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Thats awesome. :dontpanic:
Your Funniest/ Favorite War Stories
- Thread starter Franko
- Start date
this is a story of my great grandfather Pvt chapman in the first world war.
in 1917 pvt chapman was on the front line with his regiment, the kings own Scottish borderer's. on the 17 of November the germans made a large offenceve on pvt chapmans position.when all the action started pvt chapmans officer ( not sure what rank) started to panic. he was going around telling everyone to run for there lives surrender retreat.
when pvt chapman heard this he went to the officer to remind him of the strategical importance of their postion. the officer did not listen he just kept panicing. so with quick thinking pvt chapman punched the officer and knocked him out.
than pvt Chapman took control of everyone and stopped the panic that the officer had placed in everyone. because of what he did the British were able to repel the German assult and hold there position until reinforcements came to help them.
after the battle pvt chapman was mentioned in dispatch papers. i have the dispatch papers in the original frame at home on the wall. it is dated November 17 1917 and it is signed by sir winston churchhill.
the officer that he knocked out later brought him up on charges of striking a Superior officer (and everyone knows that the penalty for that was death). but because of all the witnesses that saw what happend the case was thrown out the window and all charges were dropped.
after the war my great grandpa never went to sign his dispatch papares. he just wanted to go home to Scotland and be with his family. he was told that he was recommended for the Victoria cross and if he had of signed his dispatch papers than he would of been awarded it.
i don't think he minded . he was alive at home and with his family.
in 1917 pvt chapman was on the front line with his regiment, the kings own Scottish borderer's. on the 17 of November the germans made a large offenceve on pvt chapmans position.when all the action started pvt chapmans officer ( not sure what rank) started to panic. he was going around telling everyone to run for there lives surrender retreat.
when pvt chapman heard this he went to the officer to remind him of the strategical importance of their postion. the officer did not listen he just kept panicing. so with quick thinking pvt chapman punched the officer and knocked him out.
than pvt Chapman took control of everyone and stopped the panic that the officer had placed in everyone. because of what he did the British were able to repel the German assult and hold there position until reinforcements came to help them.
after the battle pvt chapman was mentioned in dispatch papers. i have the dispatch papers in the original frame at home on the wall. it is dated November 17 1917 and it is signed by sir winston churchhill.
the officer that he knocked out later brought him up on charges of striking a Superior officer (and everyone knows that the penalty for that was death). but because of all the witnesses that saw what happend the case was thrown out the window and all charges were dropped.
after the war my great grandpa never went to sign his dispatch papares. he just wanted to go home to Scotland and be with his family. he was told that he was recommended for the Victoria cross and if he had of signed his dispatch papers than he would of been awarded it.
i don't think he minded . he was alive at home and with his family.
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While these stories are funny - and I mean funny (that Russian guy pissing on the floor .... oh man I cracked up) this story was one of my favourites.. Not just beacuse of the KO punch, but because of the dispatch/Victoria Cross thing.
To have such a thing, and signed by Winston Churchill, hanging on your wall. Wow, now that's a true treasure.
To have such a thing, and signed by Winston Churchill, hanging on your wall. Wow, now that's a true treasure.
now i just found out that he did this during the battle of the somme. it was near the end of the battle when the germans were trying to push the british back to the beggining.Steve said:
now that i am at home here is exactly what is on the paper
the war of 1914- 1918
kingsown scottish borderers
No. 20415 Pte.B. Chapman, 7th Bn..
was mentioned in a dispach from
General Sir Douglas Haig. G.C.B, K.C.I.E, K.C.V.O, A.D.C.
dated 13th, November 1916.
for gallant and distinguished services in the Feild.
I have it in command from the King to record His Majesty's
high appreciation of the services renderd.
Winston Churchhill (signature)
Secretary of State for War
War OfficeWhitehall.S.W.
1st March 1919
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I used to be in air cadets, 781 Calgary, and am applying to the Canadian Forces in summer 2006 after I graduate 
Anyways, when I was at CFB Penhold, we were all in gender-specific barracks. I was in Iroquois flight, 2nd floor, fire watch on the night in question. It was about 4 weeks into the 6 week musicians course. Now... a 14 year old kid with a huge maglight, full parade dress (the Base CO liked everyone on fire watch to look spiffy, for some reason), and tired as all hell. Out of nowhere, and I mean I never saw it coming, a cadet ran from one end of the barracks to the other stark naked. No screaming, no waving of arms, just a streak up and down the barracks hallway, right by me.
Now, I had to make sure everyone was in their rooms so I ran off after him, got back to his room just in time to see him leap bodily out an open window, at which point I gave a roar of alarm that somewhat rhymed with "FLOOR EMERGENCY!" (the call to get EVERYONE outta their bunks and into the hallway snap-quick). I seriously thought that kid had just committed suicide. He did a headfirst dive out of the window, a good 25 feet above ground (the barracks are raised due to the surplus stores being under our barracks). I ran down the stairs with the Squad WO hot on my heels in his undies, and we both barrel outside and...
The kid is nowhere to be found. We look around, until we realize that the tree that's a good 20 feet away from the windows is swaying weirdly... we look up and there's the kid, SLEEPING, in the top branches, stark naked.
Weird things happen at cadet camp
Another story from the same summer at Penhold. We were all learning the basics of being a drum major, with all the proper twirls and throws, and someone started a speed twirling competition, so one of the drum majors gets his practice mace (a broomstick with a drilled out softball duct taped to the end) twirling so fast it's a blur, and then we hear a "shwoompf" and he stops twirling, looking at the end of his broomstick and the now missing duct tape and softball. Right then, and I mean perfectly timed, the Base CO walks around the corner to see how we're doing. By now it's been about 12 seconds since the softball disappeared. Out of the sky, suddenly, a softball streaming duct tape behind it lands SQUARELY between the CO's feet and implants itself into the grass. Needless to say it scared the CO, and had us all laughing because we didn't know where the softball had gone. Apparently the drum major had launched it well over 250 feet into the air, from reports and eyewitness accounts. To this day, I think that's the highest any maceball has ever been
Anyways, when I was at CFB Penhold, we were all in gender-specific barracks. I was in Iroquois flight, 2nd floor, fire watch on the night in question. It was about 4 weeks into the 6 week musicians course. Now... a 14 year old kid with a huge maglight, full parade dress (the Base CO liked everyone on fire watch to look spiffy, for some reason), and tired as all hell. Out of nowhere, and I mean I never saw it coming, a cadet ran from one end of the barracks to the other stark naked. No screaming, no waving of arms, just a streak up and down the barracks hallway, right by me.
Now, I had to make sure everyone was in their rooms so I ran off after him, got back to his room just in time to see him leap bodily out an open window, at which point I gave a roar of alarm that somewhat rhymed with "FLOOR EMERGENCY!" (the call to get EVERYONE outta their bunks and into the hallway snap-quick). I seriously thought that kid had just committed suicide. He did a headfirst dive out of the window, a good 25 feet above ground (the barracks are raised due to the surplus stores being under our barracks). I ran down the stairs with the Squad WO hot on my heels in his undies, and we both barrel outside and...
The kid is nowhere to be found. We look around, until we realize that the tree that's a good 20 feet away from the windows is swaying weirdly... we look up and there's the kid, SLEEPING, in the top branches, stark naked.
Weird things happen at cadet camp
Another story from the same summer at Penhold. We were all learning the basics of being a drum major, with all the proper twirls and throws, and someone started a speed twirling competition, so one of the drum majors gets his practice mace (a broomstick with a drilled out softball duct taped to the end) twirling so fast it's a blur, and then we hear a "shwoompf" and he stops twirling, looking at the end of his broomstick and the now missing duct tape and softball. Right then, and I mean perfectly timed, the Base CO walks around the corner to see how we're doing. By now it's been about 12 seconds since the softball disappeared. Out of the sky, suddenly, a softball streaming duct tape behind it lands SQUARELY between the CO's feet and implants itself into the grass. Needless to say it scared the CO, and had us all laughing because we didn't know where the softball had gone. Apparently the drum major had launched it well over 250 feet into the air, from reports and eyewitness accounts. To this day, I think that's the highest any maceball has ever been
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Cornwallis, 1978, recruit platoon 7836. We were an experiment as far as the forces were concerned. Apparently, ours was the first recruit platoon since Korea that was going to be staying together through basic and TQ3. Well, half of the platoon was anyhow, one and two sections would be moving on together to London and Infantry TQ3, three and four were heading off to places like Borden for trades training. Still, the Army was keeping their eyes on us and that became most evident during our tenth week drill test.
I mentioned in previous posts that I was an airforce brat. I spent my teenage years in Borden and went from there to Cornwallis. I knew a lot of officers (my buddies' fathers) as a kid. I just didn't think of them as officers, to me they were just Mike's dad, or Billy's dad.
So it turns out that the (roughly sixty) CWO's of the recruiting centers that had sent us to Cornwallis were going to be present to observe us for our last two weeks, and we found out about it just before marching into the drill hall for the tenth week drill test. No pressure, we were told, just do it like in rehearsal.
