My first annual training (AT) in the reserves, after
spending 4 years active duty, was an Educational Experience.
The reserves are about as much like active duty as
Fredricksburg is like Germany – not very. But I quickly found that I much preferred the reserves.
There was a lot less focus on formality and image and a lot more focus on
getting the job done. Maybe because you’re always trying to figure out how to
run a unit and train your soldiers in a ridiculously compressed time frame.
Less energy left over for bullshit. And everyone’s role was bigger and more
integrated than in active duty, where we had each been relegated to one small piece
of the puzzle with very little collaboration.
I was an E5 when we rolled into Fort Hood for that AT, just
a squad leader, not really in charge of much and still figuring out how it all
worked. We set up our SCIF and the GP medium that served as our quarters and began
24x7 operations.
Three days later we got orders to move. We packed it all up
and relocated.
And then did it again.
And again.
Moving a SCIF is no small feat. The setup was three 577’s
parked side-by-side with vestibules extended, a GP small guard shack, a
perimeter of three courses of razor wire, and camo netting spread over all.
Only after the MPs approved the set-up could the radios be turned on and
communications re-established. Communications is the whole point, since the
raison d’etre of the SCIF is gather, analyze, and disseminate information.
And of course, we did it all in 100-degree heat with cactus needles piercing
our uniforms and razor wire ripping our gloves and scorpions, fire ants, and
blister beetles bringing their own form of biological warfare.
As the exercise concluded, it became obvious that we had
aced it. Located all the “enemy” units. Maintained OPSEC. Met all of our
training objectives. We were feeling pretty chuffed and starting to relax a
little and wind things down when the Sergeant Major walked in. A couple of
folks were stripped down to their tee-shirts. Somebody was sitting on an
upturned ammo box, pulling cactus spines out of his boots. I guess our casual
demeanor offended his refined sensibilities, because he started to harangue us “smart-assed, card-playing, cigar-smoking college kids with bad attitudes.”
This was too much for our NCOIC.
“No, Sergeant Major, you don’t get to walk in here and talk
to these hard-working soldiers that way. They just aced this exercise. They did
a fine job. They’re the best team I’ve ever trained or worked with!” she yelled
at him.
“At ease, Sergeant! You’re out of order!” he yelled back.
“Get out!” she snarled. “Leave my soldiers alone and get the
hell out of my SCIF! If you have a problem, take it up with the commander!”
He got out.
The next day, we were relaxing in our GP medium after dinner.
In our tee-shirts. The 577s were packed up and ready to load up for the trip
back to Austin in the morning. In honor of our newly minted “smart ass” status,
we were sitting on the ends of our cots, playing hearts and smoking cheap cigarillos.
The Sergeant Major walked in.
“Hey Sergeant Major!” I called. “Pull up a cot and we’ll
deal you in!”
He stood there for a moment, silent, radiating rage, then he
spun on his heels and left the tent without a word.
Power is derived from the consent of the governed. Even in
the army.
I’m still a smart-ass and I still play cards, but it’s been a
long time since I smoked a cigar. There was that Cuban cigar I smoked on the white
marble steps of the Houston Junior League, but that’s another story.
