- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 410
I have touched on this in a previous lecture and will now expound on it for the sake of those NP's out there who are unfamiliar with the concept.
Every time a batch of FNGs arrive in Battalion they suffer needlessly. Not physically, for the pain inflicted on them is entirely necessary, and mildly amusing. No, the suffering I am speaking of is mental and emotional suffering. They suffer ridicule, and needlessly so. This has always touched my heart, as everyone is aware that I am the most soft-hearted and gentle-spirited of men.
Troops, merely extracting one's self from a predicament (and NP's are notorious for landing themselves in predicaments. Also in hot water, and often in the wrong DZ.) is not sufficient. - Even doing so well, in a timely and militarily efficient manner is insufficient. One must do so with a certain amount of grace and style. Élan, if you will. The RCR catechism refers to it as "Chivalry, Grace, and Dash". It matters not how well a mission is accomplished if one does not look cool while doing so. Always, troops, ALWAYS, keep the Look Cool Factor (hence-forward LCF) well in the forefront of your mind. Why do you suppose the Infantry have mastered the art of accessorizing? Why do you think the SpecOps units teach the proper care and maintenance of hair, to include Teaching Plans on gel and mousse? LCF, troops, LCF. It doesn't matter if you're lost, as long as you're making good time, and looking good while doing it! - The Appropriate Comment not only enables the EP to prevail over embarrassment but, in many cases, even to simply survive. (It is possible to be shamed to death.)
I offer the following case to illustrate my point: When we were conducting some low-level training, my fellow EP and I dropped some NPs off in the training area. They had been told to prepare for 48 hours, and to take only what they would absolutely need to conduct some OPs and maybe an E&E. They took only their rucksacks, weapons, webbing, a machete, two sheath knives and 130 lbs of food. Also, two porn mags and a pair of binos. We dropped them off, gave each a firm handshake and a manly look in the eye that let them know we respected their courage, had confidence in their abilities, and never expected to see them alive again.
The following night, the worst rainstorm in recorded history struck the Ottawa Valley, and continued unabated the entire night. Men were seen building large sea-going vessels and rounding up livestock. The Petawawa river became an inland sea, and the HMCS Calgary docked outside my PMQ. (Which caused some domestic consternation when I asked my wife why they chose our PMQ specifically.) The next morning, my fellow EP and I set off to fetch our daring young NPs at the persuasion of our Operations Officer. We launched immediately after finishing our Tim Horton's large double-doubles, finding a map, and prying the Ops O's fingers from my throat.
As we arrived at the biv site our NPs had selected for it's low visibility, and ease of escape in case of detection, I could not help but experience some slight trepidation. An ominous feeling of unease settled on my fellow EP and I. The rain had subsided to a major downpour by this time, and the trees were covered in what was either a form of fog, or perhaps the clouds had fallen from the weight of the water they hadn't been able to unleash. There was no sign of the troops. None. There was no sign of an OP, we were not challenged, and the only visible sign of life was a simple, two man hootch barely detectable in a low area under some scrub. They had apparently chosen the site because they felt the low ground would aid in concealment, and the lowest part of the depression was the spot chosen to pitch the hootch. I and my fellow EP waded through the small lake formed around the hootch (acting as a type of moat, I suppose. Clever young men, these, deciding to fortify their biv site in such a way.) I pulled aside the hooch flap and peered into the shadows under it, (rather hesitantly, having seen the effect of water on corpses in the past.) The NPs, encased in their Gore-Tex bivvie bags, and resembling nothing so much as a pair of drowned rodents wrapped in plastic, peered back. Both looked rather embarrassed. (Imagine, if you will, a slightly flustered muskrat swaddled in a green garbage bag.) Several seconds passed before anyone spoke.
Finally, one young NP spoke. "Well, so much for the low ground," he said .
Right then, I knew that this was a master paratrooper in the making. There was nothing more I could teach him - except possibly the concept of seeking high ground in a storm. He had said The Appropriate Comment. The perfect thing at the right time, and in doing so, had overcame his adversity. Even his posture and facial expression were exactly right: body limp, prone, and waterlogged; eyes speaking mutely of the other side of despair; pale lips barely moving just enough to deliver The Appropriate Comment in a matter-of-fact monotone.
Perfect.
Since then, I have found endless opportunities in which to paraphrase his comment:
"Well, so much for marksmanship."
"Well, so much for the Sniper Course."
"Well, so much for the five points of contact."
"Well, so much for mountain climbing."
"Well, so much for sex."
"Well, so much for sex while mountain climbing."
To truly master the art of the Paratrooper, troops, you must master the LCF, and The Appropriate Comment.
