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  • These are so so funny. I sometimes have to leave the screen for minutes on end then re-read them. I also get funny looks form the Family..."Dads off again":)):))

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    • THE CLOCK RAY LANDMARK

      It happened when we were deployed in the Mendher Sector of Jammu and Kashmir. It was a beautiful area thick with heavenly smelling pine trees standing firm on the mountain tops. Those were the days when the Cease Fire Line was peaceful except for the occasional stray shots that left the muzzle more out of carelessness than anger.

      Within the regular army string of Posts along the Ceasefire Line, BSF( Border Security Force) posts also dotted the array. They were placed under command of the regular Army in whose Area of Responsibility the BSF Posts found themselves.

      This happened in that time when the BSF had just been raised with its core based on the PAP (Punjab Armed Police) . They were possibly good at police work, but were way short in so far as military tactics or battle procedures or drills were concerned. The PAP having an older retirement age accounted for some real ancient stalwarts amongst the rank and file of their new avatar, the BSF.

      It was a common practice for COs of unit to visit the posts of the unit and those under command.

      On one of his usual monthly inspection of the Posts, our CO was programmed to visit BSF posts under command.

      Our CO was a stickler for military protocol and almost akin to the Prussians. Some found him rigid and difficult.

      The visit to the Posts commenced and by mid day, after inspecting some of the Posts, we arrived at a BSF post.

      The Inspector who was commanding the Post had found it convenient to visit his HQs. Militarily that would be sacrilege, but since issues were still in its evolutionary stages, there was dual command and hence anything was possible. The wily Inspector may have taken advantage of this woolly dual command structure having no intention to face my CO and exposing his ineptitude for the task. His miraculous call from his HQs left a hapless and an ancient Head Constable holding the fort.

      The portly Head Constable saluted as smartly as he could and even before the saluting hand had reached it original position of rest, a constable thrust a plateful of savouries right into our face! It must be said, in all fairness, that it was customary that hot tea and something to munch was always given to the visitors to refresh after the hard walk over the mountain paths. Of course, it was never thrust into one’s face, and that too, even before the person had crossed the gate of the Post!

      My CO, who was very military like in his demeanour, was seething. Firstly, he was furious that the Inspector had skipped and now, this, what to his Prussian way of thinking, was a crass civilian way of handling issues of hospitality through over indulgent toadyism!

      He cuttingly told the Head Constable that he was most displeased that the Post Commander was absent without the permission of his Battalion HQs, as with the non military manner of thrusting the savouries even before the commencement of the visit.

      The Head Constable profusely asked for thousand pardons and invited all to lunch, it being past mid day.

      My CO dismissed the suggestion that we have lunch before the military aspects of his visit being completed. And though the Head Constable tried his best to guide the CO to the makeshift table loaded with deliciously aromatic food, the CO marched straight to the Viewpoint for the Briefing. All the while it was a ludicrous charade going on with each of them trying to outwit the other. One to force a lunch before the proceedings and the other equally adamant to avoid the same!

      The Head Constable, a man who apparently had handled many a senior officer in this time, was not the one to be daunted and more so, he had the natural stout-heartedness of Sikhs. He badgered on with total old world charm but it was to no avail. My CO had his way since he had rank on his side and he too was a Sikh, even though, a shaven one!

      We trooped to the viewpoint.

      Apparently the Head Constable did not know Hindi (the national language) too well.

      He started off in Hindi and then took off in Punjabi, the language the Sikh Head Constable was comfortable with and that used in the PAP.

      Catch my CO allowing that! Even though my CO understood every word that the Head Constable was saying being a Sikh himself, the CO insisted that it be given in Hindi.

      “Na eee Na eeeeeeeeeee. Hindi men bolo. Yeah Khaabe, Saaajey shab bakwas hayeh!” ( “No. No. Speak in Hindi. All this Khabbe (‘Left’ in Punjabi), Sajje (‘Right’ in Punjabi) is all ‘bakwas’ (bogus)”), the CO thundered, his accent replicating the British Indian Army goralog (British) sahib officers taking pride talking in what they thought was Hindusthani!

      The more the CO tried to impress upon the man that nothing else than Hindi would do, the more the poor Head Constable got entrenched in Punjabi!

      Interestingly enough, the Head Constable did all the pointing out of landmarks by shooting his hands in the direction of the landmarks instead of using the accepted military methods of landmark indication like the clock ray etc.