The officer that had been assigned to shepherd these sixty CWO's was my best friend's father, Maj. er..., Bloggins who was also the commandant of CFSIS in Borden. The thing was, I didn't know he was there - I was concentrating on my dressing and movements. I was acutely aware of all of the senior NCO's, and I remember a measurable feeling of relief when the pl. cmdr. called the final halt, had us face front, order arms and stand easy. I guess we hadn't made too many glaring mistakes, because at that point the "audience" rose to their feet and began to applaud. The next thing you know, as we're thinking we're going to be marched out and back to barracks, the major, who I still didn't recognize, starts walking towards the platoon. Towards the leftmost squad. The left flank. Where I was.
The pl. cmdr. immediately called the pl. up to the chow. All eyes are now on the major. I recognized him! "Oh shoot! ;Dâ ?, I thought.
My next thought was kinda weird. I thought, "How the hell did he recognize ME?â ? The last time I had seen Mike's dad, I had hair down to the middle of my back, wearing skin tight bell-bottom jeans and a corduroy Levi's® jacket with the sleeves rolled up. (Hey, I was a teenager living in Borden. Had to rebel somehow while at the Anderson Park golf clubhouse waiting for my teetime! 8))
The major barely acknowledges the pl. cmdr.'s salute as he strolls past. Gives a good high five back to my sect. cmdr. when he salutes, and stops right in front of me. I immediately shoulder arms and salute.
Now here I am. I am the center of attention of 60 (count 'em) SIXTY Chief Warrant Officers, both my Platoon Commmander AND (God help me!) my section commander - even though both have their backs to me, my 30 squad-mates, the rest of the platoon, and an MP Major, who says, after returning my salute, "Relax Marc, it's just me, Dave.â ?
RELAX! Oh yeah, relax.
"Hi Dave.â ? I offered.
"How're you doing?â ? he asks. "They treating you right?
"I love this (bad word), Dave. Doing well. What's Mike up to?â ?
**More inane chatter, inquiring after families, etc.**
"Well,â ? says Dave, "gotta go. I have to bring the group over to a meeting with the commandant.â ?
"'Kay, see ya.â ? (or words to that effect), shoulder arms, salute, he salutes, turns, yadda-yadda, off he goes.
As soon as major Dave is out of earshot, my red-eared section commander about-turns, marches up to me and asks, in his thick down-home accent, "Who the (bad f-word) was dat, lad?â ?
"Friend of the family, Corporal!â ?, I reply.
"Well I'm not (bad f-ing word) impressed, laddie! I'm not (bad f-ing word) impressed at ALL!!â ?
He wasn't, either. :crybaby:
I mentioned in previous posts that I was an airforce brat. I spent my teenage years in Borden and went from there to Cornwallis. I knew a lot of officers (my buddies' fathers) as a kid. I just didn't think of them as officers, to me they were just Mike's dad, or Billy's dad.
So it turns out that the (roughly sixty) CWO's of the recruiting centers that had sent us to Cornwallis were going to be present to observe us for our last two weeks, and we found out about it just before marching into the drill hall for the tenth week drill test.
No pressure, we were told, just do it like in rehearsal.The officer that had been assigned to shepherd these sixty CWO's was my best friend's father, Maj. er..., Bloggins who was also the commandant of CFSIS in Borden. The thing was, I didn't know he was there - I was concentrating on my dressing and movements. I was acutely aware of all of the senior NCO's, and I remember a measurable feeling of relief when the pl. cmdr. called the final halt, had us face front, order arms and stand easy. I guess we hadn't made too many glaring mistakes, because at that point the "audience" rose to their feet and began to applaud. The next thing you know, as we're thinking we're going to be marched out and back to barracks, the major, who I still didn't recognize, starts walking towards the platoon. Towards the leftmost squad. The left flank. Where I was.
The pl. cmdr. immediately called the pl. up to the chow. All eyes are now on the major. I recognized him! "Oh shoot! ;Dâ ?, I thought.
My next thought was kinda weird. I thought, "How the hell did he recognize ME?â ? The last time I had seen Mike's dad, I had hair down to the middle of my back, wearing skin tight bell-bottom jeans and a corduroy Levi's® jacket with the sleeves rolled up. (Hey, I was a teenager living in Borden. Had to rebel somehow while at the Anderson Park golf clubhouse waiting for my teetime! 8))
The major barely acknowledges the pl. cmdr.'s salute as he strolls past. Gives a good high five back to my sect. cmdr. when he salutes, and stops right in front of me. I immediately shoulder arms and salute.
Now here I am. I am the center of attention of 60 (count 'em) SIXTY Chief Warrant Officers, both my Platoon Commmander AND (God help me!) my section commander - even though both have their backs to me, my 30 squad-mates, the rest of the platoon, and an MP Major, who says, after returning my salute, "Relax Marc, it's just me, Dave.â ?
RELAX! Oh yeah, relax.
"Hi Dave.â ? I offered.
"How're you doing?â ? he asks. "They treating you right?
"I love this (bad word), Dave. Doing well. What's Mike up to?â ?
**More inane chatter, inquiring after families, etc.**
"Well,â ? says Dave, "gotta go. I have to bring the group over to a meeting with the commandant.â ?
"'Kay, see ya.â ? (or words to that effect), shoulder arms, salute, he salutes, turns, yadda-yadda, off he goes.
As soon as major Dave is out of earshot, my red-eared section commander about-turns, marches up to me and asks, in his thick down-home accent, "Who the (bad f-word) was dat, lad?â ?
"Friend of the family, Corporal!â ?, I reply.
"Well I'm not (bad f-ing word) impressed, laddie! I'm not (bad f-ing word) impressed at ALL!!â ?
He wasn't, either. :crybaby:
i have one more.
my papa was in the RN during the 2nd world war. one day when he was out i the middle of the Indian ocean he spotted a plane. he noticed that something wasn't right about the markings on it so he opened fire on it( he was an AA gunner on merchant ships and corvettes). all of the sudden his Sgt (or equivalent in the navy) came running out and started to yell at him to stop. when my papa stopped firing he told the Sgt that it was a enemy spy plane. the Sgt did not believe him and said not it was one of ours. the next day there ship was torpedoed by the Japanese and sunk. it turned out that the plane my papa was shooting at was a spy plane. it had told the sub where the ship was.
while the ship was sinking he managed to get in a life boat. for the next 2 weeks he was MIA because he was lost at sea. stranded in a life boat. that is not even the worst part. the worst part is that he was the only surviver left from the life boat. the rest had all died of dehydration. some of them drank the sea water. his friends were among the ones in the life boat. that ones one of the 2 different ships he was on that were sunk. 1 in the Indian ocean and one in the Atlantic ocean.
my papa saw the world he had the Africa star the Italy star the Atlantic star the 1939-45 star and he spent time in Burma as well because i think that is where they discovered his raft (not sure why he did not receive the Burma star though).
even though my papa volunteered got rejected than volunteered again when he was 18, he said it was the worst 5 years of his life.
my papa was in the RN during the 2nd world war. one day when he was out i the middle of the Indian ocean he spotted a plane. he noticed that something wasn't right about the markings on it so he opened fire on it( he was an AA gunner on merchant ships and corvettes). all of the sudden his Sgt (or equivalent in the navy) came running out and started to yell at him to stop. when my papa stopped firing he told the Sgt that it was a enemy spy plane. the Sgt did not believe him and said not it was one of ours. the next day there ship was torpedoed by the Japanese and sunk. it turned out that the plane my papa was shooting at was a spy plane. it had told the sub where the ship was.
while the ship was sinking he managed to get in a life boat. for the next 2 weeks he was MIA because he was lost at sea. stranded in a life boat. that is not even the worst part. the worst part is that he was the only surviver left from the life boat. the rest had all died of dehydration. some of them drank the sea water. his friends were among the ones in the life boat. that ones one of the 2 different ships he was on that were sunk. 1 in the Indian ocean and one in the Atlantic ocean.
my papa saw the world he had the Africa star the Italy star the Atlantic star the 1939-45 star and he spent time in Burma as well because i think that is where they discovered his raft (not sure why he did not receive the Burma star though).
even though my papa volunteered got rejected than volunteered again when he was 18, he said it was the worst 5 years of his life.
Towards_the_gap
Sr. Member
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Now then lads, pull up a sandbag, pin your ears back, and tune in to a tale of Her Majesties Royal Engineers.
Young Spr TTGap was on Exercise Pond Jump West at Wainwright. We were ostensibly there in support of a light inf battlegroup, but in reality the majority of work we did was in support of the exercise itself, ie batsims, field forts, river xings and acting as engineers for phases of the ex.
One fine evening, myself and a few others were tasked to go out with our troopy (Tp Comd) to help run a section attack range. The main reason us sappers came along was to prep the charges for the batsims (battle simulations, for those that don't know, charges of PE4 making a loud bang simulating arty fire), while troopy ran about with the safety staff and set the charges off with a shrike. Anywhoo, the range runs fine, each section had 3 charges go off when they went down range, and as 2 pl's worth of blokes went through, we used a tidy amount of PE4 that evening.
