (RET) Dave Grossman, author of "On Killing." Honor never grows old, and honor rejoices the heart of age. It does so because honor is, finally, about defending those noble and worthy things that deserve defending, even if it comes at a high cost. In our time, that may mean social disapproval, public scorn, hardship, persecution, or as always,even death itself. The question remains: What is worth defending? What is worth dying for? What is worth living for? - William J. Bennett - in a lecture to the United States Naval Academy November 24, 1997 One Vietnam veteran, an old retired colonel, once said this to me: "Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident." This is true. Remember, the murder rate is six per 100,000 per year, and the aggravated assault rate is four per 1,000 per year. What this means is that the vast majority of Americans are not inclined to hurt one another. Some estimates say that two million Americans are victims of violent crimes every year, a tragic, staggering number, perhaps an all-time record rate of violent crime. But there are almost 300 million Americans, which means that the odds of being a victim of violent crime is considerably less than one in a hundred on any given year. Furthermore, since many violent crimes are committed by repeat offenders, the actual number of violent citizens is considerably less than two million. Thus there is a paradox, and we must grasp both ends of the situation: We may well be in the most violent times in history, but violence is still remarkably rare. This is because most citizens are kind, decent people who are not capable of hurting each other, except by accident or under extreme provocation. They are sheep. I mean nothing negative by calling them sheep. To me it is like the pretty, blue robin's egg. Inside it is soft and gooey but someday it will grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful.? For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators. "Then there are the wolves," the old war veteran said, "and the wolves feed on the sheep without mercy." Do you believe there are wolves out there who will feed on the flock without mercy? You better believe it. There are evil men in this world and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial. "Then there are sheepdogs," he went on, "and I'm a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf." If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? A sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero's path. Someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed Let me expand on this old soldier's excellent model of the sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs. We know that the sheep live in denial, that is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe that there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kids' schools. But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid's school. Our children are thousands of times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep's only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they chose the path of denial. The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheep dog who intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb will be punished and removed. The world cannot work any other way, at least not in a representative democracy or a republic such as ours. Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land. They would prefer that he didn't tell them where to go, or give them traffic tickets, or stand at the ready in our airports in camouflage fatigues holding an M-16. The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog cash in his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, "Baa." Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lonely sheepdog. The students, the victims, at Columbine High School were big, tough high school students, and under ordinary circumstances they would not have had the time of day for a police officer. They were not bad kids; they just had nothing to say to a cop. When the school was under attack, however, and SWAT teams were clearing the rooms and hallways, the officers had to physically peel those clinging, sobbing kids off of them. This is how the little lambs feel about their sheepdog when the wolf is at the door. Look at what happened after September 11, 2001 when the wolf pounded hard on the door. Remember how America, more than ever before, felt differently about their law enforcement officers and military personnel? Remember how many times you heard the word hero? Understand that there is nothing morally superior about being a sheepdog; it is just what you choose to be. Also understand that a sheepdog is a funny critter: He is always sniffing around out on the perimeter, checking the breeze, barking at things that go bump in the night, and yearning for a righteous battle. That is, the young sheepdogs yearn for a righteous battle. The old sheepdogs are a little older and wiser, but they move to the sound of the guns when needed right along with the young ones. Here is how the sheep and the sheepdog think differently. The sheep pretend the wolf will never come, but the sheepdog lives for that day. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep, that is, most citizens in America said, "Thank God I wasn't on one of those planes." The sheepdogs, the warriors, said, "Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference." When you are truly transformed into a warrior and have truly invested yourself into warriorhood, you want to be there. You want to be able to make a difference. There is nothing morally superior about the sheepdog, the warrior, but he does have one real advantage. Only one. And that is that he is able to survive and thrive in an environment that destroys 98 percent of the population. There was research conducted a few years ago with individuals convicted of violent crimes. These cons were in prison for serious, predatory crimes of violence: assaults, murders and killing law enforcement officers. The vast majority said that they specifically targeted victims by body language: slumped walk, passive behavior and lack of awareness. They chose their victims like big cats do in Africa, when they select one out of the herd that is least able to protect itself. Some people may be destined to be sheep and others might be genetically primed to be wolves or sheepdogs. But I believe that most people can choose which one they want to be, and