      While all this was going on, we were standing behind them and silently smirking at his circus that was unfolding. We knew our CO and knew that he would remain ramrod stiff like a Panzer General and would not in anyway disturb his military demeanour by looking here or there or rearward without cause and even if he had to, it would be done with precise military deliberateness! In short, we would have adequate time to wipe our imbecilic smiles and be back to military normalcy!

      “Kiyah bakwaas hayeee. Hath mat hilaooo. Ghari ko istamal karo” ( “What rot! Don’t move your hands, Use the clock (ray)”.)

      The Head Constable looked left and right. He looked at us. He appeared confused. Use a watch? His eyes desperately appealed to us with thunderstruck incredulity.

      He gained his composure.

      Once again he started in landmarks in his Punjabi – Hindi mix.

      “Samne wakeho. Toor ik Kar. Am rukh ” ( “Look to your front. In the far distance – a hut. General Line of Diriction”.).

      ”Khabbe wakho, ik darkht ” (“Look to your Left. A tree”.).

      Our CO was exasperated.

      He snapped, “Rab de waste, Ghari istamal karo!!!!!” (For God's sake, use the clock [ray] method).

      The CO was surely at his tether’s end. Most unlike him, he had unwittingly drifted into Punjabi!

      We too were surprised!

      The Head Constable, without missing a step, repeated, “Khabbe wakho, ik darkht” (“Look to your Left. A tree”.) and then he did the most incredulous thing. He shot out his left hand, saw his watch and said “Do bajke tee mint” (It's two minutes past Two o' clock)!

      He had given the time of the day instead of using the clock ray which would have been to indicate that the landmark was to the left and in the nine o’ clock direction of the imaginary clock!

      We burst out laughing!

      There was a faint amusement etching the CO’s lips and we left for Lunch.

      The PAP had won the day!


      "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

      I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

      HAKUNA MATATA

      Comment


      • TAKE ME TO YOUR OFFICERS MESS

        The Change of guard, at the top level, of any organisation, civil or military, activates vigorously Darwin’s theory of ‘Survival of the Fittest’.

        The Indian Army may be isolated from society, yet the negative aspects of society at large do make its visitation, as the cultural stock remains the same.

        My unit ardently endorsed Darwin.

        Pavlov and his conditional reflex dogs were also a great favourite with us.

        One may not believe it, but our dedication to Darwin and Pavlov signatured events when the change of command took place.

        The CO designate, the 2IC (Second in Command) of another unit was replacing our incumbent Commanding Officer. Obeisance to the Rising Sun ruled the day. I am not too sure if the Fading Sun sulked at this disproportionate attention profile. But then, such is Fate. Sceptre and Crown finally tumbles down!

        It boiled down to the simple fact of life – one was responsible till now, and the successor would henceforth be responsible – be it a matter concerning the fate of the unit, and more importantly, the fate and career upward mobility of the officers! Therefore, the CO had his value to the proceedings of the unit and the officers! Darwin cannot be faulted and neither the officers; and Pavlov was the guru and conductor of our behavioural responses!

        The CO being replaced was large and hirsute in a substantially generous manner. His moustache, which he used to tug at frequently, would rise higher than his head. Though never mentioned, yet it was believed that he must have been from some mystique sect of the Orient because he followed a curious ritual of not allowing smoking or drinking in the Officers’ Mess or elsewhere! He was highly puritanical. Once his Intelligence Officer drank up his Orange Squash stored in his jeep during an exercise and I was blamed for “poor security”, being the MTO. His logic was, thus, also unique!

        Saintly or otherwise, the outgoing CO would, however, to be with the Jones, especially when senior officers graced our Mess, partake in water with lime cordial to masquerade a gin! He was quite a spectacle with a ‘hoax’ gin as it would cause him to nervously tug at his moustache, letting it climb over his head to thereafter let it abruptly sink like a coiled spring to its original symmetry, curled at the rims like contented overfed Cobras.

        On the other hand, the incoming CO was dissimilar. As dissimilar as chalk and cheese. The incoming CO, for eternity, stood stiff like a Buckingham Palace Guard. One could mistake him for a ‘cadaver in the upright plane’. Even a housefly perching on his moustache could not affect his demeanour, except for a contemptuous twitch. His toothbrush moustache was totally in concert with his wrestler type haircut.