After the final section goes through the range (the time by now being about 3am), we do a sweep of the range to find any blinds we had, and we had a few, for whatever reason. The blinds all get put into one hole in the ground, on top of a sandbag, by troopy, who then sets up a simple initiation set to blow the whole lot to kingdom come. Now, bear in mind it's 3am, we've been working solid since about 6am the previous morning, and were just itching to get back to the harbour area and get into our fartsacks. The 4 tonner is pulled up beside us, engine running, and all we're waiting for is troopy to finish fart-assing about and blow the rest of the dems.
Another point to note: the normal safety distance for PE4, is about 700m's, (1000m on steel targets), with helmets and body armour (as the inf were wearing for the ranges) this can be reduced to 20ms, we were about 15m's away, no helmets, no CBA, tired as f*ck, and waiting for troopy to hurry up with the blind kit and blow the sh*t so we can get to bed.
Picture it: pitch black, middle of wainwright training area, british army bedford 4tonner running, and a group of squaddies standing around grumbling.
A small flash of light from the match fuzee lighting the safety fuze, with troopy yelling 'FIRING NOW' and running past us. A few of us watch him run past, thinking 'where's he going?' then look back to watch the bang. All engineers like watching banging ;D. A few seconds pass...........KER-THUMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Spr TTG's junlge hat is nearly blown off his head, as the gi-normous explosion scatters earth and prairie grass in all directions, temporarily blinding and deafening young TTG, and the others. After the smoke clears, look around for troopy, see him about 10m's away lying on the deck with his fingers in his ears. Turns out the amount of blinds we had to blow was slightly bigger than we though, in the order of about 10 carts of PE4. If you don't know what PE4 is let me put it this way, 1/3 of a cart can shatter an engine block.
After brushing the dirt off myself, thank troopy for the warning, and head back to harbour area.
P.S. All young and impressionable types out there (cadets I'm looking at you) don't think this is normal behaviour. It was simply lax drills after about 4 weeks straight of handling explosives and a 20-odd hour workday. We're normally quite safe.
Young Spr TTGap was on Exercise Pond Jump West at Wainwright. We were ostensibly there in support of a light inf battlegroup, but in reality the majority of work we did was in support of the exercise itself, ie batsims, field forts, river xings and acting as engineers for phases of the ex.
One fine evening, myself and a few others were tasked to go out with our troopy (Tp Comd) to help run a section attack range. The main reason us sappers came along was to prep the charges for the batsims (battle simulations, for those that don't know, charges of PE4 making a loud bang simulating arty fire), while troopy ran about with the safety staff and set the charges off with a shrike. Anywhoo, the range runs fine, each section had 3 charges go off when they went down range, and as 2 pl's worth of blokes went through, we used a tidy amount of PE4 that evening.
After the final section goes through the range (the time by now being about 3am), we do a sweep of the range to find any blinds we had, and we had a few, for whatever reason. The blinds all get put into one hole in the ground, on top of a sandbag, by troopy, who then sets up a simple initiation set to blow the whole lot to kingdom come. Now, bear in mind it's 3am, we've been working solid since about 6am the previous morning, and were just itching to get back to the harbour area and get into our fartsacks. The 4 tonner is pulled up beside us, engine running, and all we're waiting for is troopy to finish fart-assing about and blow the rest of the dems.
Another point to note: the normal safety distance for PE4, is about 700m's, (1000m on steel targets), with helmets and body armour (as the inf were wearing for the ranges) this can be reduced to 20ms, we were about 15m's away, no helmets, no CBA, tired as f*ck, and waiting for troopy to hurry up with the blind kit and blow the sh*t so we can get to bed.
Picture it: pitch black, middle of wainwright training area, british army bedford 4tonner running, and a group of squaddies standing around grumbling.
A small flash of light from the match fuzee lighting the safety fuze, with troopy yelling 'FIRING NOW' and running past us. A few of us watch him run past, thinking 'where's he going?' then look back to watch the bang. All engineers like watching banging ;D. A few seconds pass...........KER-THUMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Spr TTG's junlge hat is nearly blown off his head, as the gi-normous explosion scatters earth and prairie grass in all directions, temporarily blinding and deafening young TTG, and the others. After the smoke clears, look around for troopy, see him about 10m's away lying on the deck with his fingers in his ears. Turns out the amount of blinds we had to blow was slightly bigger than we though, in the order of about 10 carts of PE4. If you don't know what PE4 is let me put it this way, 1/3 of a cart can shatter an engine block.
After brushing the dirt off myself, thank troopy for the warning, and head back to harbour area.
P.S. All young and impressionable types out there (cadets I'm looking at you) don't think this is normal behaviour. It was simply lax drills after about 4 weeks straight of handling explosives and a 20-odd hour workday. We're normally quite safe.
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While this doesn't compare to most of the stuff in here, I thought it was kind of funny.
One of our course staff on IAP was a super-hardcore Master Seaman. He was spectacularly capable of scaring the crap out of us (but had a great sense of humour on those rare occasions that he let us see it) and had this great Franco accent that didn't sound like ANY franco accent I'd ever heard. It was getting towards the end of the course so inspections were only 2 or 3 times a week. The MS comes into our pod and the CPC for the day calls us to attention, MS puts all but #1 at ease, and starts the inspection as per the usual. The inspection's starting at the other end of the pod so I can hear the entire dialogue between the MS and my podmates as he makes his way towards my room. At another infantry ocdt's room (Ocdt. X) I hear him say "What the hell is on the bottom of your boots? What is that, lipstick?" "No, Master Seaman" "I think that's lipstick" "No, Master Seaman" "Have you been wearing lipstick, X?" "Only on the weekends, Master Seaman" "Mmhmm, I knew it. Freak"
For the next couple of rooms he asks each of the guys "Have you been wearing lipstick too?" (to which there were a couple smart ass replies), all the while since he finished at Ocdt. X's room I've been stealthily rifling through the pictures in my frame to find the one of me wearing lipstick (taken a year or so before the course back in Toronto). I find it, stick it in the frame, go back to position and stand at ease. About 5 seconds later the MS appears in the doorway so I come to attention, do the whole "Ocdt. Bloggins, 123, etc etc etc" while he starts eyeing my room. He stops, visibly, and looks at the picture in the frame... by this point I've got a gigantic grin on my face that I can't hide if you paid me. "Is that a picture of you wearing lipstick, Bloggins"? "Yes, Master Seaman"... He turns and starts walking out of my room and on the way out he says "You're a freak. I'm in a platoon of freaks. I want to go home" Hearing him, the hardcore Master Seaman of our nightmares, say this was too much. We all burst out laughing.
The next inspection (I think) he finds some wierd stain on the back of my long PT gear. He's got his head in my closet when I hear "Oh god. What the hell is this?" He pulls out my long PT hangar between thumb and forefinger and asks me "What the hell is on your long PT?" "I don't know Master Seaman" "Is that jerk-off?" "NO MASTER SEAMAN!!" "Have you been jerking off on your long PT?" "No Master Seaman, I think it's laundry detergent" "Bullshit, that's jerk-off!! Stop jerking off on your long PT!" "Yes, Master Seaman". This time the guys couldn't even wait for him to exit the pod - they started guffawing almost immediately. To this day, the Jerk-off-on-the-long-PT inspection is platoon legend - I even had guys from our sister platoon hassling me over my long PT
One of the funnier couple of inspections and they provided good material for our course party when myself and another ocdt performed a mock-inspection by the Master Seaman. I'd mastered his voice but I was kind of worried he'd get pissed. Turns out he was laughing as much as the rest of us. I'd kill to have him on my platoon staff again.
One of our course staff on IAP was a super-hardcore Master Seaman. He was spectacularly capable of scaring the crap out of us (but had a great sense of humour on those rare occasions that he let us see it) and had this great Franco accent that didn't sound like ANY franco accent I'd ever heard. It was getting towards the end of the course so inspections were only 2 or 3 times a week. The MS comes into our pod and the CPC for the day calls us to attention, MS puts all but #1 at ease, and starts the inspection as per the usual. The inspection's starting at the other end of the pod so I can hear the entire dialogue between the MS and my podmates as he makes his way towards my room. At another infantry ocdt's room (Ocdt. X) I hear him say "What the hell is on the bottom of your boots? What is that, lipstick?" "No, Master Seaman" "I think that's lipstick" "No, Master Seaman" "Have you been wearing lipstick, X?" "Only on the weekends, Master Seaman" "Mmhmm, I knew it. Freak"
For the next couple of rooms he asks each of the guys "Have you been wearing lipstick too?" (to which there were a couple smart ass replies), all the while since he finished at Ocdt. X's room I've been stealthily rifling through the pictures in my frame to find the one of me wearing lipstick (taken a year or so before the course back in Toronto). I find it, stick it in the frame, go back to position and stand at ease. About 5 seconds later the MS appears in the doorway so I come to attention, do the whole "Ocdt. Bloggins, 123, etc etc etc" while he starts eyeing my room. He stops, visibly, and looks at the picture in the frame... by this point I've got a gigantic grin on my face that I can't hide if you paid me. "Is that a picture of you wearing lipstick, Bloggins"? "Yes, Master Seaman"... He turns and starts walking out of my room and on the way out he says "You're a freak. I'm in a platoon of freaks. I want to go home" Hearing him, the hardcore Master Seaman of our nightmares, say this was too much. We all burst out laughing.