I'm proud to say that more and more Americans are choosing to become sheepdogs. Seven months after the attack on September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer was honored in his hometown of Cranbury, New Jersey. Todd, as you recall, was the man on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania who called on his cell phone to alert an operator from United Airlines about the hijacking. When he learned of the other three passenger planes that had been used as weapons, Todd dropped his phone and uttered the words, "Let's roll," which authorities believe was a signal to the other passengers to confront the terrorist hijackers. In one hour, a transformation occurred among the passengers - athletes, business people and parents. -- from sheep to sheepdogs and together they fought the wolves, ultimately saving an unknown number of lives on the ground. There is no safety for honest men except by believing all possible evil of evil men. - Edmund Burke Here is the point I like to emphasize, especially to the thousands of police officers and soldiers I speak to each year. In nature the sheep, real sheep, are born as sheep. Sheepdogs are born that way, and so are wolves. They didn't have a choice. But you are not a critter. As a human being, you can be whatever you want to be. It is a conscious, moral decision. If you want to be a sheep, then you can be a sheep and that is okay, but you must understand the price you pay. When the wolf comes, you and your loved ones are going to die if there is not a sheepdog there to protect you. If you want to be a wolf, you can be one, but the sheepdogs are going to hunt you down and you will never have rest, safety, trust or love. But if you want to be a sheepdog and walk the warrior's path, then you must make a conscious and moral decision every day to dedicate, equip and prepare yourself to thrive in that toxic, corrosive moment when the wolf comes knocking at the door. For example, many officers carry their weapons in church.? They are well concealed in ankle holsters, shoulder holsters or inside-the-belt holsters tucked into the small of their backs.? Anytime you go to some form of religious service, there is a very good chance that a police officer in your congregation is carrying. You will never know if there is such an individual in your place of worship, until the wolf appears to massacre you and your loved ones. I was training a group of police officers in Texas, and during the break, one officer asked his friend if he carried his weapon in church. The other cop replied, "I will never be caught without my gun in church." I asked why he felt so strongly about this, and he told me about a cop he knew who was at a church massacre in Ft. Worth, Texas in 1999. In that incident, a mentally deranged individual came into the church and opened fire, gunning down fourteen people. He said that officer believed he could have saved every life that day if he had been carrying his gun. His own son was shot, and all he could do was throw himself on the boy's body and wait to die. That cop looked me in the eye and said, "Do you have any idea how hard it would be to live with yourself after that?" Some individuals would be horrified if they knew this police officer was carrying a weapon in church. They might call him paranoid and would probably scorn him. Yet these same individuals would be enraged and would call for "heads to roll" if they found out that the airbags in their cars were defective, or that the fire extinguisher and fire sprinklers in their kids' school did not work. They can accept the fact that fires and traffic accidents can happen and that there must be safeguards against them. Their only response to the wolf, though, is denial, and all too often their response to the sheepdog is scorn and disdain. But the sheepdog quietly asks himself, "Do you have and idea how hard it would be to live with yourself if your loved ones attacked and killed, and you had to stand there helplessly because you were unprepared for that day?" It is denial that turns people into sheep. Sheep are psychologically destroyed by combat because their only defense is denial, which is counterproductive and destructive, resulting in fear, helplessness and horror when the wolf shows up. Denial kills you twice. It kills you once, at your moment of truth when you are not physically prepared: you didn't bring your gun, you didn't train. Your only defense was wishful thinking. Hope is not a strategy. Denial kills you a second time because even if you do physically survive, you are psychologically shattered by your fear helplessness and horror at your moment of truth. Gavin de Becker puts it like this in Fear Less, his superb post-9/11 book, which should be required reading for anyone trying to come to terms with our current world situation: "...denial can be seductive, but it has an insidious side effect. For all the peace of mind deniers think they get by saying it isn't so, the fall they take when faced with new violence is all the more unsettling." Denial is a save-now-pay-later scheme, a contract written entirely in small print, for in the long run, the denying person knows the truth on some level. And so the warrior must strive to confront denial in all aspects of his life, and prepare himself for the day when evil comes. If you are warrior who is legally authorized to carry a weapon and you step outside without that weapon, then you become a sheep, pretending that the bad man will not come today. No one can be "on" 24/7, for a lifetime. Everyone needs down time. But if you are authorized to carry a weapon, and you walk outside without it, just take a deep breath, and say this to yourself... "Baa." This business of being a sheep or a sheep dog is not a yes-no dichotomy. It is not an all-or-nothing, either-or choice. It is a matter of degrees, a continuum. On one end is an abject, head-in-the-sand-sheep and on the other end is the ultimate warrior. Few people exist completely on one end or the other. Most of us live somewhere in between. Since 9-11 almost everyone in America took a step up that continuum, away from denial. The sheep took a few steps toward accepting and appreciating their warriors, and the warriors started taking their job more seriously. The degree to which you move up that continuum, away from sheephood and denial, is the degree to which you and your loved ones will survive, physically and psychologically at your moment of truth.