        The CO designate was worldly wise and ‘fancy’, as we later discovered. He was Nirad C Chaudhuri (an ardent Indian Anglophile) to his bowler hat! He spoke with clipped curtness. True, there was a touch of the North Indian accent, but it was well camouflaged. Weird as it may appear, but even in the blistering heat of summer of Allahabad, he was always booted and suited, preferably in a three piece one. The profuse sweating did not deter him. His eating habits veered to cuisine of the Occident, while his table manners were such that he used a fork and knife to eat ‘lentil wafers’ (papad in Hindi)!! He would never be seen at the table without his lightly starched damask napkin and tablecloth (dastarkhwan, as he called it) and he contemptuously rejected Indian Made Foreign Liquor as ‘gutter water’!

        The incoming CO was more at home with the English language and the outgoing CO, with the vernacular. In fact, the incoming CO would have been more at home in England, while the outgoing CO would have taken like a duck to water in the pinds (villages), preferably one from the Mand (an area with water bodies in the Punjab).

        Our Battalion was a new raised battalion and this was our first ‘peace station’ at Allahabad. Being a new unit, we were poor. Like the proverbial church mouse, at least in our ‘outward appearances’.

        Our Officers’ Mess was passable. Instead of leather sofas, we had some cane furniture alone to boast of, since cane came cheap. There were no doubts that we were totally desi (native), even though our Regimental and Officers Mess funds were bursting at the seams. Austerity was rigorously pursued. To get even a pencil for official use from the regimental funds was a bureaucratic exercise that even the burra babus (Head Clerks) of the Comptroller of Audit and Accounts office would shudder to brazen out. It was not that the outgoing CO was a tightwad; it was just that Shylock would appear a philanthropist compared to him!

        The demographic pattern of the Officers in our battalion indicated a majority from the pastoral fold. They were most uncomfortable with the incoming CO.

        The rituals and ceremonies of handing and taking over done, we all went to ‘see off’ the outgoing CO at the Allahabad Railway Station. It was quite bizarre to note that while the spotlight should have been on the outgoing CO, the fawning courtiers were practically stumbling over the new CO. We the 2/Lieutenants were not counted since the adage was ‘2/Lieutenants should be seen and NOT heard’.

        The train having left and the old CO gone, there was a melee to join the new CO in his jeep for the return journey.

        The enthusiasm was so intense that willingly they would have even sat on the spare tyre at the back of the jeep. Who all finally managed to accompany the new CO, I could never discover, since it was a riot. These attempts to curry favour with the new CO, in short, indicate the atmosphere that was prevailing immediately after the new CO took over. Darwin would have rolled in his grave with glee.

        Next day was a Sunday.

        It being a Sunday, the new CO was in his civvies, as they would dress back home in the Blighty. He had a suit, an umbrella and a bowler hat!

        He was to dine in our Mess for the first time.

        We were naturally there before his arrival. The keener types were there, I think, at the crack of dawn.

        The menu was North Indian and the cook was a Bengali – an ideal mismatch. We, at that time, did not know the new CO and his tastes. It was expected that as a North Indian, he would gorge earthy North Indian food supercharged with all the ghee (clarified butter) available in the world!

        The new CO’s room (temporary abode till allotted a house) was walking distance, but the royals don’t walk. Therefore, a jeep brought him to our humble community ‘eat to live’ portals i.e. the Officers’ Mess. The Officers’ Mess food was so putrid that to exist we had to eat it perforce, and that is how, we youngsters, had named it the ‘eat to live’ joint.

        The new CO arrived.

        As he arrived, there was this melee again. We youngsters were left out in cold in so far as the impromptu Reception Committee was concerned. The hurly burly proactive types gave none other a chance!

        All were in the lobby.

        The new CO, in his inimitable style, took his time over the proceedings. He loved to make an effect. He was precise, majestic and obscenely painful. He surveyed the area like Satyajit Roy or Attenborough would behind a movie camera panning a ‘frame’. He spotted the hat pegs. They looked pathetic since its origin could be traced to some driftwood picked up by some ‘artistic’ officer that flowed in the many rivers at our last duty station.

        The CO walked, in a measure manner, to the ‘hat stand’, as if treading carefully over a heap of dung. Carefully removing his bowler hat, patting his hair back into shape, dusting the hat, he placed it on the hook. His expression was pained, as if he suspected that the frail peg would collapse under the sheer sophistication of his bowler hat! Or maybe he suspected that a worm would creep out of the hat stand!