The next inspection (I think) he finds some wierd stain on the back of my long PT gear. He's got his head in my closet when I hear "Oh god. What the hell is this?" He pulls out my long PT hangar between thumb and forefinger and asks me "What the hell is on your long PT?" "I don't know Master Seaman" "Is that jerk-off?" "NO MASTER SEAMAN!!" "Have you been jerking off on your long PT?" "No Master Seaman, I think it's laundry detergent" "Bullshit, that's jerk-off!! Stop jerking off on your long PT!" "Yes, Master Seaman". This time the guys couldn't even wait for him to exit the pod - they started guffawing almost immediately. To this day, the Jerk-off-on-the-long-PT inspection is platoon legend - I even had guys from our sister platoon hassling me over my long PT
One of the funnier couple of inspections and they provided good material for our course party when myself and another ocdt performed a mock-inspection by the Master Seaman. I'd mastered his voice but I was kind of worried he'd get pissed. Turns out he was laughing as much as the rest of us. I'd kill to have him on my platoon staff again.
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 410
I was teaching CLC in Aldershot in 1986, Muskrat will remember it was his course.
It was the last night of the final FTX and about 2-3 in the morning the Course Comd decided to be nice to the little buggers and have us take them back to the shacks so they may actually have a couple of hours to get cleaned up for the grad parade the next day.
So Sgt â Å“Gargoyleâ ? (remember him Muskrat?) and myself are marching the platoon down the main road that traverses MTC training area and we're almost at Range Control when we see this solitary figure walking down the road towards us and away from Range Control shack and the camp.
At first I figure he must be DS or Range Control staff. Then we notice he's carrying a rifle and has a radio on his back. As he gets closer we recognize him at the same time he recognizes us. Both Sgt ------ and I had been instructing on the MITCIP Block 4 before CLC and this is one of the candidates who had stayed for Block 5. I'll decline to mention name or unit for reasons that will soon become obvious.
He comes running up to us crying with relief â Å“WO ----- , Sgt ------ I'm so glad to see you. I've been lost all night, but I'm finding my way home.â ? This is from a guy who's less than 500 metres from the range control shack which is lit up like a Christmas tree and walking away from it back into the training area.
So we calm him down and get the story out of him. He was part of a platoon sized fighting patrol that night and accidentally got separated. Hey it was a dark night and I could see it happening to the guy on the flank, the rear etc, but he was the patrol rad op and in the centre of the platoon.
How he managed to get separated from them is beyond me. To make matters worse he was the rad op, and you guessed it carrying the only radio. They couldn't even call in the no duff to Range Control when he went missing. Why he didn't think of doing it himself instead of blundering around for a couple of hours is something I'll never understand either.
So we drop him off at the Range Control shack where I'm sure they gave him hot coco and tucked him in until his WO came to fetch him and carried on.
The next day the OC and CSM of Leadership Company calls me in to hear about the lost 2/Lt. They want to know if it should go on his course report and I guess he was on his last legs and this would be enough to send him home. Nice guy that I am I figure he's from some oh so social Upper Canadian Regiment where he's probably the PMC or IC snuff box so no harm done. I mean there's no way the'll ever be in charge of troops right. I tell them as far as I'm concerned I don't care, keep him or toss him. Turns out I found out later this was his third and last kick at the can and if he'd been RTU's he was gone.
Fast-forward about 5 years. I've moved to Toronto and joined/transferred to the Tor Scots where Ive been CSM of our one Rifle Coy for a couple of years now. The OC who was on his way out for bigger and better things comes in one Tues night and says he's managed to coax a Captain from another unit to transfer over and take over as Coy 2ic and eventually replace him as OC. Lucky me I've been defacto acting unpaid 2ic for months and stuck with all that paper work too.
So guess who strolls through the door the next parade night, still happy to see me after all those years. I swear I had to brief all of Coy HQ at CAC in Pet that summer to keep an eye on the 2ic in case he wandered off again.
It was the last night of the final FTX and about 2-3 in the morning the Course Comd decided to be nice to the little buggers and have us take them back to the shacks so they may actually have a couple of hours to get cleaned up for the grad parade the next day.
So Sgt â Å“Gargoyleâ ? (remember him Muskrat?) and myself are marching the platoon down the main road that traverses MTC training area and we're almost at Range Control when we see this solitary figure walking down the road towards us and away from Range Control shack and the camp.
At first I figure he must be DS or Range Control staff. Then we notice he's carrying a rifle and has a radio on his back. As he gets closer we recognize him at the same time he recognizes us. Both Sgt ------ and I had been instructing on the MITCIP Block 4 before CLC and this is one of the candidates who had stayed for Block 5. I'll decline to mention name or unit for reasons that will soon become obvious.
He comes running up to us crying with relief â Å“WO ----- , Sgt ------ I'm so glad to see you. I've been lost all night, but I'm finding my way home.â ? This is from a guy who's less than 500 metres from the range control shack which is lit up like a Christmas tree and walking away from it back into the training area.
So we calm him down and get the story out of him. He was part of a platoon sized fighting patrol that night and accidentally got separated. Hey it was a dark night and I could see it happening to the guy on the flank, the rear etc, but he was the patrol rad op and in the centre of the platoon.
How he managed to get separated from them is beyond me. To make matters worse he was the rad op, and you guessed it carrying the only radio. They couldn't even call in the no duff to Range Control when he went missing. Why he didn't think of doing it himself instead of blundering around for a couple of hours is something I'll never understand either.
So we drop him off at the Range Control shack where I'm sure they gave him hot coco and tucked him in until his WO came to fetch him and carried on.
The next day the OC and CSM of Leadership Company calls me in to hear about the lost 2/Lt. They want to know if it should go on his course report and I guess he was on his last legs and this would be enough to send him home. Nice guy that I am I figure he's from some oh so social Upper Canadian Regiment where he's probably the PMC or IC snuff box so no harm done. I mean there's no way the'll ever be in charge of troops right. I tell them as far as I'm concerned I don't care, keep him or toss him. Turns out I found out later this was his third and last kick at the can and if he'd been RTU's he was gone.
Fast-forward about 5 years. I've moved to Toronto and joined/transferred to the Tor Scots where Ive been CSM of our one Rifle Coy for a couple of years now. The OC who was on his way out for bigger and better things comes in one Tues night and says he's managed to coax a Captain from another unit to transfer over and take over as Coy 2ic and eventually replace him as OC. Lucky me I've been defacto acting unpaid 2ic for months and stuck with all that paper work too.
So guess who strolls through the door the next parade night, still happy to see me after all those years. I swear I had to brief all of Coy HQ at CAC in Pet that summer to keep an eye on the 2ic in case he wandered off again.
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
1 RCR, Charles Coy, I think it was spring of '82. We had an unusual tasking that spring. We were sent on a "show the flagâ ? type of exercise to Hall Beach, NWT (now Nunavut.) http://www.hallbeach.com/
My platoon, 8 pl. the Corps of Drums, were told that we would be bringing our instruments and performing for the residents. Well, no problem. We generally did on most ex.'s anyway. Just not usually on arctic ex.'s, but why not? I guess it was a PR thing.
There's also a DEW point there and we were to liaise with them and learn the layout and sensitive areas and receive lectures on acclimatizing to high arctic conditions. There were no spare quarters, so it was ten-man tents and IMP's for the three-week duration. The instruments and weapons had their own tents with a stove and stovewatch for the instruments and security picket who doubled as polar bear watch. His C1 was loaded with 20 rds. of Winchester® Silvertips
We quickly learned several things:
No dark. Bright, bright cloudless sunny 24-hour days. Drum skins break at minus 20 degrees. Horn valves freeze solid too. There aren't very many instruments you can play while you're wearing arctic mitts. Polar bears are curious. Inuit people are VERY friendly and think almost everything we do (especially performing drill in arctic gear) is hilarious. Arctic Char fried in butter in a battered aluminum frying pan over a Coleman® stove is the best fish ever. DEW line personnel spend time in the mess and can drink more and faster than I can. And hold it better. The (bull) walrus has a bone it his penis called an oosik. DEW line personnel buy the oosik from the Inuit. No, they won't give you theirs. Seagulls don't survive flying in front of the microwave transmitter while it's operating. An arctic compass is a b*tch to use. You have to know how to use an arctic compass. The Inuit have over 50 different words for snow because there are over 50 different types of snow, that's why. The Hudson's Bay Co.® guys (from Toronto) get paid a lot of money and spend a fair amount of it on expensive booze. :blotto:
So, the Drums are going to put on an event for the townsfolk. An outdoor parade is out of the question, so there's going to be a concert in the community center, roughly four times the size of my apartment living room. They would heat the community center to just above freezing when it was going to be used. There's this little raised platform at one end of the hall, where we formed up in a shoulder-to-shoulder concert formation.
