Practically Practical

 

    It was 1981 and I was stationed at Camp LeJeune. I was working in the Motor Pool that afternoon. Amazingly I was not passing out from the unshaded hot pavement as I had the day before with heat stroke. The motor pool lieutenant was standing by a bunch of guys who’d moved what appeared to be part of a telephone pole into a clear area of the motor pool. The space was enough for thirty Marines to be just standing around, kibbitzing.

   Somehow, I was commandeered away from dead-lining a five-ton truck that afternoon. The Sergeant and Lance I was near also had been called over to where the partial telephone pole was. As we meandered over, one guy said, “We’re going to do coordination drills.” They all looked at me. Yeah, I hadn’t got my first stripe yet. I knew what it was. I’d play along. Yet, not knowing how far they’d go. I’ll tolerate just so much fun when I’m exhausted from heat stroke, and I know there’s batteries to clean and other jobs that had been put off because of the guys sipping iced tea in the shade yesterday as only a few of us continued to work in the heat and the humidity on the black flag day the day before.

    So here I stood, as they placed a quarter on the telephone pole. It was the goofy Marine—he who was quite often unsat who’d shown up nearly naked when I was doing morning wakeup calls door to door in my Charlies. It was the weekend prior at about an hour before my 48-hour weekend shift was completed. There I’d stood at just before 0600 hours at the front of his three-man apartment barrack room doorway. I made believe I saw nothing. I kept a straight face and said, “…Sign here, please.”

    That afternoon I knew the joke, whatever it was, was going to be on me. I’d roll with it and get back to dead-lining trucks. The instructions were, “Here’s an axe.” They waited for my response. “I know how to swing an axe. What do you want me to do?” The goofy Marine said, “You got to hit the quarter on the pole.” I saw there was nothing to it. “Okay.” Then he said, “Wait. Blindfolded.” I shrugged. “Okay.”

    Now the motor pool lieutenant was present, more guys gathered to watch, I allowed them to blindfold me. He said, “I’ll tell you when to start swinging.” I said, “Okay.” He waited a second and said, “You can start.” I went to swing the axe but realized my cover wouldn’t stay on my head correctly. So, I took it off and handed it to the Marine nearest to me.

    I began to swing the axe. I hit the pole. The goofy guy said, “I have to move the quarter back to where it was. It moved.” I paused awaiting his command. He said “Okay. You can swing the axe again.” This occurred about six times. Then he said, “You finally hit the quarter.” The blindfold was removed and I hadn’t missed the quarter at all. My accuracy blindfolded destroyed my new camouflage cover. Of course they got a kick out of it; however, so did I.

   I picked up my new cover that I had spent the night before sizing and blocking the cover as a good Marine should. I was always sat. I ironed my fatigues for lunch break and if I could shine my boots, shine my brass buckle that would be seen only on certain hot days in the motor pool, I did so anyway. Not all those Marines in the motor pool took such pride in their appearance—yet they wouldn’t be picking up rank as quickly as me and they wouldn’t be in the running for Marine of the Month on Camp Lejeune like I’d be.

    I’d get oil or grease stains on my fatigues in the morning—after lunch time, I’d have a new set of freshly pressed fatigues on to get dirty again. So, here I stood I knew who’d been responsible for the damage done to my new cover. If it were just an older cover I’d ask for money; however, I’d spent time on the new cover the night before after getting out of sickbay. The reason for being in sickbay, was because I was working all day doing oil changes in the morning and dead-lining trucks in the afternoon that day. Thus, only to crash to the ground in a heap with heat stroke in the middle of the motor pool that day because he and all but three other Marines like myself had decided to work through that black flag afternoon, whilst they sat in the shade and sipped canned ice teas.

    As the air seemed still, I looked over at the lieutenant, who I knew didn’t like women being in the Marines—then I looked at the goofy Marine and said, “You know this is not only a new cover; however, after I’d gotten out of sickbay yesterday, I sized and blocked this cover.” I heard a Marine say, “Just pay her!” I said, “No. Come here.” As I looked straight-on at the goofy Marine. Smiling he backed up. Yes, I was coming in for the kill. I’d get my kick out of the situation.

    I moved forward, walking slowly toward his ordinary five-foot eleven inch hundred- and eighty-pound frame. “Come here.” I ordered the goofy Marine, a Lance Corporal (that’s one stripe and rifles). He backed up, I lunged forward grabbing the collar of his white t-shirt. I pulled him as fast as I could and landed a beautiful shin kick with my newly stripped and polished black military right boot. He landed on the ground, half moaning from what had been a laugh. I looked at the lieutenant and said, “I’m done here. I have some batteries to clean.” I nodded and walked back across the motor pool to the truck I’d been working on.

    Days later I received a promotion, I now had my first stripe and found out I was one of four Marines who was up for Marine of the Month on Camp LeJeune. A couple of Sergeants had put me in for it. Too, I’d also been called crazy for the second time by a Corporal, who one night may have had a little something to drink too much. That night I nearly had to rescue him from others who wanted to have at him.

    There I stood in my Charlies, with a twelve-inch piece of metal bunk bed post in my hand—in a doorway between he in an enclosed room and about seven other Marines. I looked at them as I stood in the doorway, it was nearing midnight. “The O.D. is on his way.” I stated, slapping the twelve-inch post into my opposing palm and said, “I wouldn’t try me.”