My friend Verbal sent me this article. Like the movie TAKEN, I think this article resonates with any and all who serve. | | |
|  "I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
You get me closer to God...
-NIN, Closer ... Yesterday, my buddy Verbal and I headed down south to the mountains for work. We'd planned on leaving at 0430, but the night before, our mouths got into accidental collisions with several pitchers of beer, and we were in no shape to head out so early.
We left at 0730, feeling like shit, and needing breakfast, so we found a Denny's and nursed ourselves with caffeine, grease, and scrambled eggs. As we left the restaurant, I noticed a middle-aged white man fumbling with his car--a silver, convertible Mercedes of some type. He was putting the hard-top down with the press of a button, and while the mechanism was pretty slow, it was also pretty awesome. I thought nothing of it, and we continued to Verbal's car.
Verbal fired up the engine, and I said, "Fuck, man, we're gonna need some water. It's gonna be hot up there in the mountains."
"That's exactly what I was thinking," Verbal said.
We looked around at the shopping strip we were in. Wal-Mart was the only viable place we could see. "Looks like Wally World it is. I fucking hate that place," Verbal said, as he turned into one of the parking aisles in the lot in front of Wal-Mart. I pointed out a Walgreens to our right, and Verbal flipped a U-turn in the empty lot. "Much better," he said. "Now Walgreens is a good, honest chain from Chicago."
"Is it really?" I asked.
"It might be. At least, that's what I tell myself."
We got to the end of the parking aisle, where it meets the perimeter lane, and stopped because a car was coming by. It was the same middle-aged man in his Mercedes. And he waved at us with a friendly smile. I was confused, and so I returned his wave with an upward nod of my head. As the middle-aged man passed, Verbal said, "What a fucking meat-gazer, I swear to God."
"What?" I asked, laughing.
Verbal declared, "That faggot's a total meat-gazer!"
I laughed again and asked, "How do you know?"
"Fucker gives me the creeps. I can just tell, he's a fucking meat-gazer."
"OK, man," I said.
Verbal parked near the entrance of Walgreens, we went in, got the water we needed, and when we got back to the car, we saw a yellow slip of paper under the driver-side windshield.
"Hahaha!" I laughed. "Holy shit!" "See, what'd I fucking say?" Verbal said. "I knew he was a fucking meat-gazer!" "How'd you know?" "He was eye-fucking me the whole time we were in Denny's and he was eating breakfast with these old people I assume were his parents." "Hahaha!" "This shit always happens to me. How come it's NEVER some fucking hot girl leaving me a note on my car? What is it about me that makes gay men hit on me?" "Man, I thought you were kidding." Verbal looked down, tucked himself tighter, and without looking at me said, "I'm so creeped out right now. You think he's looking at us?" "Relax, man." I said. "He's just being friendly. By wanting you to bang him in the ass."
We got in the car and drove to the mountains. I remember looking at Gary's car and thinking, "I should get me one of those." Little did I know, Gary had been looking right back at us, assumed that Verbal was my boyfriend, and was thinking, "I should get me one of those."
