Because I had been to college, knew how to use a computer, and (more importantly) could type faster than 10 words per minute, they made me the “Operations Specialist” or “Johnny Ops.”
I’d spent the first five months of my time in Delta Company assigned to AT-4 as a TOW gunner, but my highly specialized skill set was needed elsewhere.
It was a completely cush gig and the other Troopers hated and resented me for it.
They resented me because I was a college graduate who arrived a newly minted E-4 (Specialist) when it might take them two or three years to achieve that lowly rank. And they knew I was slumming.
They knew I had other options other than enlisting in the Army.
Further, I was cocky (confident?) and was a physical fitness machine.
Multiple times they sent their chosen champion to try and best me in either PT or wrestling and I crushed all comers.
I’m not even lying. I wouldn’t overstate something like that. It’s literally true.
In the Company area one time shortly after arriving they sent a big guy named Chuck (who later committed suicide) who thought he was hot shit.
I crushed him.
Another time while waiting on the DZ for an Airborne operation to commence as we played OP-4, they sent another guy at me and I kicked his ass.
The only time they got me was when I was in Combat Lifesaver school (or “Combat Life-Taker” school as we called it) and some guys in the barracks were drunk and were pounding on my next door neighbor’s door. I was stone cold sober as I had to go to class the next morning while these yahoos apparently had the day off.
So, I opened up my door and asked them what the problem was?
One guy was literally from South Central L.A. and was a complete Mexican gangbanger and told me to fuck off as they were looking for their friend. I informed them that their friend had gone out for the night and would they kindly mind being quiet?
They didn’t like that and called me out into the hall.
Seeing a wiry tattoo’d fuck who did not appear to be any match for me, I stepped out and anticipated the serious butt kicking I was about to put on him.
We began jawing at each other, and the next thing I know one of his friends (who had been watching the whole scene from an adjacent barracks room) threw open the door and clocked me with a right to the temple.
Simultaneously, another of the Mexican’s friend grabbed me from behind and put me in a bear hug.
I was immobilized and the Mexican wasted no time in teeing off on my face, busting open my nose in the process.
I quickly threw off the schlub holding me from behind and grabbed the skinny Mexican with my meathooks.
He’d seen what I’d done to Chuck and began muttering, “Oh, no, no, no. You’re not going to do that wrestling shit with me!”
The schlub with the bear hug was once again on my back, but I managed to get the Mexican in a single leg and picked him up bodily off the ground with another guy hanging off my back and slammed him to the ground.
We all then scrambled to our feet with the Mexican in front of me and his two buddies behind him.
I could feel the blood coming out of my nose and the Mexican started talking shit about how he’d just kicked my ass.
Not many people know this, but getting hit in the face produces a lot of mucus and tears and I snorted a metric ass ton of snot through my nose and hocked it right into his face.
Bullseye.
Couldn’t have landed more perfectly.
He looked at me stunned while my snot and spit ran down his face.
He talked some more shit and I said a few words back before he and his buddies drunkenly sauntered off, and I went back to my room to put a cold beer to my nose to reduce the swelling.
A half hour later, the Charge of Quarters (CQ) NCO knocked on my door and asked me what had happened?
I told him I slipped and fell.
He was a really nice guy from the Dominican Republic and told me that he’d heard I’d gotten beaten up? I corrected him and told him I’d been jumped by three dudes, but felt I’d acquitted myself quite well all things being relative. I added that I didn’t want to make a big deal out of what had happened and wanted the whole matter dropped.
He nodded his head to indicate I’d just gained his respect, and while there were a few snickers the next morning during formation, I later learned that my colleagues gained a lot of respect for me by sucking it up and not snitching on the perpetrators.
During Combat Lifesaver course that morning I walked into the classroom with a black eye and a busted nose and the conversation immediately shut down. When one of the older Troopers asked me what happened, I told him I slipped and fell.
He later told me I earned a ton of respect from him at that moment.
We later had to do an exercise where we carried a fellow student on a stretcher through waist deep water and mud while we were attacked from the flanks by our classmates.
I kicked everyone’s ass who got near me.