        He then took his umbrella and hung it also as carefully. The effect he created was as if his umbrella were made of gold. In fact, it was so new that I am sure the Colonel had never used it and instead had kept it for effect.

        The scene was uproariously comical.

        The new CO was acting as if he were King George V meeting the hurly burlies, the fawning natives of India. The British had quit but here was their photocopy, sepia coloured and dim and yet a part of the original with the ‘natives’ toadying. It was just like the scenes in the paintings of the Raj!

        The Adjutant, leapt forward as if executing a dive, from a diving board, in the ‘tuck position’ with degree of difficulty 1.5. The poor cove stumbled over the foot mat and came into the stationary position, being ‘balanced’ on CO’s stomach, his chin at the belt and looking pathetically upwards as if for forgiveness. Seeing this, the 2IC, pretending to help the Adjutant, plucked him off CO’s lean stomach and practically threw him out like the WWF wrestlers do when they chuck the opponent out of the ring!

        “Sirjee, wealcaum” (Sir, Welcome), the 2IC chirped breezily. He was as ‘breezy’ as the first swallow in Spring.

        If looks could freeze, then the CO’s look could have frozen an Eskimo in his igloo!

        Measured, the CO walked into the anteroom.

        He stopped abruptly.

        He repeated rocked and oscillated forward and backward on the balls of his feet as if bolted to the floor and afflicted with ‘instant’ paralysis with a touch of plasy.

        Some of the hurly burlies also rocked in unison as if this was a ‘disco’ bhangra (a native welcome dance in wild ecstasy for the royalty in the Punjab).

        The CO’s gaze had rested on the cane chairs of the anteroom and on some paintings that were possibly the effort of the unit barber, during his spare time.

        The CO turned on his heels.

        He choked.

        Getting his breath back, he squawked, “Take me to your Officers’ Mess”.

        The 2IC and ex officio President, Mess Committee, was bewildered.

        “Baat Saarjee, this be the Hafsar Maes (But sir, this is our Officers’ Mess)”

        “Really? I thought this is the JCO’s Mess.” (JCOs are Junior Commissioned Officer who are below the Officer rank)

        Turning on his heels, the CO departed.

        The disgust of the CO had been so great that the ‘Englishman’ had forgotten to depart with his bowler hat and other English paraphernalia. They hung there in pathetic oblivion for the next two days!

        Such was CO’s cultural shock!

        And we, in turn were left experiencing what is known as the “bolt from the blue”.


        "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

        I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

        HAKUNA MATATA

        Comment


        • Sir,
          After the incident did you get new "angreji" furniture?
          A grain of wheat eclipsed the sun of Adam !!

          Comment


          • Oh yes, we were sent to all points of India and we got stuff.

            I was detailed to get Bengal Potteries Bone China from Calcutta.

            It became the best Officers Mess in Allahabad and when General Maneckshaw visited the Station, we were ordered to organise the Lunch at our Mess, which others from the Station also attended!


            "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

            I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

            HAKUNA MATATA

            Comment


            • A story was told to me yesterday by a medical officer just back from Iraq. He had been ordered to screen limited duty personnel for mess duty. This involved handing out a survey to completed and turned back in. Of course since no one wanted to be selected for mess duty he received back a stack of surveys, all marked as had having diarrhea in the the last 10 days. After some thought he announced at morning parade that all those personnel having marked diarrhea on the survey would have to submit to an anal, rectal exam unless they had inadvertently checked the wrong box. Immediately there was a long line at his office requesting new survey forms...
              Reddite igitur quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo
              (Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's and unto God the things which are God's)

              Comment


              • End of summer camp 1991. My unit HHC 1/803 AR was transitioning from M60A3 to the M1IP. As I was currently assigned to the 3 shop i was cross attached to C co so I could do the transition. We were headed back in from the field out at Yakima and we still had lost none of the need for speed the M1's dazzled us with. As the driver I was flat out moving. perhaps a bit to fast looking back on it. I came flying down the tank trails and hit a dry low water crossing. The sides of the crossing had been cemented and that flat bank mated almost perfectly with the bow of the M1. I was slammed forward, the gunner was cussing me, the TC and Loader were cussing me, the tank was cussing me. But all I could think of was the trail dust tasted like lemons. So thats what I said over the CVC system. The TC, bruised ribs and barely able to breathe a moment before now had his wind back. Bel*** you F'ing A**hole, thats my Gatorade. We had hit so hard the little orange jugs of powdered Gatoraid in the bustle rack had exploded open- showering the tank in lemony flavored goodness.