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|  I'm a pretty calm guy. Most of the time.
But this afternoon, when I heard First Sergeant (1SG) pick up on the other end of the line, my body tensed up like I was about to brutalized by a knee to the gut.
Let me rewind: I had spent all day training up in the mountains, where there is no cellular reception. Afterward, I was so tired that I didn't bother to check my phone as we rode back to the training office--I am away from my regular unit for some training for a few weeks. It wasn't until dinnertime that I bothered to check my phone: 5 text messages, 1 voice mail. I got a text message from my brother Sean, and it was a simple one-word message: EMERGENCY. I thought maybe the voice mail had something to do with it, so I checked my voice mail. A really gruff and weary voice on the other end said, "Sergeant Doan, this is First Sergeant. I need to talk to you. Call me at XXX-XXX-XXXX."
That was all.
When a soldier is in the field, whether deployed or in training, his family can contact him for emergencies through the Red Cross. The Red Cross will send a message to the soldier's unit, and the unit will find a way to notify the soldier. The Army defines an emergency as pretty much a death or about-to-be-death in the family. My heart was fucking racing. I've been to Iraq and back; I am invincible and untouchable. But the people I love are mere mortals, and... I am helpless to do anything should the worst come their way. My folks are in Viet Nam. Any number of crazy shit could happen to them. My baby sister is off on her own at college. Any number of crazy shit could happen to her. My brother Ben is over at Fort Benning training. Any number of crazy shit could happen to him. My other two brothers are doing their thing in Houston. Any number of crazy shit could happen to them.
I called my brother. The phone rang until his voice mail message came on. Maybe he's in the hospital or something, taking care of something. Fuck.
I called 1SG, who is the senior enlisted soldier in my company. I was afraid the call would go to voice mail, too, but he picked up and said, "Hello, Sergeant Doan. How're you doing?"
He sounded like shit, but he also sounded like he was trying to sound cheerful. "I'm all right, First Sergeant. Just back down from the mountains. I didn't have phone reception all day."
"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing." Bullshit. First Sergeant doesn't just call me to see how I'm doing. When I'm at a training event like this, I'm not under his chain of command, and he actually has to contact my temporary chain of command if he needs something from me. Is he trying to emotionally prepare me or something?
"Uhm, I'm doing all right... it's only the second week of training, but we're pretty busy. Lotta late nights."
"I know. Well, I just wanted to call and make sure you're doing all right. And also I have to ask you about this D.E.I.P. counseling...." he said.
OK, this has nothing to do with a family emergency. It's some bullshit administrative loose-end that First Sergeant needed to fix before I left for training but never got around to. I quickly took care of the matter and hung up. I called Sean back again, and this time time, he did pick up.
"Hello?" he asked. He sounded like he'd been sleeping. Or maybe that he'd been crying.
"Hey, I got your text. What's the emergency?"
"Yeah... I got in a car accident."
"Anybody get hurt?"
"No, I was in the truck, and I hit this guy, and the truck has no insurance on it, and I didn't know what to do, so I called you. And your voice mail said don't leave messages and that I should text you instead, so I sent that message. I mean, I ended up giving the guy my information anyway, but I didn't know what to do at first."
FUCK, man, you're 25 years old. Did you really need to get a hold of me to take care of that? Instead of blowing up at him, I told him I had to go real fast and that I'd call him back in 15 minutes to get the rest of the story. I was just glad that nothing had happened.
Even with 15 minutes to calm down, I ended up yelling at him on the phone while sitting outside the training office building for not knowing something he probably had no reason to know.
The picture has nothing to do with today's event. It was just something I saw on the trail today while training. | | |
| The party is here on the West side
So I reach for my 40, and I turn it up
Designated driver take the keys to my truck
Hit the shore 'cause I'm faded
-Montell Jordan, This is How We Do It
...
A few minutes before midnight, one of my soldiers bangs on my door. It's Specialist (SPC) Bruiser. "What do you want," I ask him.
Bruiser tells me, "Sergeant, I was wondering if you can give my friend a ride back on post. I'll give you gas money or whatever."
