Slip-n- Slide Fiasco

The Gas Mask & Slip and Slide Fiasco
April 2003

So, as anyone can tell from watching the news or reading the paper being in Iraq kind of sucks. It's hot, dirty, and people are trying to blow you up or shoot you. After about eight months of this anyone would be ready to cut loose, much less myself and a bunch of my buddies I was over there with. This group of hooligans included North, Blue, Mac and me.

Our flight from Kuwait got back at about six that morning. We said our hellos to the family and friends waiting for us, got onto some busses and headed back to our barracks. We turned in the weapons we had carried with us all throughout Iraq and headed outside to hear a word from our First Sergeant before we were able to do whatever the hell we felt like.

[For all you non-military types: For every leadership berth in the military there is an Officer (think Captain or Colonel) assigned to it along with a non-Commissioned officer (such as a First Sergeant or Sergeant Major). This is for several reasons such as keeping those officers in line or making sure the troops are taken care of. Suffice it to say that enlisted men like non-Commissioned officers actually run the army. So anyway, a First Sergeant is pretty much the equivalent of a company commander or Army Captain.]

"All right men," My First Sergeant started. "Don't be going trying to drink all of North Carolina dry. I know all of you have been through a lot but don't go spending all that hard earned cash at the titty bars where you wake up the next morning with nothing but a bad headache and a case of blue balls. And for fuck's sake, don't go drinking and driving."

On that note I headed out to spend a few hours with my mother and youngest sister. I came back about six hours later to be greeted by an absolute shit show in the barracks. Blue, a six-foot-three, blue eyed, blonde haired boy from Kansas was drunk as sin and pounding on a door in our platoon's hallway.

"Come on out you fucking cherries!" He yelled through the door, beer in hand. "I wanna talk to ya!"

"Blue, whats up man?" I greeted him.
"Shit Riley, where the fuck you been?" He said in his country-ass Kansas accent. "Get yerself a beer from my fridge and come help me get these cherries outta their room."

"Why in hell do you want to get them out of their room?" I inquired.

"One of them was laughing at how drunk I was," Blue replied.
Now, I will say this about Blue. He was a big guy who could drink. A lot. However, eight months of living in Iraq, working your ass over everyday humping from house to house in slums around Baghdad will quickly make you lose any alcohol tolerance you once had. The fact that these cherries (aka brand new guys) had been making fun of someone as big as Blue, who had just gotten back from a war that they hadn't been a part of, spoke volumes about their lack of intelligence.
"
Dude, fuck those cherries, let's go see what Mac is doing," I said, trying to distract him before he ended up breaking down their door or doing something else equally violent. Lucky for me, this is easily done while he is inebriated.

"Yeah, fuck it," He said. "Those cherries will get what's their later."

We walked down the hall into Mac's room. Mac is about six feet tall or so with the build of a football player who drinks a few too many beers. He was a surfer guy from California that had left college because of bad grades, drugs, too much drinking and a crashed car. He was tending bar and drinking like a fish when September 11th happened. The patriot in him decided to join up and he decided on airborne infantryman. Go figure.

Walking into his room there were about twenty empty cans of Coors light on the floor and a beer funnel on his coffee table next to a half empty bottle of Don Julio. Mac always parties hard.

"Where the fuck you two assholes been?" Mac said over his stereo kicking out tunes from Sublime and Sgt. Pepper.

"I ran into Blue about to beat down the door of those cherries down the hall," I replied.

"That shit's way too aggro for right now," Mac said. "You know what I say? Let's do some shots!" Mac lines up three shots glasses and fills them with Don Julio. We raise the shots glasses and Mac says solemnly, "To Iraq," and we throw them back.

A few hours later and a few too many beers for all of us later, North staggers into Mac's room. North is a little over six feet tall with a pretty slim build but still had a decent amount of muscle on his frame. He is a freak of nature when it comes to being physically fit. He is the only guy I know who could smoke almost a pack of Parliaments a day and still run close to a five minute mile. One of his nicknames was Peter North or simply North because of his facial similarities to the porn star.

