An Orgy of One

I've heard of Army units giving large quantities of soccer balls to kids, as part of the counterinsurgency strategy.

The unintended consequence is that every time we went out I could not shake off the incessant cries of "MEESTAH MEESTAH, FOOTBALL, FOOTBALL" every time I saw children. I really didn't know where they thought I was hiding a soccer ball, but it's not like I had a backpack or anything like that on.

I mean, I gave the kids candy or water, and they'd smile for 2 seconds, and then they'd start begging aloud again - "MEESTAH MEESTAH FOOTBALL FOOTBALL!"

Oh well, what are you going to do. A lot of those kids can't remember life before the Americans showed up.

Labels: infantry

Posted by Joe Dirtbag at 12:27 PM | Permalink | Comments

After a few patrols, I had gotten used to the idea of planning around bathroom breaks. We'd get out of the vehicles for dismounted patrol, so it wouldn't be too difficult to find a place to pee every few hours.

Well one day we didn't dismount. I kept waiting for the order to come over the radio to "stop the vehicles and get out here," but it never came. And my bladder was reaching its limits. "No problem, though," I thought. "I'll just use this nearby Gatorade bottle. It's got a wide mouth, and it'll screw shut.

The body armor we wear is bulky and unwieldy. It makes us hot and drains away our endurance. It makes it difficult to move quickly, climb over walls, and, I was about to find out, see into the bottle I'm peeing into. I also soon discovered that my bladder holds more fluid than the 20 oz that a Gatorade bottle holds. As the warm, pungent overflow poured out onto my hands and pants, the other guys in the squad erupted in laughter.

Awesome.

Labels: infantry

Posted by Joe Dirtbag at 6:45 AM | Permalink | Comments