                Besides having the tasty tank at Yakima, the impact also snapped the two restraining bolts that held the engine grills closed, blacked the gunners eyes, bruised the TC's and loaders ribs. I didn't get in any trouble though. The whole crew had been urging me to go faster.

                Comment


                • Damn, Zraver

                  I hope you didn't break the chassis doing that crazy stunt, you crazy mo-fo!

                  Comment


                  • A short contractor story.

                    I was in San Diego working for a small, family-owned defense company that was performing a Navy contract.

                    My boss was a brilliant young engineer, a member of the family that owned the company, who sometimes let his boundless energy and libido override his considerable brain power while on the road. During an extended period of downtime, he decided that the whole crew should go down to Tijuana and indulge various carnal pursuits. I didn't see how that could work out other than badly, but he would not be dissuaded. To end the discussion, I finally agreed to go along and sheep-dog the expedition, but only if proper procedure was followed. Since we would be leaving the US, this meant checking in and receiving permission from the company Security Officer - his mother. He decided not to make the call.

                    Comment


                    • During Desert Storm, I observed my PSG (Platoon Sergeant) exiting his tank while we were on the move. He climbed up on top of his turret, & as I was radioing his gunner as to his actions (we were in combat & on the move--he shouldn't have just climbed up on top), my PSG reached back down into his hatch, pulled up a cardboard sign & flashed it at me. He was from Puerto Rico & his spelling of the English language wasn't the greatest.

                      What he had written on that cardboard was the word "UBINATE" (he meant to write "urinate). He then quickly threw the sign away & proceeded to "perform a liquid class-1 download" over the side.

                      Alas, but we were still on the move. So, after hitting a slight bump, he reached out to grab something to steady himself while he was standing there "going."

                      He'd grabbed the tank's transmitter antenna just as his gunner had keyed his microphone to tell me what his TC was doing. My PSG got such a shock from it that he was launched from the top of the turret.

                      I ordered the platoon to a short halt, & directed my tank over to his, to see if he was injured. "Only my Pride, Sir" was his response. I told him that, perhaps if he was a better speller, this might not have happened.

                      It was a few days after the cease-fire, when I discovered that his crew had repainted the gun tube--changing his tank's name from "Rum Runner" to "The Ubinator!"

                      To this day, I still use that word to inform my Cub Scouts why I'm headed over to a tree during a hike. "I'm going to ubinate."
                      If you know the enemy and yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. - Sun Tzu

                      Comment


                      • & another

                        Prior to Desert Storm, my unit had the distinct pleasure of pulling border duty between East- & West- Germany & Czechsolvokia numerous times. During these missions, we'd be split up into a few groups--one pulling "border trace" (patrolling the border in HMMWVs) & another pulling "reaction platoon" (unit prepped to respond with military force, should it become necessary).

                        On this occasion, I had to split my platoon to cover those 2 groups (I lead the reaction platoon, my PSG lead the border trace).

                        We'd had some personnel turn-overs, expecially in the junior officer & senior NCO ranks prior to this. It just so happened that only 3 of us were certified to hold the key positions in camp--the third being the duty officer for the camp operations center. We ended up pulling these duties for the full 45 days our unit was assigned to this border Kasserne because of this.

                        Well, folks got bored, as they are wont to do, & my PSG & I were trying to find ways to keep our Soldiers alert & happy. Since reaction platoon spent most of their time in the motor pool or barracks, we took to playing sports (soccer, frisbee, american football) in those areas to pass the time. My PSG, being on the road for so long, didn't have that "luxury."

                        (I'd find this story even funnier myself, if only my PSG had told me what he had planned before-hand. You'll find out why soon enough.)

                        One day, about 2 weeks after returning to our home station, I get called into my Battalion CO's office--& it wasn't a friendly invite either. I hustled myself up to his office, where his secretary informs me that I should "Git on in there quick--he's REAL mad!" My CO wasn't one to get flustered or let things get him emotional, so I was wracking my brain to try to determine what I must have done so terribly wrong as I entered his office.

                        He told me to "Close the D*&ned" door!" when I entered. I reported in, & he threw a typed document at me, asking "What the H^&L is THIS?!" I read it as quickly as I could--the cover sheet instantly informing me that the following was considered "Sensitive--possible international incident." Under the cover sheet was an official correspondence from the East German government to mine--informing us that they had found a certain piece of military equipment that they thought belonged to my unit, & would be returning it as soon as they'd "chemically determined its contents, to ensure that they were not harmful." I was at a loss. I had completed our inventory before leaving the border duty, knowing full-well that I had accounted for every piece by serial number personally.