The Drum Major, a chain-smoking ectomorph of indeterminate age, but who could pass for sixty-five, was a somewhat nervous individual when it came to speaking in public, odd when you think about how often he had to do it. He introduces us and then outlines for the audience, the program for the evening. We would play six tunes, Johnny B. would play a few songs on his guitar, (X-Royal will remember this guy,) then we would play six more tunes (which pretty much exhausted our repertoire.)
The Drum Major, suddenly realizing that probably less than half of the audience understood a word he had said, about-turned and started us off. He started to relax once we got going and we made our way through the first six tunes without incident. Unbeknownst to the Drum Major, immediately behind him in the front row, a healthy young (eighteen-ish) lady is removing her parka and preparing to feed her baby. The old-fashioned way. Both barrels. ;D End of first set.
What happened next was, the Drum Major about-turned, opened his mouth, caught an eyeful and froze solid for about six seconds. Closed his mouth, about-turned, raised his baton and said, "One, two and-aâ ?, ... and we were caught flat-footed. ??? The audience, catching on immediately, breaks out into a roar of laughter. We warbled our way into what was supposed to be the next piece. The horn players learned that it's really difficult to play "Paardeburgâ ? and laugh at the same time. The crimson-faced Drum Major at this point is staring at the floor and waving his arms above him, looking for all the world like Michael Jackson® in the Thriller® video. About halfway through the next Sousa march, the D. Maj. collects himself, then raises his head and tries to conduct what's left of the concert with the biggest ****-eating grin we'd ever seen. :dontpanic: Which begins another wave of laughter amongst the band. End of concert.
I remember, at the end of it all during a rather prolonged exodus, seeing the D. Maj. in the clutches of a large person who we found out was the father of the young bride in the audience. Dad is laughing and hugging and flinging-about the poor Drum Major, who now resembles a bewildered, drum major-shaped cat-toy fulfilling its purpose. With his daughter translating, we found out that dad was telling the Drum Major that he was the funniest white man he'd ever seen and wanted to invite him home and be funny there. The Drum Major eventually manages to decline explaining that we needed to get up early to set up the range for the firepower demonstration the following "dayâ ?.
Chapter Two: The Firepower Demonstration.
We were told that we were to put on a firepower demo for the residents to: Impress Upon Them The Sheer Might That The Current Government In Parliament Could Bring To Bear, If They Were Ever Threatened By The Ravening Stalinist Hordes, That The Soviet Union Would Unleash Upon Them, In The Event Of A Nuclear War. :threat: Or something like that, but it was a Really Good Reason.
We set up a twenty position (C1's and C2's) firing point with sandbags filled with one of the many types of snow that were available to us. On the right flank we set up the GPMG on the toboggan mount. At 100 yds. we set up forty fig. 11 targets. About 750 to 1000 yds. downrange was Foxe Channel so we set range safety pickets out beyond the left and right arcs on the shoreline. The only way we knew it was shoreline and not ice over the ocean was because the Inuit guides told us it was. The Drum Major acquired a following of about twenty children who dogged his every step, so the OC appointed him baby-sitter to keep the kids off the firing line. We conducted the range the way you normally would: the company was tasked, by platoon, to be either range safety on the firing line, ammo party or rear party, the latter of which had the task of giving a short course in the operations of C1's and C2's to the attending villagers. All of them who turned out, which was all of them in the village, really. That went well. :
You see, after the first platoon had demonstrated firing a mag and the GPMG had gone through about half a belt, it was to be the villager's turns, in groups of twenty, with some of the village leaders invited to try firing the GPMG. And Boy! did they have enthusiasm! Not much target discipline mind you but enthusiasm by the bucket-load! The way it would go was: buddy with a C1 would fire a few rounds at the targets in front of him, then he would take a few shots at the targets of several of his friends. Then he would try to make his C1 shoot really, really fast like the C2's by yanking the trigger just as fast as he can. :akimbo: The ones with C2's, realizing that they had control of automatic weapons just like in the Hollywood Movies, would attempt to hit ALL of the targets in one long burst from left to right :mgor right to left as inspiration took them.) The elders on the GPMG would attempt to do the whole belt in one burst, laughing and shouting to those friends of theirs close by anxiously awaiting their turn. We got most of the adults through the range before we "ran outâ ? of ammo. :fifty:
So, we dismantle the range and a young fellow from the village is asked to go out on his snowmobile and pick up the safety pickets, one of whom, the left-of-arc, was Johnny B., the guitar player who was denied his debut the night before. Upon his return, Johnny remarks that the guides must have been wrong and mistakenly placed him off the shoreline because when he was at his post, he could hear the ice cracking beneath him and wierd sounds all around him. The next day, we are invited by some of the men of the village to go ice fishing and about ten guys take them up on it, one of them being Johnny. On their way out, Johnny noticed they were near his post of the day before, but they went past it about 100 yds. to some spot out on the ice that looked exactly like every other spot, where the Inuit told them there was good fishing. Sure enough, when they dug down through the alternating layers of ice crust and snow, they reached a pre-cut hole in the ice. A few chops with a hatchet and the skin of ice covering the hole was cleared away. Johnny, being bored, walks a ways back along the snowmobile track so he can get a long-distance photograph of the ice fishing scene. As he's walking back, he's looking down and he spots something sitting on the surface of the snow crust and heads over to investigate. It's a bullet. He sees several other bullets scattered around a large area, some of which have frozen to the ice.
He pockets a few examples and heads back to the group where he shows everybody what he's found. The guys head back with him to the site of his discovery where it slowly dawns on them what must have happened. The sounds that Johnny had heard beneath his feet the day before wasn't ice cracking. As improbable as it sounds, what he had heard was the sound of rounds ricocheting along through the alternating layers of soft snow and ice crust. Needless to say, the Inuit found this to be hilarious. Johnny had to sit down. :-X Johnny, you see, had already managed to shoot himself once a few years earlier while on his machine gunner's turret-conversion course by clearing the .50 and having the unspent round cook off in the brass catcher. The primer exited the bag at a high rate of speed and entered Johnny, barely missing his "mustn't-touch-itâ ?.
When he recovered sufficiently from the shock of his most recent brush with death, he went to find the Hudson's Bay® guys to recover some more. :blotto:
Pro Patria!
My platoon, 8 pl. the Corps of Drums, were told that we would be bringing our instruments and performing for the residents. Well, no problem. We generally did on most ex.'s anyway. Just not usually on arctic ex.'s, but why not? I guess it was a PR thing.
There's also a DEW point there and we were to liaise with them and learn the layout and sensitive areas and receive lectures on acclimatizing to high arctic conditions. There were no spare quarters, so it was ten-man tents and IMP's for the three-week duration. The instruments and weapons had their own tents with a stove and stovewatch for the instruments and security picket who doubled as polar bear watch. His C1 was loaded with 20 rds. of Winchester® Silvertips
We quickly learned several things:
No dark. Bright, bright cloudless sunny 24-hour days. Drum skins break at minus 20 degrees. Horn valves freeze solid too. There aren't very many instruments you can play while you're wearing arctic mitts. Polar bears are curious. Inuit people are VERY friendly and think almost everything we do (especially performing drill in arctic gear) is hilarious. Arctic Char fried in butter in a battered aluminum frying pan over a Coleman® stove is the best fish ever. DEW line personnel spend time in the mess and can drink more and faster than I can. And hold it better. The (bull) walrus has a bone it his penis called an oosik. DEW line personnel buy the oosik from the Inuit. No, they won't give you theirs. Seagulls don't survive flying in front of the microwave transmitter while it's operating. An arctic compass is a b*tch to use. You have to know how to use an arctic compass. The Inuit have over 50 different words for snow because there are over 50 different types of snow, that's why. The Hudson's Bay Co.® guys (from Toronto) get paid a lot of money and spend a fair amount of it on expensive booze. :blotto:
So, the Drums are going to put on an event for the townsfolk. An outdoor parade is out of the question, so there's going to be a concert in the community center, roughly four times the size of my apartment living room. They would heat the community center to just above freezing when it was going to be used. There's this little raised platform at one end of the hall, where we formed up in a shoulder-to-shoulder concert formation.
The Drum Major, a chain-smoking ectomorph of indeterminate age, but who could pass for sixty-five, was a somewhat nervous individual when it came to speaking in public, odd when you think about how often he had to do it. He introduces us and then outlines for the audience, the program for the evening. We would play six tunes, Johnny B. would play a few songs on his guitar, (X-Royal will remember this guy,) then we would play six more tunes (which pretty much exhausted our repertoire.)
The Drum Major, suddenly realizing that probably less than half of the audience understood a word he had said, about-turned and started us off. He started to relax once we got going and we made our way through the first six tunes without incident. Unbeknownst to the Drum Major, immediately behind him in the front row, a healthy young (eighteen-ish) lady is removing her parka and preparing to feed her baby. The old-fashioned way. Both barrels. ;D End of first set.