-once again, with respect for Patrick F. McManus
Every time a batch of FNGs arrive in Battalion they suffer needlessly. Not physically, for the pain inflicted on them is entirely necessary, and mildly amusing. No, the suffering I am speaking of is mental and emotional suffering. They suffer ridicule, and needlessly so. This has always touched my heart, as everyone is aware that I am the most soft-hearted and gentle-spirited of men.
Troops, merely extracting one's self from a predicament (and NP's are notorious for landing themselves in predicaments. Also in hot water, and often in the wrong DZ.) is not sufficient. - Even doing so well, in a timely and militarily efficient manner is insufficient. One must do so with a certain amount of grace and style. Élan, if you will. The RCR catechism refers to it as "Chivalry, Grace, and Dash". It matters not how well a mission is accomplished if one does not look cool while doing so. Always, troops, ALWAYS, keep the Look Cool Factor (hence-forward LCF) well in the forefront of your mind. Why do you suppose the Infantry have mastered the art of accessorizing? Why do you think the SpecOps units teach the proper care and maintenance of hair, to include Teaching Plans on gel and mousse? LCF, troops, LCF. It doesn't matter if you're lost, as long as you're making good time, and looking good while doing it! - The Appropriate Comment not only enables the EP to prevail over embarrassment but, in many cases, even to simply survive. (It is possible to be shamed to death.)
I offer the following case to illustrate my point: When we were conducting some low-level training, my fellow EP and I dropped some NPs off in the training area. They had been told to prepare for 48 hours, and to take only what they would absolutely need to conduct some OPs and maybe an E&E. They took only their rucksacks, weapons, webbing, a machete, two sheath knives and 130 lbs of food. Also, two porn mags and a pair of binos. We dropped them off, gave each a firm handshake and a manly look in the eye that let them know we respected their courage, had confidence in their abilities, and never expected to see them alive again.
The following night, the worst rainstorm in recorded history struck the Ottawa Valley, and continued unabated the entire night. Men were seen building large sea-going vessels and rounding up livestock. The Petawawa river became an inland sea, and the HMCS Calgary docked outside my PMQ. (Which caused some domestic consternation when I asked my wife why they chose our PMQ specifically.) The next morning, my fellow EP and I set off to fetch our daring young NPs at the persuasion of our Operations Officer. We launched immediately after finishing our Tim Horton's large double-doubles, finding a map, and prying the Ops O's fingers from my throat.
As we arrived at the biv site our NPs had selected for it's low visibility, and ease of escape in case of detection, I could not help but experience some slight trepidation. An ominous feeling of unease settled on my fellow EP and I. The rain had subsided to a major downpour by this time, and the trees were covered in what was either a form of fog, or perhaps the clouds had fallen from the weight of the water they hadn't been able to unleash. There was no sign of the troops. None. There was no sign of an OP, we were not challenged, and the only visible sign of life was a simple, two man hootch barely detectable in a low area under some scrub. They had apparently chosen the site because they felt the low ground would aid in concealment, and the lowest part of the depression was the spot chosen to pitch the hootch. I and my fellow EP waded through the small lake formed around the hootch (acting as a type of moat, I suppose. Clever young men, these, deciding to fortify their biv site in such a way.) I pulled aside the hooch flap and peered into the shadows under it, (rather hesitantly, having seen the effect of water on corpses in the past.) The NPs, encased in their Gore-Tex bivvie bags, and resembling nothing so much as a pair of drowned rodents wrapped in plastic, peered back. Both looked rather embarrassed. (Imagine, if you will, a slightly flustered muskrat swaddled in a green garbage bag.) Several seconds passed before anyone spoke.
Finally, one young NP spoke. "Well, so much for the low ground," he said .
Right then, I knew that this was a master paratrooper in the making. There was nothing more I could teach him - except possibly the concept of seeking high ground in a storm. He had said The Appropriate Comment. The perfect thing at the right time, and in doing so, had overcame his adversity. Even his posture and facial expression were exactly right: body limp, prone, and waterlogged; eyes speaking mutely of the other side of despair; pale lips barely moving just enough to deliver The Appropriate Comment in a matter-of-fact monotone.
Perfect.
Since then, I have found endless opportunities in which to paraphrase his comment:
"Well, so much for marksmanship."
"Well, so much for the Sniper Course."
"Well, so much for the five points of contact."
"Well, so much for mountain climbing."
"Well, so much for sex."
"Well, so much for sex while mountain climbing."
To truly master the art of the Paratrooper, troops, you must master the LCF, and The Appropriate Comment.
-once again, with respect for Patrick F. McManus