                        Besides, the reaction platoon had been no where near the site where the East Germans said they had found the "device." Not wanting to implicate my PSG before I had some more facts, I asked my CO if I could question my troops & get back with him. He denied the request, & asked his secretary to summon my PSG to his office.

                        Long story-short: My PSG admitted that, to break up the monotony of 45 days of their border trace assignment, he had allowed his trace members to defecate into a .50 cal ammo can--that he'd had someone weld a pressure guage to the top of. He then sealed it shut, & had his guys paint it silver. He'd had his unit set up a motion-activated camera in the woodline adjacent to an area of the border he had reason to believe was being used by East German guards as a crossing site--so they could frequent the local dining establishments on our side.

                        One morning he had his unit pound wooden stakes marked with tape in the ground in this area of the border, & proceeded to have his men mill around the area as if they "were looking for something." While they were doing that, he was acting as if the "device" he was holding was something like a Geiger counter, scanning the ground in front of him with it. On a cue he'd given his men before-hand, they all acted like they'd just found "something bad," & ran back to their vehicles--dropping the ammo can on their way.

                        Oh, I was sure I was losing my commission at this point! But my CO was all but laughing! He then threw a folder to the front of his deask, asking us if we could make sense of the contents.

                        Inside were many IR photos of at least 3 individuals in the area my PSG had set the camera up to cover--all quite evidently wearing East German border guard uniforms!

                        My CO looked at my PSG & winked, say that he was sure that he'd had a "good story," & asked us both to accompany his up to the Regimmental HQ--where we had to go through the whole thing again. Only this time, the Regimental CO was laughing from the moment we walked in. The RCO said he'd have his secretary type up our responses & have them shipped out to NATO HQ that night. When I inquired as to what was to become of my PSG & myself, he relied that no negative action would be taken, as they'd crossed over to our side to grab the can--but just not to "ever do it again."
                        If you know the enemy and yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. - Sun Tzu

                        Comment


                        • Originally posted by Skull6 View Post
                          During Desert Storm, I observed my PSG (Platoon Sergeant) exiting his tank while we were on the move. He climbed up on top of his turret, & as I was radioing his gunner as to his actions (we were in combat & on the move--he shouldn't have just climbed up on top), my PSG reached back down into his hatch, pulled up a cardboard sign & flashed it at me. He was from Puerto Rico & his spelling of the English language wasn't the greatest.

                          What he had written on that cardboard was the word "UBINATE" (he meant to write "urinate). He then quickly threw the sign away & proceeded to "perform a liquid class-1 download" over the side.

                          Alas, but we were still on the move. So, after hitting a slight bump, he reached out to grab something to steady himself while he was standing there "going."

                          He'd grabbed the tank's transmitter antenna just as his gunner had keyed his microphone to tell me what his TC was doing. My PSG got such a shock from it that he was launched from the top of the turret.

                          I ordered the platoon to a short halt, & directed my tank over to his, to see if he was injured. "Only my Pride, Sir" was his response. I told him that, perhaps if he was a better speller, this might not have happened.

                          It was a few days after the cease-fire, when I discovered that his crew had repainted the gun tube--changing his tank's name from "Rum Runner" to "The Ubinator!"

                          To this day, I still use that word to inform my Cub Scouts why I'm headed over to a tree during a hike. "I'm going to ubinate."
                          Grief , dont the yankee tanks have toilets and jacuzzi,s like the brit ones do , good job he was not actuually ubinating on the antenna , huh ?:P

                          I remember when on centurions my 1st com , just to pee everyone off before we ate our dinner , he ubinated on the exhaust pipe , OMG the stench was horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrendous
                          Last edited by tankie; 07 Jun 08,, 06:40.

                          Comment


                          • My best friend and I were both 16, both military dependants. One summer day we visited a nearby SAC base to do some trail riding. There was a scrubby forested area on the far side of the base along the bay, near the heavily guarded weapons storage bunkers. It was a quiet part of the base, visited primarily for recreation, criss-crossed by trails, all overlooked by a tall security tower. My friend had a small Datsun 2-dr coupe that was painted dark green. We took it off the macadam and down the trails to the bay.