Bruiser is new to the unit--I had given him his initial counseling just yesterday. His car hasn't arrived here yet. I ask him, "Where is he?"
"At the court house."
"What the fuck's he doing there?"
"Breathalyzer. We went to the Renaissance Fair today, and me and SSG Locke had been drinking since like 11, and our friend Lucky had like only 1 beer right before we left. And the cops pulled him over."
I'm only still in the barracks at midnight on a Saturday and awake because I am packing for my flight at 0725 tomorrow. I'm about to spend two months in the Arizona desert for some training, and I had just started packing. I should probably take care of these things sooner.
...
About four months ago, another one of my soldiers, SPC Dexter called me at 0300 to pick him up. He was downtown and needed a ride back to the barracks. The cops had picked up Dexter's friend, SPC Bird, for driving under the influence and taken the keys, too. They'd pulled Bird over driving without his headlights on, and when he'd refused to take the field sobriety tests, they hauled him to the hospital to draw a blood test. The cops had left Dexter on the cold streets of downtown and told him to call a cab.
When I picked Dexter up, he told me, "This is fucking bullshit, Sergeant D. I saw the cop pocket Bird's cash from his wallet when they arrested him. How can they do that?"
...
I drive Bruiser to the courthouse, and we wait in the lobby for his buddy Lucky. I get through about half an episode of Seinfeld before Lucky gets released. We pile into my car, and I ask, "So what'd you blow?"
"Point one one," Lucky says.
"That's no good. Legal limit's .08, huh?"
"Yep. They'll probably bust me down in rank, take my money, give me an Article 15, extra duty, and all that."
Lucky's voice is dispassionate, dead. He then talks about what happened, about how they pulled him over for making an illegal right turn from the center lane, and about how shit happens. I mostly listen
At some point, I think Lucky's phone rings. Maybe he calls her. I don't know. Anyway, he's talking on his cellphone with some girl, telling her how he just got a DUI and that Bruiser and I had just picked him up from the courthouse. My mind wanders. I try to mentally sing along to the Killers album spinning in my CD player, but all the same, I hear snippets of conversation like, "Well the thought of it makes me sick," and "No, I don't want you to, but since I did that to you, I can't really say anything if you do that to me. I don't know why you're telling me about this, unless it's to rub it in my face."
I wonder to myself if he's talking about what I think he's talking about when I hear him say, "Look, I'm about 100 percent sure that after I get off the phone, you're going to go and fuck him anyway."
I don't really want to be in the car, or at least, I don't really want to listen in on Lucky's conversation with his very-soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, but I'm still a good two minutes away from the barracks. I look over to Bruiser and raise my eyebrows. Bruiser shakes his head and suppresses his laughter. A minute later, I pull into a parking spot and kill the engine. I get out and walk towards the back door of the barracks. I hear Bruiser and Lucky get out of my car and close the doors. I press my clicker to lock the car, and I can feel Bruiser catching up to me. He waves a 10 dollar bill at me to pay for gas, my troubles, or whatever.
I wave my hand, dismiss his money, and tell him, "Just... stay out of trouble." I turn to look at Lucky and see that he has a defeated, wounded look on his face as he is still talking with the girl. I almost feel bad for the kid, but who blows a 0.11 BAC from just one beer and then lies to me about it? I tell Bruiser, "And look out for your friends." | | |
| I can't call in sick on Monday, when the weekend's been too strong.
I just work straight through the holidays, and sometimes all night long.
-Toby Keith, American Soldier
...
This afternoon, SFC (Sergeant First Class) Wolf pulled me aside and tried to sell me on extending my enlistment. About 45 months ago, I raised my right hand in front of an American flag and made an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic. I have about 15 months left in my enlistment, and because the Army is doing away with Stop-Loss, the unit will have me for only half of its upcoming deployment in Iraq.
Unless they convince me to voluntarily extend my enlistment for the full tour.
The oath I swore has taken me places I had seen only in movies, but it's also taken me away from many of the people I love. So when SFC Wolf floated incentives my way to entice me into extending, I looked at her like she'd just slapped baby Jesus.
