This is his second article for Ranger Up and well...it shows us that NCOs are kind of mean...it also shows us that behind Big Tobacco's secret identity is probably a consultant of some sort...what with his fancy 2X2 Matrix and all... By SSG Big Tobacco I wrote this while smoking one of my beloved CAO Brazilias. It's 0600. My first sergeant and I are on the drill floor stretching out on the mats. We are preparing for a four mile run through the cold February air. My first sergeant is a former Airborne Ranger, tough as nails; a man who had broken many knuckles with his nose and had the DUIs to back up the stories. I was an enigma to this first sergeant, a little 160 pound staff sergeant who wrote computer software in real life yet could keep up with him on the runs around our large National Guard armory complex. My first sergeant didn't exactly like me, his background was airborne and mine was mechanized or "leg" infantry as he liked to remind me. He regarded mechanized soldiers as minor curiosities that were to be tolerated for those occasions when all of a Ranger's HOOAH could not stop a T-72. Yet he respected my penchant for running and liked the fact that I would occasionally use some of my flex time at work to come and jog with him instead of lingering over breakfast and the newspaper at home. I came in to my National Guard Armory that day to straighten out my final paperwork for BNOC Phase II, a leadership school that teaches staff-level NCOs how to drink to excess but still show up for class on time the next day. I planned to study hard. As we stretch, the door to the Armory opens up and SSG BitchTits walks in. SSG BitchTits is wrapped in a large reflective gold one-piece motorcycle suit with a matching gold helmet. I immediately start laughing. SSG BitchTits stops in mid stride: "What?" he asks. I recover from my laughing enough to stammer out: "You...you look like a condom." "You want to go running, with us, you fat fuck?" My first sergeant says. "I can't Top, I got a profile." He responds as he starts to hurry across the drill floor to his office. "Yeah, your tits are too big," my first sergeant calls after him. "That's your fuckin' permanent profile. Bitch Tits." "Hey!" I call after SSG BitchTits as he just reaches his office door. "Did you get Private Johnson’s pay problem fixed?" "I'm working on it." "How fucking hard is it to change a U to a P in the system? Private Johnson was here last drill. I have his rifle qual. How did he qual if he wasn't here?" "I'm working on it." "You got my orders for BNOC yet?" I ask. "Yeah, uh, those got kicked back because I don't have a copy of your 1059 for BNOC Phase I." "When the fuck were you going to tell me? I came down here to fill out my checklist." "Well, I just found out cause I've been on leave-" "Dude, whatever. I got my graduation certificate and my 1059 from Phase I in the car. I'll see you after my run." SSG BitchTits scurries into his office. "Fuckin' fat fuck," my first sergeant calls after him. "Yeah," I respond. My first sergeant looks at me bitterly. "Fuckin' leg." He says to me. "You ready to go?" I think about SSG BitchTits as we run. He is the kind of NCO who always seems very... sweaty. He constantly seems busy, but never seems to get much done. He is a man who holds several MOSes : Administrative Assistant, NBC NCO, Commo and Medic but he never seemed to be good at any of them. It was almost as if SSG BitchTits was very hard working, but incredibly incompetent. This is where the idea of the Incompetence Matrix formed in my mind. As I ran, I pictured the cubes falling into place: There are soldiers who are hard working and competent. These soldiers are the "Squared Away" block. They know what they are doing, and they do it well. There are soldiers who aren't hard working but competent. These soldiers know what they are doing, but never get around to doing it. The least you can say is that they don't screw anything up, but if they get up off their ass and do their job, at least they do it well. This is the "Lazy" group. Then there are soldiers who are incompetent, but lazy. These are known as the "Unskilled," These soldiers don't know what they are doing and are too lazy to do it. They could theoretically screw something up, but they never do any work. This means that the risk of them screwing something up is higher than the lazy or squared away group. Finally there is SSG BitchTits: A man who is not only incompetent, but industrious. He does not know what he is doing and he works hard at doing it. Soldiers like this create the perfect storm of fuckups within an organization and leave a trail of exasperated NCOs in their wake. As we come to our cool down, my first sergeant turns to me and asks: "We have to do a serial number inventory on the heavy weapons in the arms room today. Would you mind staying for about an hour after you get your checklist squared away? I'll pay you for half a day." "I can do