                            We were out on the trails for perhaps two hours when we decided to head back. We emerged from the woods on a trail that was close to the back gate to the flight line, a gate that I had never seen open. We were immediately surrounded by a group of armed SPs, and I had an M16 screwed into my ear by a very nervous airman. I could see that the back gate to the flight line was open, and on the asphalt road directly in front of us was stopped a string of trailers, each of which held a bomb. We had popped up right in the middle of a nuclear weapons movement.

                            We were held for a while, alternately being yelled at and ignored, while our IDs were checked. The one SP kept the muzzle of his M16 pressed against my head the whole time. They brought in more SPs to secure a perimeter, but left the trailers where they were until after they decided that we were OK. We finally had our IDs returned and were ordered to leave the area. They rolled back one of the armored vehicles that was blocking the road and we left, with the bombs still sitting stopped. I sometimes wonder what happened to the guys in the security tower who had missed seeing us, green car or not.

                            Comment


                            • Originally posted by Blademaster View Post
                              Damn, Zraver

                              I hope you didn't break the chassis doing that crazy stunt, you crazy mo-fo!
                              Nope, at least everything checked out in the motor pool. Now the next company in line to do the transition training might have gotten a POS tank... We all went crazy. From day 1 it was a mad house. We hit the ground running as soon as orientation was over and it was time to head to the field. the 25mph route march degenerated into a 50mph road race. The 1Sg was hot, the MP's were hot but we had so much fun. We also learned some things about the M1. I neve rhad this happen with an M60A3 or any track I track I drove, but the M1 some how spits out little rocks that then come back to pepper the driver in the face. I don't know how it does it, but about every few seconds I could feel a little rock impact my face.

                              I've watched a m1 commit suicide on a .50 barrel. The tank ahead of me had the TC's HMG dismounted to keep it from getting trail dust inside it. We roll out to the range. Gunner went to spin the turret to warm up the hydraulics knocking the barrel over. The barrel slid out of the turret basket and grabbed on to the hull boxes ripping them out. That tank went dead right there- depot level rebuild.

                              I've also seen an M1 stop and entire brigade.

                              Summer of 94, prepping for NTC that December, had an M1A1 go ripping through Charlie Med at night, ran a guy over. They neglected to put up engineering tape and chem lights. The entire brigade was ordered to halt for mandatory safety briefings.

                              Little bit funnier, last night at NTC 94, Christmas Eve. I am hip deep in a track when I get told to grab my stuff and get on a bus. I've had no chance to shower since we got back in so I end up on a Tower Air 747 smelling like I've been in the field for 30 days. You might say it was a chemical warfare attack on US forces. The stewards and stewardess gagged, everyone who didn't know the situation was p'od. But a sergeant took pity on me, we were already friends. he invited me over to his house for Christmas dinner. So Christmas night I was banging his daughter, got married 2 months later, had my son 9 months after that. BTW, separate rats and housing allowance are not worth getting married for.

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                              • A true story ...A conversation between a Solider and Software Engineer in Shatabdhi Train .........An interesting read!

                                Vivek Pradhan was not a happy man. Even the plush comfort of the air-conditioned compartment of the Shatabdhi express could not cool his frayed nerves. He was the Project Manager and still not entitled to air travel. It was not the prestige he sought; he had tried to reason with the admin person, it was the savings in time. As PM, he had so many things to do!!

                                He opened his case and took out the laptop, determined to put the time to some good use.

                                'Are you from the software industry sir,' the man beside him was staring appreciatively at the laptop. Vivek glanced briefly and mumbled in affirmation, handling the laptop now with exaggerated care and importance as if it were an expensive car.

                                'You people have brought so much advancement to the country, Sir. Today everything is getting computerized.'

                                'Thanks,' smiled Vivek, turning around to give the man a look. He always found it difficult to resist appreciation. The man was young and stockily built like a sportsman. He looked simple and strangely out of place in that little lap of luxury like a small town boy in a prep school. He probably was a railway sportsman making the most of his free traveling pass.

                                'You people always amaze me,' the man continued, 'You sit in an office and write something on a computer and it does so many big things outside.'

                                Vivek smiled deprecatingly. Naiveness demanded reasoning not anger. 'It is not as simple as that my friend. It is not just a question of writing a few lines. There is a lot of process that goes behind it.'

                                For a moment, he was tempted to explain the entire Software Development Lifecycle but restrained himself to a single statement. 'It is complex, very complex.'