...
I went to bed at around 0130 for no good reason. At 0400, I woke up because some asshole was pounding furiously and loudly on my door. When I opened the door, I saw someone I'd seen maybe twice before. I don't remember his name, but I got a good look at his rank--SFC, or, two promotions ahead of me. I guess I couldn't bitch him out without consequence.
"What's going on?" I asked him in that dazed, breathless, and angry voice you get when someone wakes you up in the middle of the fucking night.
"Sergeant Doan? Report the Company [area]. Put on your uniform, but don't bother showering or shaving or anything. You need to be there A-S-A-P."
"What? What's going on?" I asked him again. I noticed that he wasn't looking at me. He was gazing over my left shoulder because I was still completely naked.
"Get dressed!" he ordered. Then he moved down the hall to the next room. Standing there in the hallway, squinting under the harsh lights, I realized that there were other senior enlisted soldiers banging on all the other doors in my hallway.
...
The rain was fucking freezing at 0407 when I stepped out of the barracks and crossed the parking lot separating our quarters from the Company area. My beret was soaked by the time I stepped inside Alpha Company's building. Half of my platoon was already assembled. They all looked as angry and sleepy as I was. First Sergeant looked up from his clipboard and said, "Ahh, Sergeant Doan! Well! You look happy!"
He crossed my name off of a list. The acting platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant (SSG) Upham told me, "You have to stay here now. Can't go back to the barracks. They're being locked down."
"Health and Welfare?" I asked him.
"You got it. Battalion-wide."
Every now and then, commanders order Health and Welfare Inspections of the barracks to root out drugs and weapons. The soldiers are ordered out of their quarters, their doors unlocked, and guards posted on all the exits. Then, the chain of command walks through, ransacking our belongings in the search for contraband. In extreme cases, commanders can get the military police (MPs) to bring their dogs for the inspection.
This morning, they brought the dogs.
...
More than three hours later, at 0745, soldiers living on the first floor of the barracks were released back into their rooms for personal hygiene and breakfast. I was glad I don't live on the third floor; I needed to shit, shower, and shave.
I'd emptied myself into the toilet and was about to lie down for a nap when my phone rang. Caller ID: First Sergeant.
"Yes, First Sergeant?" I asked.
"Sergeant Doan? It's First Sergeant," he said.
"...yes, First Sergeant?"
He sounded pleased as he told me, "Sergeant Doan, come back to the company now. You've been selected for a urinalysis. I need you here. Now."
Of course he calls me right after I've gone to the restroom. "Roger, First Sergeant."
Before I left, I grabbed my one-liter water bottle.
When I got back to the Company, I found that I was one of only two non-commissioned officers (NCOs) randomly selected for the urinalysis. Of course, that automatically made me an observer for the piss test: I had the solemn duty of following the testers into the restroom, maintaining uninterrupted eye-contact with the sample bottles, and meat-gazing to make sure the testers aren't cheating the system. I split the duties with the other NCO--I had to look at his dick, he had to look at mine.
In all, I had to observe only 4 cocks, but really, that's 4 cocks too many.
And the last kid to go, he had such terrible stage fright, it took him a full 8 minutes to squeeze out the required 30 mL of urine. I turned the sink on to help him, but all he did was stand there with his dick in his hands, tip on the bottle, and whole body trembling. I'd have laughed at him for being gun-shy, but it was awkward enough that we were both standing in a one-man restroom with him and his dick out and me trying to maintain eye contact after taking the requisite visual dick check.
We were done with the piss tests by 0900, and I had already been at work 5 hours.
...
After the end-of-day close-out formation, I went upstairs to turn some paperwork in to First Sergeant. That's when SFC Wolf asked me if I wanted to stay in the Army for only another 8 months beyond October 2010. "And during those 8 months, of course you can also re-enlist for even longer. You do want to stay in the Army, don't you?"
Yeah, lady. That's exactly what I want.
* Other than mine, all proper names are noms de guerre because that's the trade-off for public entries.** It's been a long long time since I've written anything longer than a paragraph, so yeah, these first few are gonna be kinda terrible. | | |
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