What happened next was, the Drum Major about-turned, opened his mouth, caught an eyeful and froze solid for about six seconds.
Closed his mouth, about-turned, raised his baton and said, "One, two and-aâ ?, ... and we were caught flat-footed. ??? The audience, catching on immediately, breaks out into a roar of laughter. We warbled our way into what was supposed to be the next piece. The horn players learned that it's really difficult to play "Paardeburgâ ? and laugh at the same time. The crimson-faced Drum Major at this point is staring at the floor and waving his arms above him, looking for all the world like Michael Jackson® in the Thriller® video. About halfway through the next Sousa march, the D. Maj. collects himself, then raises his head and tries to conduct what's left of the concert with the biggest ****-eating grin we'd ever seen. :dontpanic: Which begins another wave of laughter amongst the band. End of concert.I remember, at the end of it all during a rather prolonged exodus, seeing the D. Maj. in the clutches of a large person who we found out was the father of the young bride in the audience. Dad is laughing and hugging and flinging-about the poor Drum Major, who now resembles a bewildered, drum major-shaped cat-toy fulfilling its purpose. With his daughter translating, we found out that dad was telling the Drum Major that he was the funniest white man he'd ever seen and wanted to invite him home and be funny there. The Drum Major eventually manages to decline explaining that we needed to get up early to set up the range for the firepower demonstration the following "dayâ ?.
Chapter Two: The Firepower Demonstration.
We were told that we were to put on a firepower demo for the residents to: Impress Upon Them The Sheer Might That The Current Government In Parliament Could Bring To Bear, If They Were Ever Threatened By The Ravening Stalinist Hordes, That The Soviet Union Would Unleash Upon Them, In The Event Of A Nuclear War. :threat: Or something like that, but it was a Really Good Reason.
We set up a twenty position (C1's and C2's) firing point with sandbags filled with one of the many types of snow that were available to us. On the right flank we set up the GPMG on the toboggan mount. At 100 yds. we set up forty fig. 11 targets. About 750 to 1000 yds. downrange was Foxe Channel so we set range safety pickets out beyond the left and right arcs on the shoreline. The only way we knew it was shoreline and not ice over the ocean was because the Inuit guides told us it was. The Drum Major acquired a following of about twenty children who dogged his every step, so the OC appointed him baby-sitter to keep the kids off the firing line. We conducted the range the way you normally would: the company was tasked, by platoon, to be either range safety on the firing line, ammo party or rear party, the latter of which had the task of giving a short course in the operations of C1's and C2's to the attending villagers. All of them who turned out, which was all of them in the village, really. That went well. :
You see, after the first platoon had demonstrated firing a mag and the GPMG had gone through about half a belt, it was to be the villager's turns, in groups of twenty, with some of the village leaders invited to try firing the GPMG. And Boy! did they have enthusiasm! Not much target discipline mind you but enthusiasm by the bucket-load! The way it would go was: buddy with a C1 would fire a few rounds at the targets in front of him, then he would take a few shots at the targets of several of his friends. Then he would try to make his C1 shoot really, really fast like the C2's by yanking the trigger just as fast as he can. :akimbo: The ones with C2's, realizing that they had control of automatic weapons just like in the Hollywood Movies, would attempt to hit ALL of the targets in one long burst from left to right :mg
or right to left as inspiration took them.) The elders on the GPMG would attempt to do the whole belt in one burst, laughing and shouting to those friends of theirs close by anxiously awaiting their turn. We got most of the adults through the range before we "ran outâ ? of ammo. :fifty:So, we dismantle the range and a young fellow from the village is asked to go out on his snowmobile and pick up the safety pickets, one of whom, the left-of-arc, was Johnny B., the guitar player who was denied his debut the night before. Upon his return, Johnny remarks that the guides must have been wrong and mistakenly placed him off the shoreline because when he was at his post, he could hear the ice cracking beneath him and wierd sounds all around him. The next day, we are invited by some of the men of the village to go ice fishing and about ten guys take them up on it, one of them being Johnny. On their way out, Johnny noticed they were near his post of the day before, but they went past it about 100 yds. to some spot out on the ice that looked exactly like every other spot, where the Inuit told them there was good fishing. Sure enough, when they dug down through the alternating layers of ice crust and snow, they reached a pre-cut hole in the ice. A few chops with a hatchet and the skin of ice covering the hole was cleared away. Johnny, being bored, walks a ways back along the snowmobile track so he can get a long-distance photograph of the ice fishing scene. As he's walking back, he's looking down and he spots something sitting on the surface of the snow crust and heads over to investigate. It's a bullet. He sees several other bullets scattered around a large area, some of which have frozen to the ice.
He pockets a few examples and heads back to the group where he shows everybody what he's found. The guys head back with him to the site of his discovery where it slowly dawns on them what must have happened. The sounds that Johnny had heard beneath his feet the day before wasn't ice cracking. As improbable as it sounds, what he had heard was the sound of rounds ricocheting along through the alternating layers of soft snow and ice crust. Needless to say, the Inuit found this to be hilarious. Johnny had to sit down. :-X Johnny, you see, had already managed to shoot himself once a few years earlier while on his machine gunner's turret-conversion course by clearing the .50 and having the unspent round cook off in the brass catcher. The primer exited the bag at a high rate of speed and entered Johnny, barely missing his "mustn't-touch-itâ ?.
When he recovered sufficiently from the shock of his most recent brush with death, he went to find the Hudson's Bay® guys to recover some more. :blotto:
Pro Patria!
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 110
Time to resurrect this thread.
Evil IMPs.
Never again will I eat a 'Shepherd's Pie' dinner.
It goes like this.
On a winter INDOC a few years ago at Dundurn, I was in the Admin section of an artillery regiment. It was going to be a bunch of patrolling/navigating exercises in the rather substantial amounts of snow we had that year. But naturally, once we got to the biv area and kitted out in winter gear, it was then I discovered that I had been issued with 2 left mukluks. Hm. (you may notice that the "right" and "left" mukluks are difficult to distinguish at the best of times) No worry, I can stay with the CP and help out with "in-camp" GDs instead. (me being a young private, I didn't mind one bit the change of plan to something requiring seemingly less work)
Things were fine for the first night and I stood radio watch and mostly just hung out. Over the net we heard about a few of the other sections having problems with 'mac and cheese' breakfast IMPs exploding in the pressure cookers.
We needed to go on a POL run into town that afternoon. I was tasked to assist on that. Then we had this brilliant idea that while we were in town we'd pick up some hotdogs and have ourselves a weiner roast for dinner. We got a round of agreement and headed into town.
We got back and decided, since we weren't needing our evening IMPs due to the planned weiner roast, we might as well open 'em up and have a midafternoon snack. I recall mine was Shepherd's Pie. Memories after that point get a bit hazy. I do recall feeling unreasonably "full" well before I saw the bottom of that meal packet. There was an MLVW outside that needed unloading - either ours from the POL run or a different one (I'm not sure) and I was tasked to go help on that - before many minutes had passed I was really not feeling well at all and I guess I looked rather pale as they suggested that I go away from the running vehicles - I guess they were thinking of the exhaust - and go lie down in my tent for a bit. I staggered over to the tent, found my cot, and tried to nap. I just couldn't get comfortable. Very shortly it became evident to me that nature was not only calling, but was SHOUTING at me in a way that was not to be ignored.
In a remarkable hurry I shot out of the tent and made a beeline for the woods (this was in the days of cat sanitation). I hadn't gone too far, I suspect, before all hell broke loose. Shepherd's Pie wanted out, and NOW, and was prepared to find any way possible to accomplish its mission. Suffice it to say that for a few miserable minutes I was probably the unhappiest soldier on the planet. To put it delicately, there was no such thing as "safe arc" around me, except perhaps off to my sides.
Finally, after the ravages of dinner had finished their conquest of my entire GI tract, humbled and shaking, I shuffled, several layers of clothing around my boots, back toward the CP. Despite being shaky, I felt much better now that the food had rid itself of my system, but I was certainly going to require a change of clothing. I got to the CP, and trying to stand off to the side, hammered on the back door and cried, "Medic!!" A second thumping on the door and someone opened it, and a medic promptly emerged and with the aid of a garbage bag and other stuff, took care of me and my situation.
Turns out, of course, the IMPs from that batch were of dubious quality, due to an issue with the warehouse where they were stored, several pallets having been damaged. We found this out after the Indoc was only a memory (for most people). I suppose hearing of three of the mac n cheese breakfasts blowing up should have been a warning.
Mind you apparently the Indoc was an 'interesting' time for the others lucky enough to get into the field as well, from what I'm told........ apparently the "attacking" and "defending" groups in one particular scenario never got to engage each other due to some navigational errors......... and a patrol had a guy who broke a foot or leg and Range Patrol was dispatched to rescue him, but suffered a snowmobile breakdown enroute and the Range Patrol guy ended up getting to the patient on foot..... (I'm presuming a second RP snowmobile was then dispatched)
Later on, I ended up transfering to the unit where that hapless medic belonged....... and she remembered me! *hides in embarrassment*
Evil IMPs.