                                'It has to be. No wonder you people are so highly paid,' came the reply.

                                This was not turning out as Vivek had thought. A hint of belligerence crept into his so far affable, persuasive tone. '

                                Everyone just sees the money. No one sees the amount of hard work we have to put in. Indians have such a narrow concept of hard work. Just because we sit in an air-conditioned office, does not mean our brows do not sweat. You exercise the muscle; we exercise the mind and believe me that is no less taxing.'

                                He could see, he had the man where he wanted, and it was time to drive home the point.

                                'Let me give you an example. Take this train. The entire railway reservation system is computerized. You can book a train ticket between any two stations from any of the hundreds of computerized booking centres across the country.

                                Thousands of transactions accessing a single database, at a time concurrently; data integrity, locking, data security. Do you understand the complexity in designing and coding such a system?'

                                The man was awestruck; quite like a child at a planetarium. This was something big and beyond his imagination.

                                'You design and code such things.'

                                'I used to,' Vivek paused for effect, 'but now I am the Project Manager.'

                                'Oh!' sighed the man, as if the storm had passed over,

                                'so your life is easy now.'

                                This was like the last straw for Vivek. He retorted, 'Oh come on, does life ever get easy as you go up the ladder. Responsibility only brings more work.

                                Design and coding! That is the easier part. Now I do not do it, but I am responsible for it and believe me, that is far more stressful. My job is to get the work done in time and with the highest quality.

                                To tell you about the pressures, there is the customer at one end, always changing his requirements, the user at the other, wanting something else, and your boss, always expecting you to have finished it yesterday.'

                                Vivek paused in his diatribe, his belligerence fading with self-realization. What he had said, was not merely the outburst of a wronged man, it was the truth. And one need not get angry while defending the truth.

                                'My friend,' he concluded triumphantly, 'you don't know what it is to be in the Line of Fire'.

                                The man sat back in his chair, his eyes closed as if in realization. When he spoke after sometime, it was with a calm certainty that surprised Vivek.

                                'I know sir.... I know what it is to be in the Line of Fire.......'
                                He was staring blankly, as if no passenger, no train existed, just a vast expanse of time.

                                'There were 30 of us when we were ordered to capture Point 4875 in the cover of the night.

                                The enemy was firing from the top.

                                There was no knowing where the next bullet was going to come from and for whom.

                                In the morning when we finally hoisted the tricolour at the top only 4 of us were alive.'

                                'You are a...?'

                                'I am Subedar Sushant from the 13 J&K Rifles on duty at Peak 4875 in Kargil. They tell me I have completed my term and can opt for a soft assignment.

                                But, tell me sir, can one give up duty just because it makes life easier.

                                On the dawn of that capture, one of my colleagues lay injured in the snow, open to enemy fire while we were hiding behind a bunker.

                                It was my job to go and fetch that soldier to safety. But my captain sahib refused me permission and went ahead himself.

                                He said that the first pledge he had taken as a Gentleman Cadet was to put the safety and welfare of the nation foremost followed by the safety and welfare of the men he commanded... ....his own personal safety came last, always and every time.'

                                'He was killed as he shielded and brought that injured soldier into the bunker. Every morning thereafter, as we stood guard, I could see him taking all those bullets, which were actually meant for me . I know sir....I know, what it is to be in the Line of Fire.'

                                Vivek looked at him in disbelief not sure of how to respond. Abruptly, he switched off the laptop.

                                It seemed trivial, even insulting to edit a Word document in the presence of a man for whom valor and duty was a daily part of life; valour and sense of duty which he had so far attributed only to epical heroes.

                                The train slowed down as it pulled into the station, and Subedar Sushant picked up his bags to alight.

                                'It was nice meeting you sir.'

                                Vivek fumbled with the handshake.

                                This hand... had climbed mountains, pressed the trigger, and hoisted the tricolour. Suddenly, as if by impulse, he stood up at attention and his right hand went up in an impromptu salute.

                                It was the least he felt he could do for the country.

                                PS: The incident he narrated during the capture of Peak 4875 is a true-life incident during the Kargil war. Capt. Batra sacrificed his life while trying to save one of the men he commanded, as victory was within sight. For this and various other acts of bravery, he was awarded the Param Vir Chakra, the nation's highest military award.

                                Live humbly, there are great people around us, let us learn!
                                Last edited by Ray; 26 Aug 08,, 14:08.


                                "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

                                I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

                                HAKUNA MATATA

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