He informs us that he's been out with his family. His grandfather, a navy vet from world war two, has been feeding him beers since our plane landed about eight hours ago. North is completely shithouse drunk and full of bad ideas.

"Guess who the fuck I just talked to up at the CQ desk? He asks.

"Oh tell me, pretty pretty please," Blue laughs back.

"Private fucking Baldie," North laughed. "He was talking about his old lady and how he planned to rail the shit out of her tonight."

"Oh and where was he planning on doing this?" I rhetorically ask. "Perhaps in his barracks room?"

"Dude, we gotta fuck with him," North said, his eyes lighting up like a kid who just got an early Christmas present.

There was never a bad idea this group had run across that they weren't down for.
A word about Private Baldie: This guy showed up when we were just a few months into our Iraq vacation. This guy was shorter than me, which made him about five-five or five-six on a good day and he weighed about a buck-forty soaking wet. He was in his early thirties and habitually shaved his head to hide the bald spot that was starting to form. He had small, non-descript facial features, and wore glasses when we weren't going outside the wire. Bottom line is that he wasn't much to look at.

This kid always told us about how he had this great looking girl waiting for him back at Bragg. He always regaled us with tales of how good looking she was, how great in bed, and other shit like that. All of us dreaded getting a guard shift with him or just being alone with this guy because he had a tendency to corner you and talk you to death.

We walked back out into the barracks hallway to formulate our plan. Another private was standing out in the hallway just laughing to himself.

"What the fuck is so funny?" Blue asks him.
"Yo, Baldie just went into his room with his lady," the Private said, barely holding back his laughter.

"She hot?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

The Private could barely hold back his laughter as he shook his head "no".
"She is definitely a big 'un," The Private laughed as he ducked back into his room.

We all stood huddled outside Baldies' door for a minute and could clearly hear the muffled sounds of clothing being ruffled and the creaking of his bed frame. Now a plan began to form in our alcohol fueled brains.

One of us would open the door, another would kick it open, someone else would go right in the door and slap Baldie on the ass as hard as he could, and the next guy in the door would go in and take a picture of all this action. This sounded like a solid plan; however there was one snag, his door was locked.

I am not one to let such a minor detail foil our plans to horribly embarrass someone. I simply walked upstairs to the key control NCO's door, knocked on it, asked for the key to the room (which obviously wasn't mine, and he knew it), he handed it to me and closed his door. Almost too easy.

I headed back down stairs holding up the key victoriously saying, "Our mission is a go!"

We lined up on the wall outside Baldies' door like we were back on the block in Iraq about to raid another house. I was the first in line with the key, Mac was behind me to kick the door, Blue was behind him to do the ass-slapping and North was the cameraman.

We were completely silent as we started to execute our mission. I slid the key as smoothly as I could into the lock and turned it as quietly as possible. I faintly heard the deadbolt click back from the door into the lock. I looked back to Mac and he nodded his head. I stood back from the door as it opened just a crack. I could definitely hear the moans and grunts from someone mid-coitus with a fat girl.

I stepped to the opposite side of the doorframe and held three fingers on my one hand up. I counted down. When my last finger was down I watched these guys swing into action like the well trained infantryman that they were. Mac kicked down the door with the violence of an angry cop raiding a crack house. Blue then slid right into the doorway moving more gracefully than his large frame would imply. North went in right behind him with the camera primed to capture whatever debauchery it could.

Within the next two seconds I heard Blue rather clearly say, "Fuck no dude, that's not cool." Then I saw the camera flash go off in the darkness. I didn't hear the sound of Blue's hand slapping Baldie's bare ass or any screams of shock. North and Blue practically fall back out into the hallway laughing hysterically as they rolled around on the floor of the hallway. The door slammed emphatically behind them as Baldie obviously went back to matters at hand. They were both nearly in tears and North kept pointing to the image on the display screen of his digital camera.