This dude in particular came charging towards me and I dropped to my knees, put him in a Fireman’s Carry and tossed him in the mud.
His transferred to another unit shortly thereafter and made it a point of inviting me to his going away party.
One of my most proud moments was when he introduced me to the colleagues with whom he had worked cheek to jowl, nuts to butts for three years and remarked, “This dude is a squared away motherfucker. You should have seen him kicking ass out there during the Combat Lifesaver course.”
So, we arrived in Panama in December 1994 and I’m working closely with my Company’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Neary.
He was a West Point graduate and a super great guy.
Being in Headquarters Platoon, I was essentially LT Neary’s bitch.
There was a funny incident in which I threw away all of his personal belongings in a dumpster and he completely jacked himself up trying to retrieve them, but I won’t go into it here. Nor will I go into the time I put gasoline inside of a diesel engine HUMVEE and had to drain the entire tank by hand before we could get it to move.
What I will talk about is how he and I drove to Howard AFB after living on Empire Range for a couple of weeks. (Living on cots and tents need I remind you.)
I don’t have time to go into the differences between the Army and the Air Force, but all I will say is that we had been eating MREs for several weeks at this point, but when we walked into the Dining Facility (DFAC) at Howard AFB, they were serving the Airmen filet mignon and lobster tail.
That is not a lie.
It is literally true.
I still tell that story and I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it over the years.
At one point LT Neary told me he had to go do something. And after a few moments of standing by the HUMVEE, I realized I was free. I could do what I wanted to. There was no one watching me.
This was a profound moment and deserves some further exploration.
When you’re a rule follower, you think there’s always going to be somebody ready to jump out of the bush and call you out for doing something wrong.
You’re essentially institutionalized.
But at this moment, I realized I had a degree of freedom and the only thing determining what I could get away with was how far I decided I was willing to go.
Luckily, the answer was readily apparent.
To my direct right was an Air Force liquor store (or whatever they called them).
I normally didn’t drink liquor as I’d had a bad experience with every kind of liquor imaginable while in college, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I walked into the store and was paranoid I was about to be busted. But nobody gave a shit.
I was in uniform, I had a valid military ID, and I was over 21.
I grabbed the first thing close to the register, which happened to be a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey. A fifth to be exact.
Not being a heavy liquor drinker, I knew I’d need a chaser, so I grabbed the closest bottle of soda, which happened to be Squirt.
Now, a lot of people detest grapefruit, but I happen to love it. (So does my middle daughter, who is personality wise the most like me.) I ate grapefruit all during wrestling seasons as it had been rumored to be a weight cutter and I developed a palate for its exquisite blend of the sweet and sour.
Turns out, Squirt is the perfect chaser for Canadian Whiskey.
I saved the bottle until the night before my 24th birthday.
I had scheduled myself for a jump the following morning (one of the benefits of being the Company Operations Specialist) and knew there was no PT scheduled as it was a Friday night.
I hadn’t intended to drink the whole bottle, but I eventually did.
I had received a card from my ex-girlfriend in which she had tone deafly informed me that she hoped I was having a good time in Panama getting a tan and I was feeling pretty despondent over my life and how low I had been brought.
I remember sitting at the edge of the concrete pad that served as the base of our communal tent while staring out into the jungle and listening to the murderous sounds emanating from within it while pulling long slugs of the whiskey and following it up with a chug of a 2-liter bottle of Squirt.
The next thing I knew I was waking up with the daylight filtering in the open sides of the tent and I’m massaging my temples trying to push the debilitating hangover out of my skull.
As everyone else began to stir in the tent, I heard someone shout out, “Who the fuck was snoring last night? That sounded like a goddamn freight train!”
Another voice chimed in with, “Was that you, Jay Bobb? Where did you get that booze? It smells like a fucking brewery in here!”
I jumped that day, my 24th birthday, and have the pictures to prove it.
Turns out Squirt soda isn’t very popular. But whenever I see it, I buy it.
There was a Total Beer & Wine in Jacksonville that used to carry it, but I haven’t seen it there in over two years.
However, I recently made a trip to a Walmart in Amelia Island and they carried it.
I bought two cases.
Song Of Ajax 