Never again will I eat a 'Shepherd's Pie' dinner.
It goes like this.
On a winter INDOC a few years ago at Dundurn, I was in the Admin section of an artillery regiment. It was going to be a bunch of patrolling/navigating exercises in the rather substantial amounts of snow we had that year. But naturally, once we got to the biv area and kitted out in winter gear, it was then I discovered that I had been issued with 2 left mukluks. Hm. (you may notice that the "right" and "left" mukluks are difficult to distinguish at the best of times) No worry, I can stay with the CP and help out with "in-camp" GDs instead. (me being a young private, I didn't mind one bit the change of plan to something requiring seemingly less work)
Things were fine for the first night and I stood radio watch and mostly just hung out. Over the net we heard about a few of the other sections having problems with 'mac and cheese' breakfast IMPs exploding in the pressure cookers.
We needed to go on a POL run into town that afternoon. I was tasked to assist on that. Then we had this brilliant idea that while we were in town we'd pick up some hotdogs and have ourselves a weiner roast for dinner. We got a round of agreement and headed into town.
We got back and decided, since we weren't needing our evening IMPs due to the planned weiner roast, we might as well open 'em up and have a midafternoon snack. I recall mine was Shepherd's Pie. Memories after that point get a bit hazy. I do recall feeling unreasonably "full" well before I saw the bottom of that meal packet. There was an MLVW outside that needed unloading - either ours from the POL run or a different one (I'm not sure) and I was tasked to go help on that - before many minutes had passed I was really not feeling well at all and I guess I looked rather pale as they suggested that I go away from the running vehicles - I guess they were thinking of the exhaust - and go lie down in my tent for a bit. I staggered over to the tent, found my cot, and tried to nap. I just couldn't get comfortable. Very shortly it became evident to me that nature was not only calling, but was SHOUTING at me in a way that was not to be ignored.
In a remarkable hurry I shot out of the tent and made a beeline for the woods (this was in the days of cat sanitation). I hadn't gone too far, I suspect, before all hell broke loose. Shepherd's Pie wanted out, and NOW, and was prepared to find any way possible to accomplish its mission. Suffice it to say that for a few miserable minutes I was probably the unhappiest soldier on the planet. To put it delicately, there was no such thing as "safe arc" around me, except perhaps off to my sides.
Finally, after the ravages of dinner had finished their conquest of my entire GI tract, humbled and shaking, I shuffled, several layers of clothing around my boots, back toward the CP. Despite being shaky, I felt much better now that the food had rid itself of my system, but I was certainly going to require a change of clothing. I got to the CP, and trying to stand off to the side, hammered on the back door and cried, "Medic!!" A second thumping on the door and someone opened it, and a medic promptly emerged and with the aid of a garbage bag and other stuff, took care of me and my situation.
Turns out, of course, the IMPs from that batch were of dubious quality, due to an issue with the warehouse where they were stored, several pallets having been damaged. We found this out after the Indoc was only a memory (for most people). I suppose hearing of three of the mac n cheese breakfasts blowing up should have been a warning.
Mind you apparently the Indoc was an 'interesting' time for the others lucky enough to get into the field as well, from what I'm told........ apparently the "attacking" and "defending" groups in one particular scenario never got to engage each other due to some navigational errors......... and a patrol had a guy who broke a foot or leg and Range Patrol was dispatched to rescue him, but suffered a snowmobile breakdown enroute and the Range Patrol guy ended up getting to the patient on foot..... (I'm presuming a second RP snowmobile was then dispatched)
Later on, I ended up transfering to the unit where that hapless medic belonged....... and she remembered me! *hides in embarrassment*
T
TOW II
Guest
It was 1986 in Cyprus with the 3rd Battalion the Royal Canadian Regiment
Pte Evans (I'm certain) and I were on foot Patrol. There was one route that took us out by the Prison where you could see the shards of colored glass imbedded in the concrete at the top of the exterior wall.
Anyway, we could hear this noise behind us like an animal was injured and in severe pain.
For all we knew it was a rabid dog coming down fast on our 6, so we decided to prepare (fixed bayonets) and investigate.
As we doubled back, we came to a point in the trail were the noise appeared to be coming from so we stopped.
Off the trail in behind some bushes I saw a Greek soldier coming off of and away from what looked like a German Shepherd wiping his Dick with paper towel.
To this day, anytime I hear a reference to someone being a Dog (Phucker) I remember Cyprus.
Pte Evans (I'm certain) and I were on foot Patrol. There was one route that took us out by the Prison where you could see the shards of colored glass imbedded in the concrete at the top of the exterior wall.
Anyway, we could hear this noise behind us like an animal was injured and in severe pain.
For all we knew it was a rabid dog coming down fast on our 6, so we decided to prepare (fixed bayonets) and investigate.
As we doubled back, we came to a point in the trail were the noise appeared to be coming from so we stopped.
Off the trail in behind some bushes I saw a Greek soldier coming off of and away from what looked like a German Shepherd wiping his Dick with paper towel.
To this day, anytime I hear a reference to someone being a Dog (Phucker) I remember Cyprus.
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
The Shepherd Pie reminded me of another ration story. I was sitting with a few other buddies doing the usual trading that happens at meal time and one fellow was eagerly anticipating his favourite chicken breast. All was well until he swallowed a forkfull and looked at the date on the box. "Do you realize" he said,"that this chicken has been dead for four years!?"
He seemed to be terribly disgusted that he was eating the corpse of a long dead chicken and it generated quite an (un) appetizing discussion. To my knowledge he still won't touch the chicken ration anymore! ;D
He seemed to be terribly disgusted that he was eating the corpse of a long dead chicken and it generated quite an (un) appetizing discussion. To my knowledge he still won't touch the chicken ration anymore! ;D
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
Been way too long between war stories.
1984, 6A course in Petawawa. The leadership school was running two serials at the time; both were housed in barracks near the CANEX. Old barracks. My course was housed on the second floor while the other course was above us on the third.
One morning, after PT and breakfast, (yeah, right, breakfast) we had just finished preparing for inspection and were standing by in our rooms waiting for the instructors to finish their conference in the hallway, before they came through to impress upon us the fact that we were miserable, innadequate examples of humanity. The course above us was two weeks behind and they were heading out to the training area that morning. While it was quiet on our floor, we could hear them upstairs getting ready.
All of a sudden from upstairs we hear, "ATTENTION!" then BANG! (30 - odd guys coming up to the chow,) then CRASH! The crash was about 40 pounds of plaster leaving its previous position on the ceiling, and striking the floor of our hallway near where the instructors were standing, just outside my room. Cpl. Bloggins, one of my roomates risked sticking his face out of the doorway to see what had happened, and as he does so, the course WO standing nearby, spots him. Without thinking (obviously), the WO whips his pacestick across Bloggins' chest with an audible WHACK!, and says, "Back in your room, you!" I don't know how he managed to not break any ribs, he hit him that hard, but it left a nasty 14-inch bruise. Bloggins steps back into the room, resumes his position by his rack and we all wait, more or less silently, for the instructors to come through.
When they do come through our room, the WO is observing, standing a couple of paces away from Bloggins while the Sect. Comdr. is concentrating his efforts on one of the other candidates. Without warning, Bloggins takes one pace forward to the position of attention in front of the WO, pokes him once in the chest and says in a calm, steady voice, "That was your freebie, c*ckjaws.", takes a pace back and resumes the chow beside his bed.
There was no further (official) mention of the incident.
1984, 6A course in Petawawa. The leadership school was running two serials at the time; both were housed in barracks near the CANEX. Old barracks. My course was housed on the second floor while the other course was above us on the third.
One morning, after PT and breakfast, (yeah, right, breakfast) we had just finished preparing for inspection and were standing by in our rooms waiting for the instructors to finish their conference in the hallway, before they came through to impress upon us the fact that we were miserable, innadequate examples of humanity. The course above us was two weeks behind and they were heading out to the training area that morning. While it was quiet on our floor, we could hear them upstairs getting ready.
All of a sudden from upstairs we hear, "ATTENTION!" then BANG! (30 - odd guys coming up to the chow,) then CRASH! The crash was about 40 pounds of plaster leaving its previous position on the ceiling, and striking the floor of our hallway near where the instructors were standing, just outside my room. Cpl. Bloggins, one of my roomates risked sticking his face out of the doorway to see what had happened, and as he does so, the course WO standing nearby, spots him. Without thinking (obviously), the WO whips his pacestick across Bloggins' chest with an audible WHACK!, and says, "Back in your room, you!" I don't know how he managed to not break any ribs, he hit him that hard, but it left a nasty 14-inch bruise. Bloggins steps back into the room, resumes his position by his rack and we all wait, more or less silently, for the instructors to come through.