I pulled the camera out of his hand for Mac and I to look at. Two-thirds of the small screen was covered by the biggest "cankle" I have ever seen. For all of you that are unfamiliar with the subjects of having sex with fat girls or just large women in general, allow me to explain. A "cankle" is where someone has such a large and fatty calf that it extends down around to the ankle so that they don't look like two separate pieces of anatomy but one continuous monument to obesity.

So here Baldie is, holding this cankle up by his head covered in an army issue gas mask and camouflage poncho with the hood up while he is mid-thrust with this wildebeest. Yes, you just read that right; he was banging the fat girl like she owed him money. Wearing a gas mask. And a poncho with the hood up. I was so speechless that I began to laugh as hard as Blue and North. I asked him a few days later why the hell he was having sex like this and his reply was (and I quote), "Dude, that's just how my girl likes to get down." Indeed.

As soon as all four of us could pick ourselves up off the floor and wipe the tears from our eyes another brilliant idea struck home.

"Yo guys, we gotta post this shit up. This is way too good," I said.

"That's the best shit I have heard all night," Mac laughed.
So you know what we did then? We called a cab (all of us were still too drunk to drive and anyone in uniform knows that a DUI is a sure way to ruin your life for about forty-five days). We went down to Wal-Mart, put the card from the camera into the instant photo printing machine and printed six of the biggest size available. Yes, we are assholes. I am sure we will pay for it in the afterlife or something.

We caught our cab back onto post and headed straight to the platoon bulletin board, huge glossy photographs in hand. Blue had one of those huge staple guns, like the kind that you would use on the outside of your house and such. Using it we stapled one of our photos of Baldie doing the dirty deed on the platoon bulletin board. We used about fifteen staples to nail this thing down. It wasn't going anywhere. Our handiwork done we retired to my room to drink some more beers.

While I turned on some tunes and passed out some beers we started talking about what our plans for leave were, who was going to have sex with what girl back home, how many beers we were going to drink everyday and other inane crap like that. About six beers a piece and an hour and a half later another brilliant idea struck through this conversation:

Mac: "I can't wait to get back on the beach, stare at some women in thongs that are way out of my league and just paddle out, ya know?"

North: "What's stopping you from paddling out here?"

Mac: "Well, for one, there's no fucking beach."

North: "Let's just make one, in the fucking hallway!"

Remember that thing I said about us running into bad ideas?

We all grabbed our beers and headed into the hallway to pursue our new project. North came up with the idea of grabbing all of the ponchos that we could find and snapping them together all the way down the hallway. Then we would take the hose from the mop sink in the platoon bathroom and spray the water until our makeshift slip and slide was sufficiently lubricated with water so that we could partake in the utter gloriousness of it. Sheer drunken brilliance I tell you.
All of us stripped down to just boxers. Why we didn't change into swim trunks or boardshorts, I don't know, my only excuse is that we were really drunk by this point. We all started sliding down the hallway, beers in hand, to the wall at the end. We would stop ourselves with our feet or arms, get up and try and run back before someone else came sliding down and knocking out your feet from underneath you. As you can imagine, endless hilarity began to ensue from our current drunken escapade.

At one moment during our shenanigans I was spraying down the hallway with the hose again, while drinking another beer and hitting North and Blue with a refreshing blast of water all at the same time. Then a young private made a fatal mistake. He walked down the hallway and asked me what I was doing. This kid was all of eighteen or nineteen and fresh out of airborne school. He must have showed up when we were in our last few months of Iraq so they didn't send him over. He was pulling Charge of Quarters that night so it was therefore his duty to stop us from our current mission of drunken revelry and excess.

Charge of Quarters is a twenty-four hour duty usually given to a Sergeant and a Private. It's this pair's duty to make sure that all is well, good and properly maintained in the barracks while the chain of command is away or off duty. So if Private Joe Schmoe is so drunk he's puking in the hallway it's the Charge of Quarters (aka CQ) to take care of him. Or if Staff Sergeant Dumbass is playing his music too loud the CQ tells him to turn it down and he has to listen. Or so the theory goes.