that, Top. Why me? What about the armorer?" "He's a lazy fuck and I'll know you’ll get it done." "Roger, top." I go back to my car and get my paperwork. Then I walk inside the armory and move to SSG BitchTits's office. I open the door and immediately collide with a chair. "What the fuck!" Sergeant BitchTits looks up from his desk. "Oh, sorry, Sergeant Tobacco. You can move that chair." I look around his office. Mounds of paper vie for space with bulging manila folders. "This place looks like the Battle of Fallujah," I say. "I know where everything is." "Then find my 1059." "You never gave one to me." "Dude, whatever. Let's just get this done." We spend several minutes going over the paperwork for the school. When finish, I ask him to open the arms room so I can help with the inventory. The arms room is a mess. Our company's rifles hang neatly in racks around the room, but heavy machine guns scatter the floor. Several .50 caliber machine guns are stored vertically like stalagmites with their barrels lying on the floor next to them. This is an incredibly dangerous and stupid way to store a weapon since a slight tap could send fifty pounds of machine gun crashing down to the concrete floor. "What the fuck?" I say. "What happened?" "The signal company needed fifties for a qual range so we let them borrow ours," SSG BitchTits says. "Why didn't you have them put them back the right way?" I ask. "If the Commander sees this he’ll shit himself." SSG BitchTits shrugs and hands me the paperwork: "Well, it is kind of fucked up, but this is the first time I've seen it. The armorer was supposed to handle it. Let me know when you lock it up." SSG BitchTits leaves. I look at the mass of machine guns cluttering the floor and shake my head. Fucking poges. I reach for the first .50 caliber machine gun and my wrist accidentally taps a second weapon. In a millisecond I realize what is happening. The first weapon teeters over and smacks into a second weapon, which falls and smacks into a third. The arms room becomes a gigantic line of dominos as my company's heavy weapons fall to the floor. One weapons lands on my foot. My howl echoes through the concrete vault. I fall to the ground and roll on the floor in agony. I sit up grasping my foot. I rip off my sneaker and white sock. My big toe is already purple, bleeding and starting to swell. SSG BitchTits runs into the arms room and comes to a sliding halt in front of me. "What happened! What happened? You're going to be OK!" "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FAT FUCK!" I scream. "Where are you hurt?" "I'm fine!" "I'm a medic!" "You're a retard! Go back to your office you fat fuck. I'm fine." SSG BitchTits stares at me in shock. He gets up, hangs his head and leaves the arms room. I was being a cock, but fuck it - he's mostly to blame for the lightening bolt running through my foot right now, and I could give a fuck about his feelings. I look down at my foot. I know the toe is broken. I slide my sock back on my foot, pick up my shoe and limp my way out of the arms room, locking the door and spinning the combination lock behind me. I cross the drill floor to my first sergeant's office. "Um, first sergeant?" My first sergeant is sitting at his desk with our training NCO. He looks up at me. "Was that you screaming like a girl a minute ago?" "Roger first sergeant, may I sit down?" His head moves a millimeter in a nod toward a guest chair. "Top," I say as I pull off my sock. "The signal unit stored those fifty cals vertically. One of them fell on my toe. I think it's broken." I pull off my sock. My first sergeant and my training NCO lean forward to see my damaged toe. My training NCO is holding a manila folder. He smacks my foot with the folder, sending a bolt of searing pain through my body. I stifle a scream but shout: "MOTHERFUCKER! Why the fuck did you do that!" The pair laugh. "Yeah, It's broken," my first sergeant says. "Ain't nothing you can do about it, though. The hospital is just going to tape it up. You can do that yourself. You're probably going to lose the nail too. When it starts to swell up, heat up a needle and push it into the nail. That will let all the blood out." "And the fifty cals, first sergeant? They all fell on the floor. Someone has to pick them up." "I'm going to have you do it," my first sergeant says while pointing at the training NCO. "That was kind of funny what you did to Tobacco's toe, but it was kind of fucked up too." My training NCO looks dejected: "Roger, Top." My first sergeant suddenly glances at the door: "What do you want?" I turn in my seat. SSG BitchTits is standing in the doorway with an ACE bandage, some ibuprofen and a bag of ice. "This is for Sergeant Tobacco," SSG BitchTits says. "I thought he might need it." Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe that matrix needs a third dimension. Heart. Copyright of Big Tobacco |
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