When they do come through our room, the WO is observing, standing a couple of paces away from Bloggins while the Sect. Comdr. is concentrating his efforts on one of the other candidates. Without warning, Bloggins takes one pace forward to the position of attention in front of the WO, pokes him once in the chest and says in a calm, steady voice, "That was your freebie, c*ckjaws.", takes a pace back and resumes the chow beside his bed.
There was no further (official) mention of the incident.
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
Since I've been posting on this site, I find myself thinking back on some of the fun we used to have on exercises. (do they still calll it that?) I remember the time the SSM told me to park my Wpns carrier in behind a Gasthaus, and it looked cozy. It didn't take too long to net up the Carrier, and once we had the dutylist sorted out, we took turns for a Rieghler special ex in a huge mug, some Schnitzel and Spatzle. MMm good! My 30 drop Comm cord reached right though the window of the Gasthaus...barely. For the 8 hours we were in that town, we enjoyed the company of the regulars in town, and our Scotsman (no names no packdrill) pulled out his pipes and entertained the locals before we rumbled out of town, the big Leo Arv drawing lots of ooh's and ah's, as the young Corporal put the hammer down, needless to say, it's a big reason why I loved the Military.
When I see the army today, I see professional looking guys, who can get the job done when called upon. For all you young posters reading this; The army is awesome, you will get your adventure, but be sure you absolutely understand that you could be asked to put your life on the line for your Country, more so now then my old NATO days.
How about some of you lifers..any good stories?
Cheers :cheers:
Gnplummer
When I see the army today, I see professional looking guys, who can get the job done when called upon. For all you young posters reading this; The army is awesome, you will get your adventure, but be sure you absolutely understand that you could be asked to put your life on the line for your Country, more so now then my old NATO days.
How about some of you lifers..any good stories?
Cheers :cheers:
Gnplummer
The Anti-Royal
Jr. Member
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
I recall tooling around in my carrier, soon after my arrival in Germany, and discovering (much to my troops' amusement) that "Ausfahrt" and "Umleitung" were not towns.
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 210
Fall-Ex 90 found me in a particularly foul mood. Having spent all of my time in Germany on the guns or in the OP, I had finally been sent to the CP. Excited about my new job, I was looking forward to a job in the box. Unfortunately, I was to share my job with Murphy, yes, the same Murphy of Murphy’s Law. It seems as if ol’ Murph had more pull than I did, and I was sent to Battery HQ to take the place of the regular QM truck driver. As most pointy-enders know, being a REMF is a shitty job, especially the QM. Yes, even the A and B Echelons are considered bad from the perspective of F echelon guys. Fortunately Murphy struck out for bigger and better things, and something happened that I would never forget!
We were deployed in a German village and it looked as if we were going to stay for some time. I cannot remember why, but the guns had been pulled out of action and deployed forward of us. Being the kind and considerate souls they were, they left us their M548s to guard. That night, I was woken up by the sentry and told that I was up next. I shook the cobwebs clear, lit a smoke, and asked where the sentry post was. He directed me down the road, said something like, “watch out for the guy humping the sheep” and left without another word.
Perhaps I had not quite cleared my head, but as I headed up the road I saw a woodpile with a blue tarp over it that bore a slight resemblance to a hunched over man. I giggled a bit, finally understanding what he had meant. I certainly had no problems finding the sentry post: as I approached I noticed, or rather heard, a half-dozen Gunners/Bombardiers milling about. One of them promptly asked me if I had seen the man humping the sheep. I replied, “if you mean the pile of wood, yeah, I saw it.” He promptly took me by the arm and brought me to the “pile of wood.”
I’d seen a lot of things in the military, but nothing, AND I MEAN NOTHING, could have prepared me for what I saw on the side of the road! There he was, as big as life, and smelling like a still….. a blond-haired man dressed in jeans, lying on top of what appeared to be four legs sticking straight up! NO SHIT!!!! I went over to take a closer look. Yep, that’s what it was, a man humping a sheep, or at least he might have been, had he not been passed out. Satisfied, we wandered back to the sentry post. I asked the others if they had notified the CP; to a man they said no. Slinging my weapon, I wandered back down the road, past the man and his furry companion, and entered the penthouse (tent) of the CP. My buddy Lorne was on radio watch and I told him to tell the CPO that there was a man humping a sheep on the position. After getting his assurances that he would, I left to resume my watch. Lorne, being human, did what any other sane man would have done in his position: NOTHING (can you blame him?)
After a while I figured that the CPO would not be coming, so I headed back down to the CP, again I passed by the man and his “friend,” and again I told Lorne to tell the CPO. He wouldn’t, so I woke him up and told him my self: he told me to get the fuck out of his CP. What to do, eh? I left!
When I came back, I noticed that the man was gone, but his pet was still there. On closer inspection I saw that was a goat, a Billy goat at that!!!! Its tongue was sticking out of its mouth and its neck was clearly broken. I went back to the CP, woke the CPO up again, and told him that he had better get on the horn to Zero or Watch Dog (Regimental CP/the MPs), because he now had a dead goat on the position. This time he came to look and when he was satisfied, he did his duty. Me? I went to bed.
The next morning, sometime between Zero-dark-thirty and Oh-bright-and-painful, I was rudely awoken by MP Sgt Skip Griffin and two of his MP wanna-be’s. They wanted to hear all about my night out, so I told them. Then I asked my RP buddy what the news was. I guess this clown got pissed up in a Gasthaus and decided that he would raise a little Cain for us Scheiß Kanadiers and decided to tie up a local goat to one of our vehicles, and make us look like thieves. He didn’t count on our sentries surprising him, and he panicked. While hiding in the road-side bushes, he tried to stifle his goat’s cries and inadvertently broke its neck. After the sentry had passed, he made his way across the road and passed out. As he fell, he landed square on top of ol’ Billy, and the rest is history. It didn’t take long before word got out to the rest of the brigade, and we became known as Beeeeeeeeee Baaaaaattryyyyyyyy.
We were deployed in a German village and it looked as if we were going to stay for some time. I cannot remember why, but the guns had been pulled out of action and deployed forward of us. Being the kind and considerate souls they were, they left us their M548s to guard. That night, I was woken up by the sentry and told that I was up next. I shook the cobwebs clear, lit a smoke, and asked where the sentry post was. He directed me down the road, said something like, “watch out for the guy humping the sheep” and left without another word.
Perhaps I had not quite cleared my head, but as I headed up the road I saw a woodpile with a blue tarp over it that bore a slight resemblance to a hunched over man. I giggled a bit, finally understanding what he had meant. I certainly had no problems finding the sentry post: as I approached I noticed, or rather heard, a half-dozen Gunners/Bombardiers milling about. One of them promptly asked me if I had seen the man humping the sheep. I replied, “if you mean the pile of wood, yeah, I saw it.” He promptly took me by the arm and brought me to the “pile of wood.”
I’d seen a lot of things in the military, but nothing, AND I MEAN NOTHING, could have prepared me for what I saw on the side of the road! There he was, as big as life, and smelling like a still….. a blond-haired man dressed in jeans, lying on top of what appeared to be four legs sticking straight up! NO SHIT!!!! I went over to take a closer look. Yep, that’s what it was, a man humping a sheep, or at least he might have been, had he not been passed out. Satisfied, we wandered back to the sentry post. I asked the others if they had notified the CP; to a man they said no. Slinging my weapon, I wandered back down the road, past the man and his furry companion, and entered the penthouse (tent) of the CP. My buddy Lorne was on radio watch and I told him to tell the CPO that there was a man humping a sheep on the position. After getting his assurances that he would, I left to resume my watch. Lorne, being human, did what any other sane man would have done in his position: NOTHING (can you blame him?)
After a while I figured that the CPO would not be coming, so I headed back down to the CP, again I passed by the man and his “friend,” and again I told Lorne to tell the CPO. He wouldn’t, so I woke him up and told him my self: he told me to get the fuck out of his CP. What to do, eh? I left!
When I came back, I noticed that the man was gone, but his pet was still there. On closer inspection I saw that was a goat, a Billy goat at that!!!! Its tongue was sticking out of its mouth and its neck was clearly broken. I went back to the CP, woke the CPO up again, and told him that he had better get on the horn to Zero or Watch Dog (Regimental CP/the MPs), because he now had a dead goat on the position. This time he came to look and when he was satisfied, he did his duty. Me? I went to bed.
The next morning, sometime between Zero-dark-thirty and Oh-bright-and-painful, I was rudely awoken by MP Sgt Skip Griffin and two of his MP wanna-be’s. They wanted to hear all about my night out, so I told them. Then I asked my RP buddy what the news was. I guess this clown got pissed up in a Gasthaus and decided that he would raise a little Cain for us Scheiß Kanadiers and decided to tie up a local goat to one of our vehicles, and make us look like thieves. He didn’t count on our sentries surprising him, and he panicked. While hiding in the road-side bushes, he tried to stifle his goat’s cries and inadvertently broke its neck. After the sentry had passed, he made his way across the road and passed out. As he fell, he landed square on top of ol’ Billy, and the rest is history. It didn’t take long before word got out to the rest of the brigade, and we became known as Beeeeeeeeee Baaaaaattryyyyyyyy.