Anyway, because we had just gotten back and it was our first weekend in the "real world" this brand new private was on CQ. As I would later find out, it was just this joker and one other private on CQ with no NCO. They were obviously short on NCOs and had them tasked other places like staff duty (which is like CQ but for all five companies in the battalion instead of just one).

So this private obviously hears the noise which is right down the hallway from the CQ desk. He comes down the hallway and in a meek voice asks me to stop spraying water down the hallway. I think it's funny that a Private tells me to do something. I laugh and spray water at him.
He stood there for a second, obviously dismayed that I have just sprayed him with ice cold water. He looks confused for long enough that Blue saw this and grabbed the moment. Keep in mind that we are all still in our boxers when this conversation takes place.

Blue: "What the fuck is wrong with you private? You know who the fuck just sprayed you with the hose? You know who you are talking to?

Private: "Um, well…no"

Blue: "That's Specialist fucking Riley right there boy. You best give him the respect he deserves or I swear I am going to beat your ass like your momma used to."

Private: "Well, could you guys just stop spraying all this water down the hallway, making all this noise and cleanup the mess?"

The sound of all of us erupting in violent laughter completely fills the hallway.

North: "I tell you what little man, when you have as much combat time as my dog tags do, I will listen to you."

Mac: "Hahaha. Private, you are about to be in a world of shit."

Mac and Blue grabbed the kid while and wrestled him down. He really had no chance wrestling against these two behemoths. They held him down while North and I grabbed some duct tape. We tied this kid's arms and legs up with the tape, and then carried him into the shower in the platoon bathroom. We turned the water on, put him under it and let him be.

Like I said, we are assholes.

Our revelry continued for a few more hours unabated until Staff Sergeant McFalls happened in on our soiree. He just was the staff duty NCO that night. He came back from Iraq earlier than the rest of us because of a bum knee that he reinjured over there. Now he was simply on stand-by for a medical discharge. While he was waiting for these orders his superiors saw it fit for him to due staff duty at least three times a week. I have known the guy since I was a private and he was a specialist so he looked to me first.

"Riley, what in the holy fuck is going on here?" He asked me.

"Oh hey, what's up sergeant? You like our slip and slide set up here? I know its pretty rad," I answered.

"Come on here man, you are fucking killing me. I am on staff duty and you and your boys are doing some shit like this? C'mon dude," he pleaded.

Right at that moment the private tied up in the shower started yelling hysterically. Yes, this really happened. I can't make this up.

McFalls headed in there before I could stop him. I heard him shut off the water, and cut the Private loose. He came back out of the bathroom with a look that was half amusement and half shock.

"Alright guys, I am only going to say this once," He addressed our wet underwear clad crew. "Clean this shit up, mop this fucking hallway and get to sleep. I won't tell your First Sergeant about this as long as you don't pull something like this tomorrow." There was no doubt that he meant business. The last thing that we wanted was a pissed off First Sergeant coming into the barracks at four in the morning to chew our asses.

We just started laughing as we began to disassemble our makeshift slip and slide.

"No wonder that other private on CQ was scared shitless when I came in," McFalls laughed to himself on the way out the door. "His buddy went down the hallway and didn't come back, ha."

The next day Baldie tried to rip down the photo but couldn't get enough of the staples out. He eventually pulled them out with a screwdriver and got the photo down. We put up a new one with in five minutes. That following Monday the First Sergeant heard about the Baldie incident and came down our hallway to check out the storied photo. He took one look at it, shook his head and smiled.

"Riley!" He yelled. "You have anything to do with this shit?"

I stepped out into the hallway quickly. "What shit First Sergeant?"

"Don't try and pull that shit with me you slick little Irishman. You know what shit I am talking about."

"First Sergeant, the way I look at it, that was just a few boys having fun one night at that sorry bastard's expense," I smiled.

"Ha, roger that," The First Sergeant laughed as he walked back down the hallway to his office.

As a result of Baldie's rather kinky sexual adventures with women of the larger persuasion he still gets shit about it to this day. I am afraid he will never ever live that one down. Guys still tell the story of a private on CQ getting tied up and put in the shower to brand new cherries.